Sean's Journal: Still Crazy After All These Years

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean had kept a journal since he was twelve and his abilities first manifested. In the beginning, it had been his only path to sanity, because he couldn't keep everything in his head, and he desperately needed an outlet, any outlet, to ease the burden of his then-fragile psyche. He kept careful records: of what he’d heard, of what he’d learned, of what he remembered, sometimes as proof that it had actually happened since often nobody would believe them. Then it became a system, so he could consult his journals afterward and know what was and wasn’t safe to talk about.

Upon entering Hammel as a student, he’d been encouraged to keep it up. “For when you need to talk, but there isn’t anyone around.” So he had, writing almost daily for the entire time that he was a student.

By the time he graduated, it was habit. He might not write as frequently, but whenever he had the time, he recorded his thoughts, his experiences, scribbling notes to himself that he never intended anyone else to read. Snippets of his life.

In the present, he literally had enough journals to fill a bookshelf. Each time he finished one, he moved on to the next, often purchasing a few at a time to save himself a trip later down the line.

Sean assumes he’ll keep up the practice until he dies, at which point, the writings will be the only memories left.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

November 10, 1970


“Focus.”

Sean’s head felt heavy, as though it might explode from too much pressure. Nothing mattered at the moment, except the headache and the desire to pass out and wake sometime in the next week. He shook his head, stubbornly refusing the task and admitting defeat. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Robert Hopkins’ voice was gentle, patient, as always. Sean couldn’t imagine being so patient at that age; he couldn’t imagine being so patient now.

“No, I can’t,” Sean asserted, and his voice cracked in the middle of the word, turning the contraction into a two-syllable, multi-pitched whine.

Robert leaned forward, folding his hands in his lap and meeting the gangly teenager’s eyes. “You absolutely can. After all, I can do it, and you’re every bit as powerful and capable as I am.”

Sean’s brow furrowed at that comment, and he shook his head again. Robert was the most incredible person he’d ever met, the most powerful psychic he’d ever heard of, and was completely unflappable. Meanwhile he – Sean – grew tired after trying to keep mental shields up for more than a couple of hours at a time, even with Robert shouldering most of that burden for him, and just couldn’t handle the thoughts of others beating against his mind constantly. The very idea of searching for a specific thought in a single mind amidst the background noise was so daunting that he couldn’t entertain it seriously. Just like he couldn’t entertain the thought of ever being president or pitching for the Yankees. “That’s not true.”

There was a flicker of emotion in Robert’s eyes that immediately extinguished himself, and Sean was worried for a moment that he’d somehow, finally, managed to make his mentor angry. But instead, Robert reached out, lay one hand on Sean’s shoulder, and spoke in his same, gentle tone. “Have I ever lied to you?”

They’d known each other for over a year, which was a long time considering how short Sean’s time on this earth had been so far and was yet far less than Sean had known almost everyone else in life, prior to uprooting to Hammel. But he trusted Robert in a way he didn’t even trust his own parents, because his mentor understood him in a way that nobody else did, or sometimes late at night Sean suspected, ever could. On an instinctive level, he knew that Robert had never lied to him and would never lie to him.

That wasn’t easy to reconcile with how helpless he felt; cognitive dissonance was awful, and he’d only learned that phrase last week. “Telepaths have a higher rate of having to deal with cognitive dissonance,” he’d seen that in a book, and had to look up what that could possibly mean. The book was right.

He sighed, trying to find words to respond to his mentor’s question, wanting to be as honest with the older man as he’d been, and yet words wouldn’t come. So he thought the sentiment loudly, as he’d been taught, projecting because he knew that he would be overheard. No, you haven’t, but I...can’t even imagine being as good as you someday. It’s all so hard.

He knew he’d been overheard, because Robert went out of his way to appear as a mental presence and to give him feedback. He felt the recognition in Robert’s mind, and then felt his warm hand squeeze his shoulder. “I know, Sean. But it gets easier.”

There was a pause, before his mentor added, “One day, son, you’re going to sit where I sit, and you’ll be sublime.”

Sean still couldn’t imagine that, not feeling as overwhelmed as he felt. But the confidence in his mentor’s voice, and the pride he heard there...it inspired him. He wanted to make Robert proud. And so he nodded and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He could do this, he told himself, because Robert said he could.

All he had to do was focus.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

May 10, 2003


The evening wasn’t going well at all. In retrospect, Sean should have known better; he should have checked the plot of the movie before agreeing to go. But he’d been so happy to have the chance to visit with his nephew, and by extension, his sister and brother-in-law, that he’d agreed to the first suggestion made and didn’t do any follow-up.

If anything, that lapse underscored the point that he might be psychic, but he certainly wasn’t infallible.

Ryan was a fourteen-year-old boy, and he liked action movies, juvenile humor, and comic books. The movie might not have had much of the second, thankfully, but there had been plenty of the first, and far, far too much of the third. Unsurprisingly, Ryan had loved the movie.

Kathleen and Colin had been uncomfortable during and after the movie, particularly Kathleen, because she’d always been uncomfortable.

For his part, Sean was trying to pretend as though he couldn’t hear the unkind and fearful thoughts of those around him when they exited the theater. Dinner was awkward, as Ryan talked on and on about the fight scenes and how awesome the technology was. And then it happened, as he smiled, talking animatedly about the oh-so very awesome superpowers.

Kathleen had stiffened visibly, and Colin, deciding that now was the perfect time for this question, sitting at a booth in the back of a crowded restaurant, asked, “That all was just fantasy, wasn’t it, Sean?”

That was the question he’d verbalized; his thoughts had continued, You couldn’t wipe us all out with a thought and some fancy machinery, could you?

Of course, Colin knew of his powers in the vaguest of terms; seemingly everyone Sean had met from the time he first manifested until he was thirty knew what his powers were. He’d believed in honesty back then, particularly when he couldn’t promise perfect control. And between the recruiters from Hammel and the contacts he’d made through the Church, his parents and his sister knew the specifics, and he could only imagine what they’d discussed when he wasn’t there. After all, if you were nine and your older brother was showing symptoms of a mental breakdown, and then strangers from a school in a state you’d never heard of said he was psychic and needed to be taught now, away from everyone else, and then he disappeared only to come back only on holidays for years until college, you’d likely never let it go. And if that’s all your relatively sheltered husband knew about the matter, then he wouldn’t let it go either.

And it wasn’t as though he was surprised by the nervousness and suspicion; after all, meta-humans (not mutants, although he’d grown tired of that debate), existed, and so in one sense, this wasn’t harmless fantasy. In another, greater sense, it was no different than how in the 1980s, he’d had to be very careful about keeping his past to himself, because everyone and his mother believed that suddenly any man who’d ever slept with another man – no matter the frequency or circumstances – had AIDS. People were ignorant, willfully so, and that made them afraid.

It was irrational, because there existed no machine capable of global amplification of meta-human powers. And even if there were, nobody was capable of killing with a thought. Mental powers took more concentration than the public typically imagined which rendered the whole situation impossible and more than a tad disconcerting.

“Of course it was,” Sean replied, mindful of Ryan’s presence at the table. He tried to be vague around his nephew, considering how young he was, and how overprotective his parents were. “There’s no such thing as a Cerebro machine, and nobody outside of movies or comic books could possibly do such a thing; nobody is that powerful.”

“But Uncle Sean, what about-”

“Ryan, why don’t you do your Uncle a great, big favor and see if they have Black Forest Cake in the dessert case?”

That earned him a puzzled and defiant look from his nephew; until he added a mental, Please, buddy? I promie we’ll talk later. The sincerity of his plea mollified Ryan, and the boy politely excused himself, leaving the adults to talk.

As soon as Ryan was out of earshot, Sean leaned forward, making eye contact briefly with his sister, before focusing on Colin. “Look, I’m willing to take partial responsibility for that being a terrible choice for a movie, but this wasn’t the time or the place to ask me that. In public?”

“I thought that you were all about being out and proud.”

He lowered his voice, trying to ward off the headache that was brewing. “I’m neither apologetic nor ashamed, but there’s no reason to send anyone into a panic. People tend to be afraid of people like me.” He wasn’t going to say telepaths in public, not in this crowd, when so many of them had been at the movie earlier.

“Well, shouldn’t they be?”

Yes. That thought wasn't his. “No, they shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t be either, but I’m not going to have this debate in public.”

“I’m not afraid,” Colin asserted, because it was a matter of masculine pride. Sean knew that was a lie; it had been a lie when he and Kathleen had been married, and would likely be a lie on his deathbed.

“Then there’s no problem, now is there?”

Fortunately for Sean, Ryan returned just then, and managed to break the tension by explaining, as patiently as a young teenage boy could, the different desserts they had in the case; he knew well his Uncle’s sweet tooth. Afterward, they managed to steer the conversation to Ryan’s schoolwork: what he liked to learn about, and what he didn’t like, and what he thought he might want to be when he had to choose. Thankfully, the word “meta-human” didn’t come up.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

July 4, 2003


Every year, Kathleen and Colin had a party for the Fourth of July. Every year, Sean brought a keg of beer and a dessert. Sometimes, he brought a date; this year, he’d brought a date, although he hadn’t for the last couple of years. Usually, the guest list consisted of him and a couple of their cousins, and then all of Colin’s extended family: he had four siblings, and a gaggle of nieces and nephews, his mother was still alive, and then their neighbors and friends from work. It was generally a fair turnout: the kids swam and played video games, while the adults sat out on the patio and talked politics or played horseshoes.

Nothing had been particularly amiss, until his date had pat him on the thigh and offered to get him a burger. Somehow, that earned the attention of people who hadn’t even been looking at him, as though they’d never seen another man

Everything had been going well enough, until Kathleen called him into the kitchen, supposedly to help her make potato salad. He’d known better, but he’d gone anyway, because he’d rather her have a tantrum privately than publically.

“Your friend has wings.”

“My date has wings.”

Kathleen sighed in exasperation. “You brought a male date to my party? A male date with wings?”

“I’m dating a very nice man, who happens to have wings, and I was visiting my sister for a barbecue, and I’m usually allowed to bring my current paramour.”

“You know Colin’s boss comes to this.”

“I’ve met him. Is he still having an affair with his secretary?”

“Sean Patrick Neville!”

He sighed and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Colin’s career isn’t even tangentially related to my date o tor him being a meta-human.”

“We have a certain image to maintain.”

He narrowed his eyes at that, giving her an incredulous look. “You can’t mean that. Your brother, your only brother, is meta.”

“You can hide it.”

He laughed, because he didn’t know what else to do when confronted with that sentiment. He’d never taken well to bigotry: he’d left the Church over bigotry, he’d been in fights because of bigotry, and he had a big, ugly bumper sticker on the back of his car to make a point against bigotry. “So I wouldn’t be allowed over if I had wings?” He nearly said “horns,” but he knew how Kathleen would react to that; it would be a sign of the devil, as surely as she considered contraception a sin.

“Look, Sean, I don’t want to fight about it. It’s bad enough with everything you can do.”

His face hardened. “You haven’t gotten over that movie.”

“Well, it certainly raised some valid points.”

“It was a work of fiction, and we saw it two months ago. For Heaven’s sake, Kathleen, how many times do we have to have this conversation? There’s no such thing as the X-Men, and nobody is even close to being as powerful as a group of fictional characters. I’m not Professor X; there’s no Magneto lurking around trying to kill or convert everyone.”

“You work at a school for mutants, just like in the movie.”

“I work at a school for meta-humans, and unlike in the movie, we aren’t housing a secret paramilitary team, or a stealth jet, or a computer capable of killing every sentient being on the planet. The last time I wore leather was at a Rolling Stones concert, and even then, it was just a jacket. I’m ashamed that we’re even arguing about this.”

As if to make the conversation worse, Colin entered the kitchen then, a displeased look on his face. “Your friend is making some strange noises; I think it’s bothering the kids.”

Sean turned his head, glancing out the window to get a better look. Alex was surrounded by three of the younger kids and two of the older ones, and all of them had big smiles on their faces. Turning back to face Colin, he said, “They’re not scared; they’re entertained. Besides, it’s only sonics; it’s perfectly harmless.”

Colin still looked uncomfortable, and Sean, already tired from the argument that had just begun, didn’t have it in him to continue. Closing his eyes, he brushed Alex’s mind. My sister says to nix the powers.

What’s the problem?

They’re metaphobic, remember? Why don’t you play horseshoes with Jake? He’s the one in the red shirt, one of Kathleen’s coworkers; he’s one of the only people here I can tolerate.

All right. Bring me a beer when you’re done?

Can do.

His eyes opened and focused on Colin. “Problem solved.”

Colin and Kathleen both turned toward the window, watching as Alex stopped playing with the kids, folded his wings under his shirt, and walked off in the direction of red-clad Jake. They turned around, and Colin asked, “You did that?”

“I asked.”

Colin’s discomfort was growing oppressive, and Sean slowly, deliberately, took a deep breath, before blocking it out; yet his brother-in-law remained painful to look at. “You mean you made him.”

“No, I mean I asked. I don’t make anyone do anything.” In retrospect, he shouldn’t have said don't. He should have said can't.

“But you could.” Of course Colin latched on to that linguistic choice, and of course he hadn’t let this go from two months before; if Kathleen hadn’t let it go, then neither had her husband.

“For the last time, I don’t have mind control powers.” They’d had this argument more times than he could remember, and he was tired of having it. It had been bad enough trying to explain hypnotherapy to her, and by extension, to Colin, when he’d earned his certificate. That had no relation to his powers, and he’d never gone into specifics with them, because it was better that way. Because telepathy was frightening enough to people without knowing how deep the connection could go, or pointing out that it was theoretically possible to influence a person’s behavior by whispering in his mind to do something until he either succumbed or decided he was insane. That it was possible to influence a person’s behavior by changing his memories to make them think that what you asked of him was normal fare for his life. That memory manipulation was in some way more dangerous than mind control, because memories were lasting impressions, and if you stripped a man of that, you stripped him of everything he knew in life, and mind control –as had been displayed by metahumans so far- was temporary. He never said any of this, because that would only make the problem worse.

“I don’t have mind control powers, I can’t think anyone to death, and I don’t want to, either.” He sighed, straightening, and dropped his arms to his sides. “Honestly, if I did, we wouldn’t have this argument all the time.”

“Are you threatening us?” It was Colin, had to be Colin, because even Kathleen knew better. He was her brother, after all, and that still meant something.

“No. I wouldn’t ever, but the fact that you think I would is hurtful.” Even if it wasn’t surprising.

He stepped away from the counter, and turned to look at Kathleen, not at her husband. “I’m going back out, now; Alex and I will leave before the fireworks, if you want.”

The fact that she didn’t reply was the only answer he needed.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

September 2006


“Doctor Neville!” The door to Sean’s office flew open, revealing Lisa Baker, a young speedster, and one of his budding protégés. She was covered in Halloween makeup: greens, browns, and reds; her hair was mussed, having come loose of her usually neat ponytail, and there was a panic in her eyes. Even for the more colorful occurrences at Hammel, this was noteworthy.

“What’s the matter?”

“EverythingsgonetoHellbecauseofaclassassignmentIdon’tknowhowitallgotoutofhandbuttheteachercantmakethemstop.”

“Slow down, dear.” He had risen from his desk, because Lisa hadn’t come closer, and that in itself was strange. He smiled at her, almost apologetically. “I’m not as quick on the uptake.”

Lisa took a deep breath, tried to calm herself, although she was still upset. When Sean approached her, she grabbed his hand, “They’re taking over the class.” With that, she began to tug, dragging him off toward the classrooms.

“Who?”

“The Hunters.”

Sean frowned. He’d been a reader all his life, and working at a high school for so many years granted him some familiarity with the curriculum, with reading lists, and with the associated vernacular. It was the beginning of the year, which meant that one of the English classes would read Lord of the Flies and “Hunters” was the highest position attainable in that nightmarish breakdown of society.

Rather than pressing Lisa for more answers, he broke into a sprint beside her and cast his mind outward to glean answers. What he found caused him to run even faster, pushing his nearly fifty-year-old body to its limits to reach the other side of the school. Lisa hadn’t been exaggerating; the class had, in fact, gone to Hell. And of course, several of the staff had to be out sick because the flu bug had bit early this year.

Miss Taylor wasn’t going to last the year if she’d lost control of her class this quickly, or if she thought that this was a good idea. Of course, she was a new-age teacher, and as a cellular regenerator, her comprehension of “clear and present danger” was more than a bit askew.

His footsteps were heavy on the linoleum tiles, promptings people from the other officers to open their doors, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He projected his thoughts to all of the adults in range, I’ve got this. Just keep your classes calm, and someone buy me a drink later.

As he reached the classrooms, he passed the new trainer, what was his name? Chase something. He looked absolutely bewildered, his eyes wide and his mouth open slightly as though he didn’t know what to make of the situation. That made two of them. Giving the other man an apologetic look and coming to a stop, Sean told him somewhat breathlessly, "Welcome to the Hammel Institute. I promise this isn’t the usual fair. And if you could watch Lisa for me that would be great." He gently pushed the girl toward Chase, promising her that she’d be safe, and that he’d get this mess cleaned up. He didn’t ask the other man along, because he didn’t know what his powers were, and he looked like a deer in headlights; had he known, he would have asked, as he could have used the help.

With Lisa taken care of, he then stepped over the threshold of the offending classroom and straight into the Seventh Circle of Hell.

The room was trashed: desks overturned, with only a few forming a circle in the middle, with a symbolic fire consisting of all of the emotional and educational posters which usually decorated the walls. Fortunately, there wasn’t actually a fire, which was the only point he had in his favor. Looking around quickly, he located Miss Taylor...lying unconscious on the floor. So Troy was in on this as well, just fantastic.

Everyone was decked out in tribal makeup, two kids were guarding a makeshift prison which had once been the supply closet, and there was a paper Mache boar’s head on a pike, or a tree that had sprung from the floor –thank you Emily. There was red paint everywhere, symbolizing blood, and the noise was only somewhat less than that at your average rock concert.

He wasn’t pleased, and to make that point, he slammed the door shut behind him. The unexpected noise could barely be heard over the clamber the students had created, between the tribal chants and the taunting. Well, there was more than one way to get their attention.

All of you stop it! NOW!

There was nothing quite like telepathic shouting to get his point across. Suddenly, the room had quieted down and curious eyes were on him. With heavy steps, he approached the blackboard, shaking his head in disappointment. He had access to all of their records, and he knew whose abilities were responsible, in addition to the positions in which he found the students now. There wasn’t currently a detention code severe enough for the punishment these children were going to face.

“I have a fair idea of what happened here,” Sean informed them, shaking his head in disappointment as he approached the closet and ushered two of the children to the side, opening the door and freeing the several captive students. “I’m very disappointed in all of you. Right now, however, I’m the only person here, apart from your teacher, who knows what’s happened, and if any of you hope to graduate before you’re thirty, and during that time, hope to have time outside of class that isn’t spent in my office, you’re going to set this room in order, wash off that makeup, and make a formal apology.” He slammed the closet door once the students were free to make a point; he was the dominant figure here now. That was what the book had missed; if a single adult had been there to pick up the pieces, nobody would have died.

The weaker students – the ones who were less stubborn and had experience in his office – began to set about cleaning up the room. The more apathetic ones possessed of dominant personalities did not, digging in their heels to reclaim the chaotic environment which was rapidly unraveling. One Hunter in particular, Jim Adler, was staring him down, challenging him silently. Sean knew this game well; he simply couldn’t blink. He had to remain dominant, not displaying any weakness. Instead, he brushed Jim’s mind – not intrusively, but to make a point. Don’t start a battle of wills you can’t possibly win, Jim. Because you don’t want me over your shoulder for the next three years, and that’s precisely what you’ll get if you don’t cooperate.

One could always count on telepathy being disconcerting to those without mental powers. Jim shivered a bit, looking around to see if anyone else had heard that, but nobody had. He somehow knew, instinctively, that the threat was real, and he didn’t want to deal with those consequences. As well...Sean was a full head taller than he was, which was intimidating. To save face, Jim mulled it over, and then behaved as though he was making a decision based on morals, when he told the other boys to stand down and pitch in with the cleaning.

Sean leaned against the teacher’s desk, watching the students and making certain that they put the room back in order. Sometime during that period, Miss Taylor woke and came over to him, confused and surprised, but none the worse for wear. “What happened?” She asked, echoing the question that had begun his involvement in the matter.

“You’re going to have to start getting approval for your lesson plans.”

...the next day, there was a new faculty rule: that everyone needed administrative approval before plays or other reenactments could be used in class.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

September 1969.


Sean had only recently arrived at Hammel, and he’d been brought by an office by his recruiter and told to wait and that he’d be given the help he needed. When he asked how, he was simply told, “Have a little faith.” Recruiters were taught to use the vernacular of those they brought back, and Sean was a sheltered Irish Catholic boy, whose priest had alerted them to his existence. He already had faith, because he was at a school instead of a mental ward, but the painful “gift” he’d been given was no easier for him to control, and it seemed impossible to him that it would change in the near future. Thus he didn’t know what to expect when he walked into that office and first laid eyes on the man whom he had been told could help him.

It was the beginning of autumn, and it was so hot, so very hot, and there was no air conditioning. Sean wore his old uniform, complete with black tie and jacket, because he was a product of Catholic education, and what else was he supposed to wear to school? But Robert, a fairly large man, wore a white polo shirt and white khakis; both were crisp and clean, looking as though he didn’t sweat, even though Sean was sweltering from the heat and from anxiousness. The man had a salt and pepper beard and matching hair, worn long because it was 1969. The expression on his face was one of utter serenity, and his grey eyes were deep and soulful, as though they had borne witness to everything; the lines around them, along his face, told Sean that he held the wisdom of the ages.

More incredible still was how Sean felt nothing but calm in his presence; the man was an oasis, a surprising and coveted silence amidst the ever-present voices – which he’d been told were the thoughts of people around him. Yet from this man, this wizened vision in white with the sun outside streaming through the windows to cast him in an ethereal glow, he heard nothing. More than that, he realized that since stepping over the threshold, he hadn’t heard anyone else either. It was quiet. For the first time in months it was quiet. He could finally hear himself think.

For that alone, Sean was ready to come to his knees before this man and offer thanks. For ten more minutes of this blessed silence and the attendant peace, Sean was willing to offer him anything he wished: his devotion, his attention, any material possession that he could give.

Then he felt it, a light tingle in his mind, followed by warmth which filled him from the inside out; and he felt as though his soul was laid bare before this man, and those grey eyes were drinking him in. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and some part of him realized that he should be afraid, but he wasn’t; he was only calm.

His eyes were wide as he stared up at this person in awe, and his voice was only a whisper as he asked, “Are you God?”

For that question, he was granted the most radiant smile he had ever seen, although everything now was warm and bright, and the deep laugh filled his ears, a loud sound against the silent backdrop. The older man wouldn’t say so, but that was easily the most complimentary reaction anyone had ever had to him. Shaking his head, he replied, “Not at all. My name is Robert, and I’m going to teach you.”

Sean knew the names of most of the saints, and there was a Saint Robert, noted for his patience and known as a miracle worker. And if he wasn’t the Lord, Sean had to believe then, that this man and that Saint were one in the same, because he had already done the impossible, and he was reminded of that with every moment of silence and peace. He wanted it to last forever. “For how long?”

“For as long as you need me.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

A date burned into memory.


There were few moments in Sean’s life when he’d been rendered completely speechless, but this was the worst of them. During this worst conversation of his life, he hadn’t said a word; his mind was elsewhere.

“We can’t keep this up; we can’t be together anymore.”

Sean had always liked Paul Simon music, both when he was with Art Garfunkel and after during his solo career. When he was teenager, it was new and innovative and fun. Then it became deep, and he only half-understood. That is, he knew it was true vicariously, but he didn’t have the life experience to truly relate. He’d dated at Hammel, and in the early part of college, but he’d never been in love. Not really.

That had changed when he met Josh.

I know a man. He came from my hometown. He wore his passion for his woman like a thorny crown. He said “Dolores, I live in fear. My love for you is so overpowering, I’m afraid that I will disappear.”

Being a telepath was hard; being intimate as a telepath was harder still. He’d fallen in love, and it was the most beautiful experience he could ever imagine: knowing his lover’s thoughts, knowing his soul, being with him. Suddenly, he understood those songs which had once eluded him on a deeper level.

Nothing mattered, because he was with Josh. He worked hard in medical school because he had a plan, and Josh was in on that plan. But if the younger man came home one night and said he wanted to move out to California and sell marijuana from the back of the van, the telepath would have the apartment cleaned out by nightfall without a second thought. He was whole when they were together; he ached when they were apart.

Sean thought it was the same for Josh.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

When he and Maggie Donovan had broken up, it had been for the best. She was a sweet girl – a sweet woman now – and he’d been lucky enough to reach second base with her and to get his first kiss from her. But they’d remained in touch before drifting apart, and they’d both moved on.

Nothing had prepared him for this. Before now, he’d always assumed that songs and stories, movies and melodramas exaggerated the pain of a breakup. He’d been surrounded by stable relationships at Hammel and in his family, something that was a blessing at the time and yet he resented now, because it hurt more than words could express. He felt as though he’d been ripped in half. All he wanted was to stitch himself back together, but to do that, he needed Josh.

He was going to be a doctor; why couldn’t he heal himself?

Still when I think of the road we’re traveling on, I wonder what’s gone wrong. I can’t help but wonder what’s gone wrong.

Sean hadn’t seen it coming, which was the worst part of it all. No, the worst part was that it happened at all. But he was a telepath; he should have known, should have had some realization. Instead, he thought that everything was fine. They were happy together. They belonged together. They were so happy.

He was so happy.

He couldn’t separate himself from the other man. Josh’s thoughts were his, Josh’s needs were his. He wanted that, because to him nothing else felt natural.

“We can still be friends; I still want to be friends.”

He couldn’t tell his parents about this, because they wouldn’t understand. His mother had warned him when he and Josh first moved in together that he should be careful about having a male roommate at his age, because it could scare off girls. “That won’t be a problem,” he’d told her, trying to hide the smile.

Kathleen would be no better when it came to understanding; she thought he was inhuman enough as it was. And not with the plague still destroying the population, he couldn’t let them know that their son, her brother, was one of those. He had to keep this secret, although it hurt so much that he thought he might explode. He had to pretend that nothing was wrong, because after all, they were still friends, and that was all anyone thought they were in the first place.

“Kathy, I’m lost,” I said, though I knew she was sleeping. “I’m empty, and aching, and I don’t know why.”

He wasn’t going to live through this. Sean needed to find a way to turn off his brain, to numb himself sufficiently such that nothing else mattered. He’d taken the keys to the van and began to drive, not thinking about where he was going.

He drove until the van was nearly out of gas, at which point he stopped and refilled the tank. It occurred to him after driving for what seemed like forever that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. The waitress at the diner thought that he was a drug addict, because he was so unresponsive when he ordered; he heard the thought in the front of her mind.

She offered him pie and he turned it down; he just wanted his coffee and sandwich and then he would go. He vomited at the next rest stop. He drank only coffee for the rest of the trip.

“It won’t be so bad; give it some time, and you’ll see. I’ll...leave you alone now.”

For the first time ever, Sean wanted to make someone forget. As a boy, his powers had frightened him, because he thought he would lose touch with himself, lose touch with reality. He was too young when they emerged to make sense of the confusing world of adults. He’d been taught not to hate his powers, and in time, to control them. He didn’t have slips like he used to; people didn’t lose their memories around him anymore, unless he wanted them to.

He wanted Josh to forget, wanted the other man to stop talking about going their separate ways and to come back to bed with him. The temptation was hard to resist. And that scared him.

In the end it was best that he was alone, before he made a mistake that he would come to regret for the rest of his life.

And I dreamed I was dying. I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly, and looking back down at me, smiled reassuringly. And I dreamed I was flying.

It was raining by the time he arrived in Pilot Ridge; it was also an ungodly hour of the night. He’d driven on autopilot; he didn’t remember deciding to go to Vermont, but now that he was here, he couldn’t leave without arriving at his destination.

His van barely fit in the driveway. He sat there for a while, debating whether he should even bother getting out, but eventually he did, because he realized that he wouldn’t make it back to New York in one piece; he was so exhausted now.

After knocking on the door, he shifted awkwardly, wondering what he could possibly say when met at the door, and then belatedly realizing that he must have woken the occupants of the house with his knocking. He hadn’t meant to do that. He also hoped that Beth didn’t open the door.

She didn’t; Robert did. He looked at the wizened face of the older man, shorter now when compared to Sean’s full adult height. His mentor looked at him quizzically, undoubtedly hearing everything in his mind and trying to make sense of that and Sean’s presence on his doorstep at this forsaken hour in the rain with no umbrella.

Then Robert stepped forward and opened his arms, enveloping Sean in a tight embrace; he didn’t ask questions, because he already knew the answers.

“It hurts so much,” Sean whispered, leaning against the older man. He supposed he should be ashamed of burdening Robert with this, should apologize for waking him. Yet he was absolved.

“I know, son.” Robert rubbed his back, holding him for another long moment before pulling back. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes and put some tea in you.”

Sean didn’t hear him but followed the other man into his house; doing what Robert told him came as second nature. The door shut behind them quietly, and outside it continued to rain.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

1991.


Sean had only been working at Hammel for about a year, which was an experience within itself. He’d left the school for fifteen years, eight of which had been devoted to higher education, and the other seven of which had been devoted to paying off his student loans and setting up a nest egg. It was more than mere coincidence that he found himself in Pilot Ridge, four states away from Josh, starting a new job at the same time that his friend was finally finishing the last of his legal degrees. The torch he’d once carried was an ember now, but still showed few signs of extinguishing further, and considering what tended to happen when they were together...

Something was in the air, as there was no reason otherwise for Sean to think about this.

The telepath couldn’t deny that working at Hammel was strange; he’d spent his entire adolescence here, learning to become the man he was today. Many of his co-workers had once taught him, recruited him, trained him, although there were new hires to replaced those who’d retired over the past decade and a half. The telepath thought he had done an adequate job of establishing himself as their equal, as an authority figure to the students; he already had a few regulars who came to him for their problems, which was an excellent start. All he ever wanted was to give students what Robert had managed to give him.

But as a former student, and with only a year under his belt as faculty, certain habits remained. Such as jumping a bit when called to a meeting by the Head Mistress.

Eliza Harding had been Head Mistress for three years; in fact, she had been the one to hire Sean when he’d sought out employment. She could be strict, and there had been jokes during his time as a student about her possibly being a vampire, due to the side effects of manipulating light and darkness. But despite her blunt nature, she wasn’t cruel, which Sean reminded himself as he made his way to the office.

From respect for his co-workers, and pride in himself because he had mastered the art, he tried to shield at work. This proved to be a mistake, because after the vague greetings, she ambushed him.

“Do you like working here, Sean?”

“Quite a bit. It took some getting used to, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it.”

“So you wouldn’t mind doing us a favor and helping out a little more?”

His instinct was to reply, “of course not,” since he liked helping, but her tone gave him pause. His shields slipped a bit, he read her surface thoughts, and he frowned, standing up. “Eliza, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

Sean could hardly argue that point. “Give me one good reason you’ve lined me up for this.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

“You’re a telepath.”

“So is Robert. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“I’ll cut to the chase, Sean; you have had sex, haven’t you?”

“This goes beyond anything you’re entitled to know as either my boss or my former English teacher but I’m not a thirty-three-year-old virgin, no.”

“Then you’re qualified.” Before Sean could interrupt, she continued, “It’s only for this year, until we get a new instructor. And the students like you, so you’ll be fine.” She smiled in that deceptively sweet way of hers. “There are books in the library, and you can requisition the projector. Let me know if you have any problems.”

The telepath took the hint and left without further complaint. That had been far worse than being called in for missing one of her English tests.

************

It was later in the faculty lounge, with Sean brewing a pot of coffee that he felt a familiar presence before hearing an even more familiar voice. “Eliza roped you into it, I see.”

He didn’t look up; he was too absorbed in the process of brewing coffee. “I have a month to write the first lecture, and then two weeks each for the next few.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t see why I have to do it.”

“Bill retired.”

“And there’s nobody more qualified than me?”

Robert Hopkins settled in an arm chair with a soft sigh of contentment; at seventy-two, he enjoyed sitting far more than he had when Sean had been a student. “Do you want an honest answer to that?”

Sean poured himself a cup of coffee and then prepared one for his mentor. Bringing both over, he handed the latter his cup, before sitting across from him on the sofa. “If you’ll give me one.”

“The nurse is too timid, and the biology teacher flat-out refused to do it. None of the other staff is any more related to sexual education by their job title than you are, and you do have medical training. With Max being a senior this term, they didn’t want to ask a woman.” Max was one of the resident pheromone manipulators, who was particularly amorous with a vivid imagination. There had been incidents before, most of which the staff tried hard to forget. Robert continued, “And then there’s Jerry.” Jerry was the resident illusionist who had an even more vivid imagination than Max. “That’s why they wanted a psychic, someone who could keep from making a complete twit of himself.”

“I’m glad they think I’m not a twit.”

Robert smiled kindly at him, before taking a sip of his coffee. He then said, “They can’t think of anything you haven’t done before.”

Sean blinked and then threw his hand, the one not holding his coffee, into the air as a sign of defeat. “My trainer thinks I’m the Whore of Babylon.”

“Your trainer knows for a fact that you’ve done more than kiss Maggie Donovan in the bushes.” Robert’s expression was kind, as it always was.

Sean identified the gentle teasing and managed to smile a bit, taking a breath to calm himself. “We weren’t that bad.”

Robert returned the smile, reaching out across the distance between them to pat the younger man on his arm. “No, you weren’t, and you’re more experienced now. You’ll be fine.”

Sean wished that he had his mentor’s confidence, but he was long-familiar with his self-esteem problems. Those, he knew, were scars from the abruptness of his powers developing, and of the nature of his powers themselves. What confidence he lacked, he usually made up through Robert, and if his mentor believed in him, then he could survive this. “I hope so, but at least it’s only for this year.”

He was tough enough to do this once, and then he’d never have to worry about it again.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

July 1969.

Somehow, Sean had managed not to fail the sixth grade. This didn’t come as a surprise to Sean’s parents, who expected their son to receive high marks in school; but the success of surviving the year came as a shock to the recently-turned-twelve-year-old boy.

Not only had he managed not to fail the sixth grade, but he had gotten an “A” in introductory Latin. Sean could neither speak nor read Latin; the most he could do was identify which saints had died at the hands of the Romans. Studying for Latin class was a frustrating process for him, as he felt that he retained little to nothing of the language. Yet every test, without fail, the answers came to him, out of nowhere. In Latin class, he was better than the other students, on level with the teacher at times, at least for a sixth-grader’s comprehension. Outside of class, he could barely conjugate.

Several of his classes had been this way over the past few months, although to a less severe degree. He knew things. Things that he didn’t always understand. Father Donahue agreed with the social movements taking place across the country; Sean was sure of that, even if he didn’t know what social movements were. Tim Flannigan’s father hit him with a belt when he misbehaved, but in places nobody could see. Sean had asked him about it once and had come away with a black eye. That’s when he’d stopped talking about it, talking about everything he knew.

He’d started having headaches, which his father said was the result of too much sunlight and not enough vegetables, combined with a healthy dose of the fact that puberty was coming up, and which his mother attributed to impure thoughts.

He tried to keep his thoughts pure, which was easier said than done. Particularly when a few days after his twelfth birthday, he’d begun hearing voices. Not everywhere, not all of the time, but enough that it frightened him.

He prayed on it. But the one voice that was absent was God’s, never answering his prayers, never telling him what to do, how to cope, how to make it stop. Never telling him what he could have possibly done to deserve this pain and confusion, or whether he was going crazy. Wasn’t he a good person? He never stole or cheated or cursed or used the Lord’s name in vain. He didn’t fight except for when Tim Flannigan had punched him in the face. He always had so little to confess after mass.

He prayed harder, and he shied away from other people. Thankfully it was summer now, which made it easier to hide from others; other boys were away at camp or visiting family or on vacation, and his parents were too worried about him having a breakdown to let him far out of their sight. Sean had looked up what a breakdown was, and then prayed harder still.

Sitting in his room, reading a book by Asimov, he’d known his father was outside before hearing the knock. He’d looked up readily when the elder Neville entered the room and said, “Get your glove, Sean; we’re going to see the Yankees this afternoon.”

He’d wanted to say “no,” to say that he wasn’t feeling well, because that was true enough, the mere thought of going outside and being around so many strangers made him sick to his stomach and he feared one of those throbbing headaches that had become more frequent. But then he heard the other thing, the part that his father hadn’t said because he hadn’t wanted him to hear. If this won’t make him normal, I don’t know what will.

Sean wanted to be normal. And so he’d done as his father asked, changing into his Yogi Berra shirt and grabbing his glove.

The trip hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, mostly because he’d spent as much time as possible asking questions about past World Series or about his father’s job, he either knew already the answers to, or he didn’t care about either way. It proved a fair distraction.

Being at the stadium was worse.

During the second inning, Sean already felt a headache brewing, and he tried to rub his temples when his father wasn’t looking. When asked, he lied and said it was the heat. His father bought him a root beer and told him to get comfortable.

He tried, but he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t capable of getting through this. There were too many people, and the voices, hundreds of them, thousands of them, were assaulting his ears from the inside of his skull.

Do you think they’ll win the pennant this-I hope I get the promotion at-marry me-this hotdog tastes funny-too much to drink-HIT A HOMER-really hungry-here’s how you play the game-twisting the night away-don’t like the way she’s looking at that other guy-Happy Birthday-can’t believe that sonofabitch got away with-if I had the nerve I’d ask her out-this seat is so uncomfortable-shouldn’t have ever integrated-shut your mouth before I-I’ll never look like that-six more beers...

He couldn’t take it. Mumbling to his father about how he needed to use the bathroom right now, he managed to sneak away. He was twelve, too old to need to be accompanied to the men’s room.

It was quieter there, and the tiles were cool against his cheek as he lay down in the stall. His head hurt so badly, and he knew – just as he knew that Tim’s father hit him, just as he knew how to conjugate in Latin at school – that he wouldn’t survive this for much longer.

When the first home run was hit in the game, Sean was crying to himself softly in the men’s room. He wouldn’t have noticed, but the excited thought echoing between to many voices was too loud to ignore.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Between 1984 and 1985.

Sean had been invited over to his parents’ house for Sunday supper; this was a common enough occurrence, because they liked making a production out of Sunday suppers. He usually went along with it, because he liked his parents, even if they hadn’t taken many aspects of his life as well as they could (What do you mean you and he are living together? Aren’t you worried about AIDS? You’re voting for Jimmy Carter? And the ever popular, how can you skip church every week? Don’t you know that if you die with sin on your soul, you won’t go to Heaven?). Usually, they let him bring dates to supper, if the relationship was serious enough, and his paramour was female, but this week he’d been instructed that he wasn’t allowed to bring anyone, because Kathleen was bringing a boy home, and they didn’t want to make it too awkward.

His parents hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that he hadn’t brought anyone to Sunday supper in a while, otherwise they wouldn’t have given him the warning. Still, he’d given his acknowledgement rather than point that out to his mother, and he’d dressed particularly nicely before driving out to the Island on Sunday afternoon. He brought cake, which was a habit he’d developed after spending so long with Josh and his family, but who could resist Bundt cake?

He’d arrived before Kathleen, although that was usual, and he spent the next hour talking to his father about baseball and patiently promising his mother that he wouldn’t talk shop at the supper table, even though he was out of medical school and didn’t have to deal with cadavers any longer. Additionally, his father had little interest in psychiatry as a specialty of medicine, partially because he had an entirely different specialty and partially because the recent changes to the DSM made him uncomfortable. Sean didn’t push him over supper, although he would argue politics or sensitivity after supper, but usually not on Sundays. His parents were accommodating as best they could be, given their generational and religious prejudices, and he had come to terms with that years ago.

When Kathleen arrived with her new beau, Sean took the time to appraise him; the other man was short. Not short short, but short compared to Sean; he was probably no more than 5’ 9” or 5' 10" but that was fine, considering how short Kathleen was, such a slight girl. Possessed of an average build, sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a couple of freckles on his cheeks; Sean found him physically unremarkable. That was fitting, as Kathleen strove to be normal; he’d always assumed it was more backlash against him for breaking the mold than it was an absorption and prioritization of white, Irish Catholic, middle-class values, but the two had the same end result so it didn’t matter.

Kathleen blathered on and on about how smart her boyfriend was during the introductions, and all of the amazing things he was going to do with his life, about how he was choosing between investing and taking the actuarial licensing exam series.

Supper consisted of ham and his father’s subtle probing about politics – Colin came from a family of anti-FDR Republicans and he thought Ronald Reagan was doing well. Moments like these made Sean grateful for his telepathy, because he had a decade and a half under his belt of keeping from choking on his meal when he heard a stupid or offensive sentiment. This had then been followed by his mother’s not-so-subtle inquisition into his pedigree: he was one of five children, Irish-Catholic all the way, went to the same church as Kathleen and his father owned and operated an engineering firm that had an ongoing contract with New York City. His family was from Westchester.

Sean didn’t speak during supper, except to request that someone pass him the broccoli.

When supper ended, his father disappeared into the living room to watch the baseball game, and Kathleen went to help their mother in the kitchen with dessert. Sean would typically have preferred to watch the game as well, but they were losing. This left him alone with the new beau.

Colin was uncomfortable with the silence, as he glanced around at the family photos displayed around the dining room. Finally, he tried for conversation. “So...Kathleen says you’re a doctor.”

“Yes, but I’m in psychiatry instead of physical medicine.”

“That’s got to be exciting.”

“I’ve got my share of stories so far.”

Sean hated meeting Kathleen’s boyfriends; all of the conversations were awkward, and they always ended the same way. Best to get it out of the way now rather than later.

“Has she said anything else about me?”

“Well...” Here it comes.

“She said you’re a bit different from the rest of the family,” Colin told him honestly, but then he added what he considered a quick mitigation. “But as far as I can see, you fit right in. You’re quiet, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“My opinions usually aren’t appreciated during supper, and I respect my parents and my sister enough not to go into them during our weekend ritual.”

“And what would those be?” This man wouldn’t know a hint if it smacked him in the face and stole his wallet. Well, nobody could accuse Sean of not trying.

“It’s an unforgivable sin that we subsidize the wealthy in this country at the expense of those who need help most.”

That had obviously thrown Colin for a loop, as they had engaged in a political discussion over supper without so much as a sigh or a sarcastic cough from Sean. And Colin, like most of Kathleen’s boyfriends, had enough of a chip on his shoulder and enough of that sniveling desire to please that he felt it necessary to explain and defend his position. “There’s nothing wrong with helping the poor, but that’s what charities are for. It’s not the government’s job, and it shouldn’t cost taxpayer dollars when they could have tax cuts instead, which will help families directly and boost the economy as a whole.”

Sean had no desire to argue the fallacy of trickle-down economics, and thus he cut to the chase. “Do you volunteer at soup kitchens?”

“I haven’t had the time since starting school, but I give to the Church every week.”

Sean studied him for a moment before replying, “A dollar and a quarter a week doesn’t go very far.” That was his breakfast in the mornings.

Colin was obviously ruffled by the accuracy of Sean’s figures, and the telepath heard How could he-? rise in the other man’s mind before sinking beneath the desire not to offend anyone. Instead, he replied, "She told me that you’re meta-human, a mind reader.”

“I am.” Sean leaned forward slightly in his chair, waiting for the rest of this topic to unfold. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” That was a lie. Just like with the others.

“Good.” Sean pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, towering over the younger man, particularly since Colin was still seated. He then leaned forward, such that he spoke in the other man’s ear and lowered his voice, “A word of advice: don’t try putting your hand up my sister’s skirt during supper ever again.”

With that, he went to the den to join his father and wait for dessert to be served.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

April 2009.


Sean had never been close to his uncle; he’d only been somewhat close to his own parents, and they were his parents. But his uncle and his cousins had come to his mother’s funeral, and the least he could do was return the show of sympathy and solidarity. He’d taken off the personal time for the trip at the end of the week, had packed his suit, had placed an order for a flower arrangement, and then had hopped in his car. The drive from Vermont had been relatively smooth, aside from the bit of traffic when he got into New York.

He’d considered calling Josh and asking him to come along but had decided against it. It wasn’t proper to take a friend to a relative’s funeral, unless that friend was coming for the deceased instead of for an attendant. Besides, he didn’t think it fair to inflict his family on Josh. And if Sean wanted to be honest with himself, he didn’t want to inflict Josh on his extended family either.

The discomfort had begun the moment he arrived at the wake. He and Kathleen quite visibly had nothing to say to each other apart from a quick greeting; he exchanged a nod with Colin and then went over to give his sympathies to his cousins and his aunt. They encouraged him to take one of the memorial cards, and since his choices were between Mary, Jesus, and a saint, he picked one of Francis of Assisi and slipped it into his pocket. Afterward, he sat himself down in the corner of the room, taking up as little space as possible and thumbing through a photo album; he recognized many of the pictures from experience and from seeing them at his uncle’s house during childhood. His cousins and aunt greeted the members of their family and the community who stopped by for the wake, and Sean nodded appropriately.

When the wake had ended, the family began to disperse pending the funeral at 9:00a.m. the next morning. That was when one of his in-laws, less familiar with his black sheep status, asked where he was staying, and whether he needed a ride back to someone’s house. The telepath explained calmly that he had his car and was staying at the Days Inn. When questioned about why he wasn’t staying with someone, he replied, “my insomnia would keep everyone else awake” and left it at that.

True to his word, he didn’t sleep well upon returning to his hotel room.

*****************************

The funeral the next morning was every bit as uncomfortable as he expected it to be. He had to keep his mental shields firmly in place and even then some thoughts assaulted him, and he deliberately sat at the end of a pew, away from those who might benefit from the service. Ryan chose to sit next to him, which sparked a dirty look from Kathleen, but there was no time for argument because the service had begun.

He stood and sat appropriately but refused to kneel, instead choosing to remain seated. He did not recite the prayers, he did not sing the hymns, and he could feel the priest’s attention on how he simply didn’t belong in this building with these people.

When everyone else in the Church, including Ryan, stood to take communion, Sean remained seated. This, more than anything else, drew attention to him, and he did what he could to ignore it, by reading his funeral program and the prayer card from the night before. Admittedly, it was less shocking than when he had refused communion at both his parents’ funerals, but the children and the in-laws hadn’t realized he was an atheist, or in their views, fallen.

The procession and the burial were as expected; he had been volunteered as a pallbearer because of his size, and he had not objected. The eulogy was given by the same priest who gave the homily, and Sean stood at the back of the throng of people, once the casket had been set down. During the final Lord’s Prayer, the telepath’s voice was noticeably absent.

As was traditional in his family – and perhaps in many others – once the funeral service had come to a close, they broke for long enough to settle the rest of the affairs and for the women to reapply their makeup, and then reconvened at a restaurant for a memorial lunch.

Unfortunately they’d been grouped by family unit at the long table, and so Sean sat between his nephew and one of his cousins. On Ryan’s other side sat his father, and to his left Kathleen. Across from Sean was one of his second cousin’s husbands. He vowed to remain silent through the meal with the exception of asking to pass the wine and simple pleasantries.

That plan proved fruitless when the relative across from him asked, “You work in Vermont, don’t you?”

“For nineteen years now.” A pleasantry. His reply was short and to the point.

“Aren’t you upset about them recently letting queers get married?”

The room was crowded, as there were at least forty people in attendance, and thus most people hadn’t heard the question. Ryan beside Sean tensed slightly, and Kathleen’s jaw began to work unconsciously, preparing for this conversation. The telepath set down his fork and looked over at the slightly older man. “Why should I be?”

“Because it perverts marriage.” The words were spoken before Colin, in one of his few moments of trying to avoid conflict, interjected, “Ted, you probably didn’t realize, but several of Sean’s friends are...like that.”

Sean heard the disgust flare in Ted’s mind before he uttered a halfhearted apology. “Sorry, I didn’t realize your friends were queers.”

Unfortunately, that caught the attention of most of the table and conversation came to a halt.

“Some of my friends happen to be homosexual,” Sean corrected. He was too old to view the word “queer” as anything but pejorative, and he knew that was the way in which it had been intended in this conversation. He also chose not to talk about his own personal life because it was nobody else’s business, but he knew that in this man’s opinion, his relationships were just as perverted. “They aren’t ‘queers.’”

“I already said I was sorry.”

Sean sighed. “So you did.” The conversation ended there, with Ryan attempting to cheer him up by talking about everything he had done at college this semester.

They made it through the wine, through the salad course and most of the proper meal with dessert on the horizon before he overheard it. His family lived all over the country, and several relatives were swapping stories about meta-humans. One had a child who had gone to school with a “weird, lazy boy” who had been found out to be meta, whom Sean immediately recognized as Horus. Another, in college now, recounted the tale of a “freaky” girl who didn’t have any friends. With little in the way of descriptors, Sean peeked and saw Ann’s gentle face.

Disgusted, he pushed his plate away and rose from the table; he needed fresh air before he said something that he regretted.

As he walked around the table towards the exit, he overheard one of his cousins ask, “What’s gotten into Sean?”

And one of his uncles reply, “He’s always been a little off, though you’re too young to remember.”

This was the reason he avoided family events like the plague. Even when invited, he was never truly welcome.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

1990.

To someone who grew up on Long Island and who had lived and worked in Manhattan, real estate in small town Vermont was obscenely inexpensive. So obscene that when the real estate agent had told Sean the price of the first house he’d looked at, he naturally asked what the expected monthly payments were. Then she’d informed him that she hadn’t quoted the down payment, but the price in full.

It was then that he realized that he could afford to look a little bigger.

Admittedly, he’d gone a little overboard. His parents had kept a fairly large house when he’d been a child, but then he’d spent his time in a dormitory and then apartments for his adolescence and adult life. He missed having a backyard. He missed having more space than furniture. And the house was gorgeous.

It astounded him that he was able to afford it; back in Manhattan, the price would have been ten or twenty times what he’d paid, if such a house could even exist in modern Manhattan. And yet, this palace was his: multiple bedrooms, bathroom for each bedroom and then some, three-car garage and all. He had a sitting room and a walk-in closet attached to his bedroom, and a porch that was indoors to shield him from the winter.

The entire mortgage and down payment were less than two year’s income back when he’d been in private practice. That was what happened before the housing market exploded and when he was the only psychiatrist on the market who could successfully treat PTSD in a single session. Patients also found him calming and enjoyed the ability to receive treatment without having to utter a single word if necessary. His income had already been obscene – enough to rid himself of all his debt and put away substantial savings, enough that he was ashamed to tell anyone how much he’d made – but if he’d kept his shingle out, he could have retired by 50 without worrying about anything ever again.

Working at Hammel was a pay reduction, although he was still to be quite well-compensated for his time – his qualifications put him at a comfortable salary with full benefits and a pension – and he could easily afford the mortgage between savings and salary.

But all thoughts of payment plans evaporated instantly from his mind each time he stepped on to the property. The only thought in his mind was This is all mine.

The physical move took place gradually. At first, he brought some of the smaller items over himself, spending a couple of hours after work transferring everything in boxes that he could lift. The problem became furniture. And so one Saturday, he enlisted help.

“This is taking advantage of our friendship.” The twins spoke in unison as they dropped the sofa in the middle of the room.

“It is not.” The telepath had a rocking chair in his hands which he put down in the corner. “I’m feeding you and I got you concert tickets.” He’d had to finagle those tickets because REM sold out quickly, and Boston was a popular venue. But he’d come through with his side of the bargain.

Jerry grumbled, but George went out the door for another load. Sean took a moment to survey the area, deliriously happy with how well this was coming along.

Jerry was back, lugging the television set. “What do you even need a place this big for, anyway?”

The place was huge, and even with all of the furniture they were moving, it was still largely empty. Sean understood the question, particularly since he had gone overboard on the purchase. But he was content with the purchase; more than that, he was downright giddy.

The telepath turned his head and looked out the window into the yard. He envisioned children playing in the sprinkler while he grilled hamburgers on the patio. And he smiled. “I’m going to raise my family here.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

July 1995.

Sean loved spending time with his nephew, particularly time alone. Particularly as the chances of him settling down and starting a family of his own was growing slimmer with each passing day. And as he was far too cautious to ever be in a situation where accidental pregnancy might emerge, his avenues were slowly drying up. He was rapidly approaching forty, and was single yet again.

So he took the paternal impulses he otherwise couldn’t express and funneled them into his relationship with his nephew. The boy made off like a bandit between the attention, the sweets, and the presents. Ryan was spending the night, technically the weekend, while his parents were off celebrating their anniversary and trying to conceive another child; every failed attempt struck his sister a little harder, and she’d stopped listening to his advice and his words of sympathy, because after all, what did he know about conceiving children? She had him when it came to practical experience, but he was a doctor; then again, it wasn’t worth arguing over.

“Can we have cookies?” Ryan looked up at his Uncle, head tilted far back to see the face of the very tall man.

“Sure, buddy. We can have anything you want. Cookies, brownies, cupcakes...” Sean had stocked up on the baked goods, before picking Ryan up. He had an excuse that went beyond his sweet tooth; he was a psychic, and he needed the elevated glucose. That was how he always rationalized it. As for Ryan, well, he could be a budding psychic, too. And besides, if you couldn’t eat your weight in sweets when your parents were out of town, you never could; he didn’t like denying his nephew anything, not if it was something he could give.

The telepath went to the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of skim milk. He poured two glasses and brought them over to the table, handing one to the boy. Next came the platter of cookies and brownies he’d prepared in advance. “We have chocolate chip, double chocolate, and peanut butter chunk.”

Ryan practically glowed. His little hands grabbed at the platter, pulling four cookies off the platter and then shoving each in succession into his mouth.

Sean smiled, finding the boy’s enthusiasm amusing. Surely Kathleen would have a few choice words for him about proper diet and sugar levels, but she wasn’t here. He reached for a chocolate chip cookie himself and took a bite. “What do you want to do after we eat?”

“Can we go to the park?” Cookie crumbs spewed from his mouth and covered his shirt and the table top.

“Sure. You know, I just bought a remote control plane you might to play with.”

Ryan’s eyes went wide, excited by that. The cookies were almost forgotten, despite being piled high right in front of them. “Really? What kind?”

“I’ll show you. But finish your milk first.”

Looking at the glass, the boy was then reminded of the platter of sweets. “Can I have another cookie?”

“Yes. But only one more for now.”

While Ryan might otherwise pout, he was encouraged by “for now,” knowing that his uncle would let him have treats after supper. And that they were going to the park first. That was good enough for him. Obediently, he reached for his plastic cup of milk and had a big gulp, and then reached for another peanut butter cookie.

All smiles, Sean finished his cookie and milk, and then pushed off from the table. He disappeared from the kitchen for a moment, fetching the box that contained the airplane. He brought it back with him and then held it out to his nephew.

Ryan’s eyes went wide and his little hands immediately reached out for it. The glossy pictures on the box sides were bright red and big. “It looks so cool.”

“Why don’t you wash your hands and then you can open it?”

The boy all but leapt to his feet and was off to the sink in the kitchen. He was too short, and so Sean came up behind him and lifted him up so he could reach. Ryan carefully washed his hands and then tried to wipe them on his shirt. Setting him down on the floor, Sean handed him a towel and told him not to use his clothing that way. Ryan gave a brief acknowledgment and then was back at the box, tearing it open. The toy was huge in his hands, the remote box nearly half that size. But he was so excited that the size distortion was secondary to the boy’s toothy grin.

“Can we go try it out now?”

“Give me a couple of minutes to put some batteries in, and then we’ll go.”

The telepath had set batteries out in advance and took them out of the junk drawer. He set four in the box and then checked the green light when he flicked the “on” button. “All right, it’s ready. Let’s go.”

Holding the airplane close to his chest with one hand, Ryan held out his other. Sean took one tiny hand in his large one, and they left the house. It would be a lovely weekend.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

December 30, 2007.


“Do you like it?”

Sean had carefully removed the red and green wrapping paper to find a heavy object covered in bubble wrap and packing tape. Cutting through it with his keys, he found himself staring into the ceramic eyes of Patrick Stewart. Not just any Patrick Stewart, but Patrick Stewart in a wheelchair.

He had no words.

“It’s from the movie,” Ryan rushed to explain. “I know you didn’t get a chance to see the last one, and it wasn’t as good, but it’s like from the second and first one. He still looks the same, you know?”

The telepath turned the bust over in his hands; it was weighted, and there was a limited edition serial number on the bottom. His nephew must have spent a good deal of money – considering that he was a broke teenager – on this. He couldn’t fathom where one went about finding a present like this. It certainly wasn’t for sale in the places where Sean shopped. He might have needed to use the Internet. Or perhaps the comic book culture in Boston was more sophisticated than he thought.

Unfortunately, whether his nephew knew it or not, this present embodied the cause – and thus the underlying reasons – why Ryan had to lie to his mother about visiting a friend in Boston in order to visit him for the holidays, five days late. Not that Sean particularly cared about Christmas, but it was the principle of the matter. All of this because his sister couldn’t separate him from a fictional character from a movie they saw four-and-a-half years ago. This was also a key reason why he hadn’t had a chance to see the last one; it had been a deliberate decision on his part.

“It’s nice,” he finally said.

“I thought maybe you could bring it to work and put it on your desk. Make a statement.” Ryan smiled at him, genuinely enthusiastic about the idea.

“There’s nothing to make a statement about, Buddy. Everyone already knows who I am and what I can do.” At Hammel of all places, there was no reason to hide his telepathy. He was at liberty to use it as a form of communication, and it made his job all the easier. Not only that, but he was regarded as an expert in the field of psychic powers.

“What about identity pride?”

“I’m proud enough,” he said with a half-smile. “Besides, I try not to have breakables at the office. Some of my students are prone to tantrums.”

That was an understatement. His desk had been set aflame before; there had been tornados when his window was open, flash floods, telekinetic storms that resulted in his shelves crashing to the ground, and earthquakes. There had also been the ice storm, and the times when two or more students punished for fighting continued their rowdy behavior in front of him. Also the uninvited guests – teleporters and phasers – didn’t always take care with where they materialized.

He didn’t even keep photographs at work any longer.

“But I’ll put it in the parlor, on the mantle.” That seemed to appease his nephew.

The young man breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I’m glad you liked it. You don’t know how hard it was to keep Mom from finding it, and to keep it safe in a dorm. Someone’s been stealing laptops and cash on my floor.”

Sean was sure it had been difficult, particularly to hide from Kathleen. Aside from the fact that she didn’t want him to have any contact with his nephew, she also didn’t approve of Ryan’s hobbies. In her opinion, he was too old to find superheroes interesting; what sort of young man liked looking at cartoonish drawings of other men in spandex? They’d argued about that too, but he’d assured her that her son wasn’t gay. Not that it mattered to Sean, but she should at least try to have the facts correct.

“When I come visit you at school in the spring term, give me ten minutes on your hall. I’ll figure out who’s been stealing and give him a stern talking to.”

Ryan smiled at him. “You don’t have to. We figure he’ll stop sooner or later.”

“At least let me figure out who it is so you know when you don’t have to worry.”

“Okay.” Ryan tended to capitulate easily on those matters; he was as fond of his uncle as his uncle was of him. “Go put your bust up.”

“How about you open your present first?” With that, Sean set the bust down and then held the box he’d wrapped out to the young man. He was sure Ryan would like it.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

November 1979.


Why had he come here? The place was uncomfortably cramped, and the thoughts of all the patrons clambered for admission in his mind. Worst of all, their thoughts were unpleasant.

The drinks were cheap; that was why. While his parents had given him spending money in college, he was on his own through medical school (for the most part). And he spent so much money on books and on vinyl. And on coffee.

Also Greg had a crush on the bartender.

Upon entering the bar, Sean had assured him that he was a lost cause. That hadn’t made Greg listen to him.

Because he was a pushover, he was stuck here in this bar, surrounded by oppressive thoughts and seated on a bar stool that was too small for him, hunched over and doing harm to his back as a result. Greg had best appreciate what the telepath was doing for him.

He didn’t, of course. Another drawback to telepathy: he couldn’t even pretend that people understood what they didn’t understand.

At least the scotch wasn’t watered down.

Greg was doing that thing where he flirted just subtly enough that you couldn’t accuse him of flirting if you didn’t know him. The bartender didn’t seem to appreciate the attention anymore than Sean appreciated the atmosphere and the fact that his friend was ignoring him.

This was a waste of a Friday night. He shouldn’t even be here, but Josh was with his parents for Shabbat and Sean hadn’t even asked about going. He didn’t like intruding on family rituals, even if Josh’s mother did everything in her power to make him feel welcome which included bringing him homemade kugel during exams.

Instead he was seated in this bar which might have been one of the circles of Hell. It wasn’t gut-wrenching enough to be heresy and so he assumed this was his punishment for lust. That was fair enough, since he was guilty of lust. He had no regrets there.

But Greg had to give up soon, because this was painful to watch.

His reflections on Dante and mortal sin were interrupted by angry thoughts going nova. He frowned into his glass and then stiffened upon hearing them expressed aloud.

“Cut it out, faggot.”

As much as he’d prefer to pretend otherwise, that was directed at Greg. He looked at the other end of the bar, where Greg had been sitting; low and behold there were two large men there, with sneers on their faces and hatred in their thoughts. “We don’t like your kind here.”

Sean more than most people knew how thoughts were sculpted by movie clichés, but even he was taken aback by the line. Really? In this day and age? In Brooklyn?

Greg had that look on his face, the one he used at protests and which told Sean that he was about to make this worse instead of better. That was confirmed when Greg started in about First Amendment free association.

They were getting closer, circling around Greg, and Sean had no choice. He pushed off from his stool and took several large steps towards them. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.” He knew it wasn’t, but that was a start; it showed that he wasn’t looking for trouble.

Then one of the men shoved Greg against the wall.

Looking or not, trouble had arrived. “You shouldn’t do that,” he warned.

“And what are you going to do?”

Sean had a couple of inches on them, but he was wearing his protest jeans and his earring and long hair didn’t give off the impression of being tough. He knew that; he also wasn’t a fighter, but he would be damned before he let someone hurt one of his friends. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Then the first punch was thrown.

He did his best to avoid getting hit, which lasted about two minutes, during which matters had gotten out of hand. One of the men was still on Greg, and the other one was doing his best to make the telepath lose a tooth or three.

One of the blows connected with his face. And nobody in the bar was doing anything.

Not knowing what else to do, he elbowed the guy in his solar plexus which caused him to gasp and step back briefly. Thank Heaven for anatomy and physiology class.

That was the only opportunity that Sean had or would get, and he lunged. He got the man in a headlock – struggling all the way through it – and felt along his neck for the carotid artery. Then he pressed with all his might. The man collapsed.

That distracted his friend, who turned around and let Greg go, long enough for another patron to hit him with a barstool.

They barely had time to thank him for the help before they hightailed it out of there.