Lost in the Dark

Sometimes I can get inside of people’s heads. It’s hard to do because Dad’s practically lobotomized me. He managed to literally get into my head and get rid of the parts of my brain that he doesn’t need. Motor skills, mostly, and movement. Some of my telepathy, though that was accidental. He needs for me to be able to get into people’s heads, but his little modifications have made it difficult to do so.

Nevertheless, I can still get in if I try hard enough. I can make people see and feel and smell and hear things, and I can make them do things as well. If I try hard enough, sometimes it’s difficult. Oh well. Those are Daddy’s little “modifications” for you.

That bastard.

I’ve gotten into his head before, I know what he thinks of me.

I’m many things to him, but I’m not a person. I’m a thing, a possession, a monster, a mistake, but I’m not a person. He doesn’t view me as his son, either, but somehow that doesn’t bother me so much. I guess I don’t like to think of him as a father. He isn’t my father, I’m not his son; it’s kind of like an agreement we have.

I can’t get into his head anymore, but I can still tell what he’s thinking. He thinks a lot about mutants and how to destroy them. He doesn’t seem to realize that we’re part human too. It isn’t something he wants to believe.

He talks to me, though not as frequently as he used to. He talks to me sometimes, the way you’d talk to your dog. He’s really just talking to himself, he just sends it all in my direction so he won’t appear insane. His “master plan” is going into action soon. He calls it the “master plan” in public and in front of me, but that isn’t the name of his operation. His operation, his life’s work, his pride and joy, has a real name that he won’t let himself say aloud. It’s a secret to everyone but me.

He likes to call it his “final solution.” Bold lettering, all caps, like this - THE FINAL SOLUTION - that’s the way it looks in his head. He knows that that’s a dirty, ugly name for it, but it’s the closest thing to the truth that he can think of. He tells himself that he’s ashamed to call it that, but deep down he’s tickled pink by it. His own FINAL SOLUTION, and he’s gonna do it right. None of that prolonged suffering or science experiments. If all goes according to plan, the mutants will all go out like lights. Doctors worldwide will be baffled, but will diagnose each and every dead mutant with an aneurysm. And afterwards? A party, of course. Champagne and cake for all.

Ikingking hate him.

He likes to claim that he’d never experiment on a mutant, and he’s been good at destroying all the evidence so far.

Reread that last bit – so far. Again – so far. SO FAR. That’s how the words appear in my mind. All caps bold type, like a headline. You made a mistake, Dad, and I’m praying that it’ll come back to bite you in the ass.

It will, I’m sure.

Mortimer Toynbee had a few friends who’d gladly tear Daddy dearest limb from limb.

I never officially met Mortimer, but it was easy to get into his head. He was being beaten or sedated on a regular basis, and his mental defenses were down. If I was capable of sleeping, I’d have nightmares, but sleep never comes. Another one of Dad’s “alterations.” Dad specializes in breaking people. He finds a weakness and exploits it until whoever he’s working on doesn’t have a soul anymore. Or until he dies, whichever comes first; Dad isn’t picky. Dad found a weakness in Mortimer all right, and he had a hell of a time with it.

Mortimer was gay.

Dad emphasized that repeatedly and made sure everybody knew before he turned his back and ignored the unbearable screaming that came from Mortimer’s cell. Once Dad spilled the beans about Mortimer’s sex life, every man he came into contact with decided that it would be OK to rape him. Dad knows that’s the best way to break a person; this wasn’t the first time he’d given his soldiers a “toy” to play with. This was, however, the first time it had backfired completely.

Mortimer didn’t break. He knew that that was what Dad wanted to do, break him. He refused to, for the most part, but I had a hand in helping him. I couldn’t stop anyone from hurting him; Dad’s soldiers had good mental defenses against me, and I couldn’t get into their heads. I could get into Mortimer’s, though, and I made the most of it.

His head was layered, his inner passions wrapped and buried in a pain that’s always been there. Dad and his soldiers were adding to it, tearing fresh scars in his mind that would never heal. I found a lot of things in the core of his mind, though o heo he loved, what he loved, stories, memories, smells, sounds, music – but there was only one thing there that we both needed.

Jazz.

Deep down in the very depths of Mortimer’s head was something he loved and would always love – jazz. I entered his head every night and turned on the jazz full blast in his mind. I cleared away all thoughts and memories and feelings and made him focus on the music. I steered him away from self-pity and hurt. I like to think that I saved him, but I didn’t.

He did it himself.