My super first day

In Others
July 25, 2009

My contribution to Andrea’s fun project, detailed here:


It went the same way it always goes in my dreams. I was sitting at a table, after dinner with friends, playing with a screwed-up twist of paper napkin. I put the wisp of paper onto the table and I remembered.

That’s how it always is: not wondering, or thinking, or feeling, but suddenly remembering that, oh yes, I always knew how to do this. There is amazement, too: how could I have forgotten? And relief: at last I have remembered myself.

I moved my hands away from the paper and reached out with my mind. Concentrate, concentrate. I had dreamed this so many times before; the dreams were my warning sign, as it transpired, the harbinger. And in the dreams the first time is always the hardest.  Internal muscles shrieking with disuse as I pulled at them, forced them, and, and.

Yes. The paper moved. Just a fraction. Just as much as if I had blown at it. But I hadn’t blown at it. I’d moved it with my mind.

“Look!” I said to my friends, “see, see what I can do.”
They were toying with their wineglasses, wondering if they could ask for another helping of trifle, or yawning and thinking of their beds. It was late, a Friday night after a busy week.
“Look!” I said, and placed the piece of tissue onto an empty, overturned, juice carton.
Even now, just the second time, my control was growing.
I eased that mental muscle into operation, reached out with my mind and… hovered the tissue for two or three seconds above the juice carton before loosing my hold and allowing it to fall back.

My friends looked at me.

There would be more days to come. As my powers grew stronger, as I exercised that muscle, there would be the first day I found I could lift a television, a car. There would be the day I realised I could lift myself, and so fly. But that first day the most important thing was how my friends looked at me. Not with admiration or surprise. Not with delight. Not with interest. Only, and thereafter, with horror.

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