A younger Marcus would've never imagined himself to become the kind of person that enjoyed smoking a cigarette. Yet there he was at the bus stop, passing the time. It was already past midnight, and the only other person waiting for the bus was a woman. She was standing far away where the smoke didn't reach, and anybody could tell she was uncomfortable. Not so much at the smoke, but at him. He didn't like smoking, it tasted like shit, smelled like it too, and it's generally the kind of thing you consumed if you don't plan to ever be healthy again. Still, he smoked, because even if it's killing him inside, it's also one of the few things still keeping him alive.
A strong gust of wind sprinkled hot ashes on his face making him fling his cigarette. It was his last one and it wasn't even halfway done burning. Like the addict he was, he tried catching it in a fumble but was surprised to see it suspended in midair. Even the smoke was dancing from the wind, but the cigarette was unmoved. He grabbed it without a thought and wasn't exactly sure what had happened. His eyes glanced over at the woman, but she wasn't paying him any mind and was glued to her phone. He tried dropping his cigarette in front of him to see what would happen, but almost shouted when it dropped straight to the ground.
"Am I fucking crazy?" The woman looked at him in response.
Marcus didn't want to have to explain to the woman that he was in fact, not crazy, and fortunately he didn't have to. With blinding headlights, the bus slowed itself to a screeching stop, and when the doors folded open, the woman rushed in like a flash. Not wanting to be wasteful, he picked up the cigarette from the grime hardened concrete. He put the embers out on the top of his shoe before boarding the bus. His eyes met the bus driver who looked at him with suspicion. Paying the fare quickly, he found the one seat amongst all the other empty ones that didn't stink of piss.
Sitting comfortably in the silent hum of the road, it was just him, and the half-used cigarette resting in the palm of his hand. His eyes were unblinking, with the momentary fluttering of his eyelashes every time he saw it tremble. He couldn't say if it was the rocking of the bus that had made it move, the subtle and minute movement of his own body, or perhaps it was his own sanity teetering on the edge. Then for a brief moment, in less than a second, the cigarette jumped from his hand. His other hand was ready to catch it, but his eyes widened as the cigarette, just like before, hovered in the air.
There was a kind of tension in his mind, it felt like a muscle he couldn't feel nor see, but it responded to his will. Slowly, he was releasing that tension as if he were letting go of a balled-up fist, and like a mild headache going away, the cigarette falls into his palm. The corner of his lip couldn't help but rise.
'Well. That's pretty neat.'
On the hour-long bus ride that he normally used for sleep, he spent it messing around with his newfound power. His telekinesis. He doesn't know how or why he got it, but what matters to him is that it's real. It doesn't just affect the things close to him, but it could also affect other people as well. For one passenger with earbuds on, bit by bit, he loosened the right earbud from their ear until it fell out. For another passenger, he tried giving them a gentle tap on the shoulder, and they turned around to check as a result. Lastly, he messed with the woman from the bus stop by pressing the off button on her phone a couple of times. From how frustrated she looked, that was enough proof that he wasn't just imagining this.
When he finally got off the bus and onto a familiar street, did he realize just how tired he was. He was tired every day, but the exhaustion he was feeling seeped into the deepest folds of his mind. Thinking started to become slow. If he had known it would be this bad, he wouldn't have used his telekinesis for so long. Moving his feet, he started down the winding rows of houses, but with skilled familiarity, he navigated the maze and ended up at the steps of that familiar porch. A brief picture flashed through his head, souring his mood. He opened the door with his keys and reluctantly entered his home.
Darkness greeted him at the doorway, but he could only stare, the light switch near the door flickered on by itself. Without looking back, the door swung closed, and the click of the lock echoed through the house. Each room he entered, the lights on the ceiling, and the lamps at the corners would illuminate for him. He found himself crouching down in front of his fridge, reaching for cheap booze. With a pop of the bottle opener, and all the lights flickering off behind him, he sank his back into the couch, basking in the dim glow of the television screen. The mental exhaustion taking his mind probably didn't need the alcohol to make him sleep, but he still felt like he couldn't sleep without it.
As he clicked through the television channels, a string of words on some local news caught his attention. 'Video of masked vigilante stopping a robbery in Whitney'. It was showing a video taken from a phone, and it looked to be inside of a convenience store. Despite the shaky camera, it clearly captured the figure of a man dressed in all black, only his eyes could be seen in his balaclava. He was hiding behind a concrete pillar, and gunshots were exploding in the air. Then he made his move as he disappeared in a blur. The sound of something smashing into the shelves replaced the sound of gunfire. The camera peaked around the corner. The man in black was nowhere to be seen, and amongst the devastation of broken products, was the gunman whose head was censored with a black box by the news channel.
Marcus took a long swig of his beer, unable to take his mind off of that masked vigilante. In a corner of his heart, he felt a pang of disappointment to see that he wasn't the only special one.
'That guy looks pretty strong.'
The glass bottle floated freely from his grasp. It twirled gently in the air, and the liquid inside followed suit. Then he turned it upside down, but nothing spilled out. Instead, a slender stream wriggled from the bottle's opening like a snake through a hole, flying freely in the air like a long ribbon caught in the wind. It danced in front of him like a Chinese dragon from myth, while the empty bottle found its way back into his hand. With flare and finesse, the liquid shot back into the bottle, without spilling a single drop.
There was nothing in his eyes to suggest he was entertained.
'Why was he doing that?'
He was confused about the vigilante's actions. He had all that power, but he was out there wasting his time in a convenience store. For what? To be a hero at the risk of his own life? There was a chuckle trying to escape from his lips, but he drowned it with alcohol.
'If it were me...'
Clad in a blanket of his own silence, the man on the couch no longer cared about what was happening outside of his head. His thoughts were a cycle of life and death. Nobody but him knew what he was thinking. Deep within the depths of his stomach, a burning heat was boiling. Perhaps it was from the alcohol, but it was unlikely. His heart was restless, as he placed his unfinished booze on the coffee table. The television was already dark. Laying down on his couch, he grabbed for the blanket, hoping that sleep would take him soon.
A banging on the door woke him up. He reached for the nearest thing to drink; the taste of stale beer was enough to quench his morning thirst. Walking over to the front door, he opened it to a familiar face. The woman in front of him was familiar at a glance, it was the same flowing brown hair, same amber colored eyes, small nose, and pointed lips, but upon closer look, there was little trace of the sister he remembers. She was also judging him with her eyes, perhaps thinking the same thing.
"Why didn't you answer your phone? I've called you like a dozen times."
She checked the time on her phone. An expensive car was parked by the curb, and he could see her husband was at the wheel, giving him the same old stare. A kind of look that questioned his existence.
"It's been dead since last night. I forgot to charge it."
"Well, I just wanted to make sure you're still alive. I have to pick up the kids, so I'll come visit next time."
"Sure, don't worry."
His sister had a complicated look on her face, an expression that he had seen before, but never knew the meaning of. The word 'worry' wasn't enough to describe it, perhaps 'guilt' and 'pity' were also mixed in, but that was just his personal feelings getting in the way. He doesn't hate his sister, but he knows that the real reason as to why she goes to such great lengths to keep in contact with someone like him, isn't out of pure, unconditional love. If she had something like that, then she would have stayed to take care of dad. Of course, he doesn't have the stomach to blame her.
"Take better care of yourself, Marcus. I want you to stop drinking and smoking so much."
Familiar words ran across his mind, and he found it funny enough to give a genuine smile. Usually, he needed effort to stretch his face.
"I will. I'm working hard to pay off the mortgage."
Her face winced a little at his words. Still, she continued.
"Also, don't forget that Ethan's birthday is this Friday. It's nothing big, just a small party with his friends. You don't need to bring him a gift."
"Alright, I'll make sure to be there. With a gift."
Receiving his obvious attitude, all his sister could do was sigh. She looked at her phone one last time. It looked like she didn't want to leave him.
"Look, I have to go. You know you can always call me."
Despite the strong smell of tobacco, alcohol, grime and sweat, his sister wrapped her arms around him to give him a hug. He gave her a light pat on the back, as if she was the one being comforted. She was the one that needed this hug more than anything. To him it was like poison, more harmful than anything he's consumed so far.
"Love you, Marcus."
"Love you too, Grace."
Watching his sister's back as she walked to her husband's car; he reckoned that he needed her more than she needed him. He locked eyes with her and gave her a parting wave as the car left him behind. His face was smiling but his eyes were thinking about something else.
Going back inside his house, the door closed as if moved by the wind, yet strangely the bolt engaged by itself. He stood at the center of the living room and overlooked his mess. The empty beer bottles that littered the coffee table resembled bowling pins, there were two ashtrays hidden in their midst and they were overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes came to a sharp focus, sharper than a knife; he raised both of his hands.
One bottle rose slowly into the air, then another bottle, and one by one over two dozen bottles were lifted into the air all at once. He could feel the strain in his ears, ringing, but this much was still manageable. Then one of the bottom cupboards behind him shot open and out floated a fresh trash bag. He discovered that didn't need to see an object in order to move it. It was a strange sensation, but he could sense the physical world around him in a metaphysical way through his telekinesis. The closest similarity to this is how you can still know the placement and movement of your limbs, in relation to each other as well as the physical world, even with your eyes closed.
The bag quickly filled up with bottles and other trash. After that, the cleaning became streamlined, the mental strain was still present, but the way he moved objects started to feel less manual and more automatic. Of course, he was still in control.
It didn't take long before the living room was in proper order, the way it looked like, before he made this place his bedroom. He took out the trash and avoided the stare of a neighbor, who probably hasn't seen him in a few moons.
After that he figured he needed to take a shower. When was the last time he took a shower? He went upstairs, a sight that was much cleaner compared to how he left the living room. He was planning to be somewhere today, so he picked out some decent looking clothes, and walked into the bathroom.
Staring back at him was the shattered surface of his bathroom mirror, which reflected a broken, and disheveled looking face. At the corner of his bathroom floor was a dented and cracked smartphone. He tried not to look at it as he stepped into the shower.
Washing away the filth, he didn't feel like himself. The warmth of the water enveloped his skin, and he felt like he was made anew. He laughed at a passing thought.
'If it were me... I would take over the world.'