I plummeted from the sky into a shadowed cityscape. The streets were lined with dark lampposts. Ominous clouds, accented with flashes of lightning, blotted out the sun or the moon, whichever was supposed to be there. There was a storm brewing, and it didn’t appear to be rain on the forecast. Ragged clothed phantoms weaved among the clouds like flying fish.

My trajectory had me aimed toward a single flickering streetlamp. Within the boundary of its glow, a silhouette cowered. The features resembled a boy hugging his legs, with his back to the post. As I got closer however, it was a man. It was Shawn.

Inside every person, is a world of their making; their soul is the scene that unfolds. The landscape, the actors, and everything in between is created subconsciously based on that person’s state of mind, emotions, beliefs, and memories. Everyone is different and constantly growing and changing; that’s reflected in their world. My power allows me to enter that place. The place where the mind meets the soul.

Within that soul space, it’s important for me to maintain a strong hold on my thoughts. Otherwise, I may influence the landscape, or their mind could write me in as it pleases. I know this, because my first dive landed me in a crib. Apparently, I’m nothing but a baby within my teacher’s mind. I decided that here, wearing a mask and cape would be much more useful than a diaper.

The trembling man-boy had lost hope. There was nowhere he could hide from the horrors that had overrun the city. It was only a matter of time before creatures of darkness in shredded cloaks descended on him. His life and even his soul would be at their mercy. But what’s this? A bright light floated down from the sky. It was coming straight toward him. It slammed into the ground cracking the pavement. It appeared to be a man glowing with power. He rose from a staggered crouch and put his hands on his hips. He wore a gray and white, skintight suit that showed off his washboard abs and he had a cape that fluttered in the wind. A mask concealed his identity, but confidence resided in his steely gray eyes. Who was that masked man? Was he there to save the pathetic man-boy? Would he rid the city of the phantom menace? That man, that hero, was me.

My heroic entrance should have put him at ease, but that would have been far too easy. Nothing but dismay continued to register on his face. I joined him in the circle of light which no longer flickered. As minor as it was, that meant I did make a bit of an impact.

“Hope is not lost, young man.” I said in my best superhero voice, “We can still save this world, but I need your help.”

“You’re wrong,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing that can be done.” This was going to take longer than expected.

My perception of time was altered, but I still hoped Cara wasn’t going to tear me apart while I was fooling around in Shawn’s head. I needed energy to resolve the conflict in the real world, but you can’t just take it from someone. Doing so makes a wound that never heals.

After Cara’s attack, Mrs. Hasbrook would never be the same. The damage wasn’t to the extent that she’d be talking to herself and drawing on invisible chalkboards, but she’d be less than she used to be. A piece of her was gone forever. She’d carry that scar through life and death; her soul was broken. With the help of my ability and as long as I adhered to the rules, I could access someone’s soul without leaving damage.

That specifically meant, I needed to be given permission to take energy from a subject. It didn’t matter if that permission was direct, implied, or subconscious. Working within their mind, that usually started with trust, and I got that by acting. If the role I created, however, didn’t fit into their world or I made too much of a contradiction, I’d be rejected and have to start all over. I may have looked like a superhero in Shawn’s world, but he needed to believe it too.

I tried to appeal to his subconscious, “Young man, at least tell me how this happened.” Superheroes always call people “young man”; I was committed.

“Monsters are real. I’m going to die. Everyone’s going to die.” He curled further into a ball, tightening his grip around his legs. Wails echoed through the buildings. A sense of foreboding fell on us. Flapping sounds were getting closer.

Cornering a building, four wraiths turned toward us. They wore tattered gray cloaks. The contents of their hoods were cast in shadow. I needed Shawn to believe and rely on me, then I could take the energy I needed. To gain his trust, I could at least handle those four, but those thoughts betrayed me. A feeling of more shadowy eyes fell on us from every direction. Above, floated a dozen more of the creatures. It was a subtle reminder of how important meditation was. After the day I was having, I would definitely be reimplementing a regimen of working out, meditating, and eating breakfast.

I grabbed Shawn’s hand and dragged him toward a building. For death’s sake, I had to turn the situation into a plausible story of a terrified bystander being saved, so I had to step up my game. My shoulder smashed through a battered wooden door leading into a small storefront. Superheroes don’t use doorknobs.

Wraiths came hurdling through the windows, shattered glass and flowing cloth followed close behind them. Before they got too close, I raised a palm in their direction. A forcefield formed a dome around us and the creatures slammed into it. A continuous stream of shadows pelted the barrier while Shawn scurried against the back counter upon which an antique cash register sat.

I wanted him to gain confidence in me and himself, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. “This is my fault.” He said hiding his face. “I thought I was ready. That I could show off what I learned. I was given this power, but all I can really do is avoid killing myself and even that’s a challenge.”

The situation was a challenge. I was wearing tights, which because I was thinking about it, started to chafe; I was holding back a barrage of shadow monsters; there was another one determined to kill me in the real world, probably descending on me at that very moment; and Shawn was talking about his insecurities. I was ready to tear out of there with anything I could grab; death help his soul.

Mustering empathy, I remarked, “You’re more capable than you realize; you have nothing to prove!” But he wasn’t having it. He was actually losing confidence; the forcefield dwindled. A flicker allowed a shadow to enter. Before it could land an attack, however, I yelled, “Justice Kick!” and it disintegrated when my boot swept through its incorporeal form. Redoubling my focus, the forcefield brightened.

Apparently, trying to encourage him to believe in himself struck a sore spot, because he replied under his breath, “I have to prove it to myself.” He grimaced and looked away.

In the next moment, we were standing atop a sunny white overlook. I was positioned with my palm facing snow-peaked mountains. A ski lift with empty carriages ran needlessly to a hill nearby. Next to us, a sign bearing two black diamonds marked the slope ahead.

“C’mon Shawn, let’s just do another hill.” A man with a mismatching jacket and pants said. His jacket resembled the orange vests, with reflective tape, that highway construction workers wear. In glaring contrast, he also wore sky blue ski pants and faded red and white skis. The whole getup must have been hand-me-down or bought at a thrift store. “A few words aren’t worth your life; you have nothing to prove!” I winced at the identical phrasing to what I said a few moments earlier.

“Shawn, I was out of line. I didn’t mean what I said last night, I was trashed. You’re more than your pops.” Another man with a Southern accent said. His outfit revealed a fetish for camo, he had an impressive maple-colored porn-stache, and he smelled like pine trees.

“Don’t tell me you guys are pussing out.” Shawn said with his signature cocky half-smile. He was wearing a black and red parka-ski pants combo with reflective black goggles rimmed with red. Blonde hair peaked out of his black beanie marked by a red logo of some brand I’d never heard of. Matching the rest of his ensemble, black boots fastened into red and black skis completed his look. So cool… I bet he drove a black and red sports car. “You talk shit then back out like a coward.” I barely stopped myself from admonishing his choice of words.

I have rules that govern my interactions with people; swearing was atop the list of the things I just couldn’t tolerate. It didn’t used to bother me, but before she died, my mom always used to scold us for it. She’d throw a shoe and shout, “Language!” even at my dad. My aversion was my weird way of keeping her memory alive, I guess.

Looking around at the snowy slopes and how Shawn and his friends ignored the superhero next to them, it appeared we were strolling down memory lane. That meant I couldn’t interact directly in any meaningful way. Judging by how things were unfolding and the tingle ascending the back of my neck, these were the moments leading up to Shawn’s death. I had a sixth sense about that sort of thing.

Sometimes when delving through someone’s psyche, I’m forced to sit through their memories, perceived slights, or future trips. They’re usually comprised of regrets, secrets, or insecurities. People have a natural inclination to dwell on negative experiences. I had a hard time watching some of them. I even felt some of their emotions if they were strong enough. They often believed that somehow, by doing things differently, everything would have unfolded exactly how they imagined and the whole course of their lives would have turned out better.

Shawn took a few awkward steps toward the steep slope. The tree-like pornstar wannabe spoke up to try to stop him, “Alright, you’ve proved you’re a badass.” I winced, but he kept talking. “We’ve been skiing the whole time we’ve been here. Let’s head back to the lodge and find us some company.” He said with a smirk.

“No.” Shawn replied. I could sense anger flare in him at his friend’s suggestion. He’d decided they were underestimating him. “I’ll prove that I’m my own man. I’ll prove that I’m the best.” Before anyone could say anything else, he had already departed down the slope. I could feel his wounded pride enveloped by confidence. He weaved through trees and his knees cushioned short jumps. I hated to admit it, but staring down at the black and red bullet speeding down the mountain was actually quite impressive. Then I felt a twinge of fear as he approached a rocky section with a massive drop. As he drew near it, everything slowed. I sensed his thoughts. He’d made a mistake, leaning back instead of forward. This was the moment I foresaw.

The back of a ski clipped the edge, sending him flipping forward. Everything became blurry around me and only Shawn existed. He plummeted down the hill, and I shared in his overwhelming terror as the bright snow became a dark void.

There was a pounding and a jolt. It hurt everywhere, then faded. A chuff, chuff, chuff sound and wind buffeted me. I was being moved. There was a perception of time passing. I felt pain and heard voices, but I couldn’t see or move. More time passed. I didn’t know what was happening.

I heard an annoying tone with a blip. Then relief and silence. A shock and pain, another beep. It repeated several times, then darkness. “Time of death…”, a woman’s sob.

I was still there, but my senses were fading. There was something else though. Not a feeling; a sensation that I couldn’t explain. Light was crumbling away from me, but I felt a beckoning; the pieces broke off and drifted toward the source. A bright luminescence appeared suddenly nearby. Not one I could see per se; it was like the other sensation excepted it was closer and pulled harder.

Another warm glow, then another, then several more, but none as blinding as the first. They started joining together in a circle and the lights were racing through one another. There was a bright river flowing among them with sparkling flecks, like fairies, dancing around it. I was drawn to the dazzling current and it to me. There was a pulsing as it poured into me. Pain was coming back, but it was less than before. The obnoxious tone from before assaulted my ears, then sharp peaks joined it.

My perspective shifted when Shawn opened his eyes. I was holding hands with doctors, nurses, and Shawn’s parents. He laid in a hospital bed; bandages encompassed most of his body. I recalled the scene then and contributed to his memory. I removed my hand from his chest and smiled at him. “Welcome to your second chance,” I said. Mrs. Ellison dropped my hand, burst into tears, and rushed to Shawn’s side. Mr. Ellison let out a barely audible sigh of relief.

Everyone released their grips then. The medical staff gaped between me, the heart monitor, and the bed. I thought back to Shawn’s corpse lying there a moment prior. When I made the request for all of the doctors and nurses to join hands with me, they were reluctant. When his mother said she wanted them to participate in a final prayer, I knew they couldn’t just walk out. “Nah, I’m good,” isn’t an appropriate response to a grieving mother right after she watched her son die.

Unencumbered by the bandages, Shawn spoke from the hospital bed, “I thought nothing could hurt me. I could do anything. Everyone wanted to be my friend. I was special. Then I started to notice something. A majority of my conversations had nothing to do with me.”

The hospital room faded, then we were at a lavish party on a patio behind a huge mansion. There were servers carrying trays with bubbling champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. I stood next to Shawn, Mr. Ellison was next to him, and a man with a white beard and thick mustache in front of us; they all wore suits.

“They would say:” Shawn started, but the next words came out of the fancy Santa’s mouth, “You’re a chip off the old block, son!” Then, a portly woman with wrinkles hidden under thick makeup turned eerily toward us, she spoke primly, “I bet you can’t wait to follow in your father’s footsteps.” Then another much younger and more attractive woman with her hair up and sensuous dress jumped on the bandwagon, “I bet you’ll look as good as your father when you get older.” Then she winked at Mr. Ellison, who returned the gesture with a hungry smile.

Attention returned to Shawn, “Even my friends were the same,” The reprieve from creepiness was short-lived as two guys Shawn’s age, one of them, the mismatched skier, turned toward us, then the other. “Can you get your dad to pay for that?” and “Will your dad let us fly in his jet?” Shawn spoke again, “I wasn’t special. My dad was, and I was just an extension of him. I hadn’t achieved anything without his help. He used his connections and money to get me into college. Everything was handed to me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he paid for people to be friends with me. The thought of it hurt.”

My attention had faltered, I whispered to myself in disbelief, “A jet. His family has a jet. He better not consider me his friend because he never pays for my stuff. Last time we ate together, I had to pay for him because he conveniently forgot his wallet. Maybe he’d pay my rent if I were nicer to him. Actually, I’m not sure I could stomach that.” I dropped my hand that held my chin in a contemplative expression. “Oh death, I should probably be paying attention.” The thought of popcorn for watching the memory soap opera conjured a tub of it into my hands.

Shawn clenched his teeth as the party faded. He sat in front of a fireplace. He pulled his hair in exasperation, “I wanted to prove that I was more than merely my father’s son. I took bigger risks; tried to show off; started a few businesses; but none of it mattered. No one even noticed.” Removing his hands, Shawn turned to an open doorway. His father came in with an angry expression, his tie loosened. “He would yell at me, saying I was stupid and spoiled.” The final three words were also spat from Mr. Ellison’s lips, then he departed the room with a huff. Shawn slouched back and stared into the fire. “Well, he was right. I gave up whenever things got too hard. I was nothing more than an embarrassment every time he had to bail me out of my screw-ups.”

I was starting to understand what made Shawn the way he was. He resented that he was protected from failure, and resented even more that he needed that protection. His bravado was a farse meant to bolster his value in the eyes of others as well as himself.

I’ll be honest, I really was starting to sympathize with him. The symbolism in his world was also coming into focus. The lack of hope, living in shadow, even me trying to show up as a hero to bail him out. Obviously, the soul-sucking monsters were Cara’s influence, but the inability to escape was how he viewed his life. Maybe I was trying to read too far into things, but it was the plausible explanation I needed to make up for getting chased by shadow monsters and the chafing tights.

We shifted to him being wheeled out of the hospital by Mrs. Ellison, “They didn’t even know I was on the ski trip. They were confused when the hospital called. I knew how stupid I was being as soon as I saw the cliff.” As they went through the doors, his father became visible. He held a limo door open while talking on the phone. Shawn’s face colored with anger, “It was his fault that I was there, and it was his fault that I died.” Then he was back to being somber, “Living had become too hard, so I gave up on that too.” The long-winded and bipolar soliloquy was making me nauseous, so the popcorn I held disappeared. The constant switching between scenes, people talking, and changes in his demeaner made my head spin. That didn’t subside as the setting shifted again.

Shawn was sitting in a dimly lit conference room next to his father. Some guy wearing an ugly blue tie and tan suit combo pointed at a projection of charts and graphs. It looked like he was trying to recreate an ocean view with his getup, but he’d failed horribly. Shawn spoke over the muted meeting, “The worst part of coming back was that my parents weren’t even mad. The only punishment I received was having to be by my father’s side most of the time from that point forward. It was like he thought I would try to kill myself if he wasn’t around. He only cared that it could make him look bad. He even made me wear contacts to cover my gray eyes. He didn’t want me to look like a ghoul in front of his clients and investors.”

I understood the eye thing. Tons of people had stumbled over their words after gazing into my steely gaze, but Shawn clearly didn’t understand the gravity of his death for those around him. Punishing him for sneaking off with his friends after he was so badly injured would have been difficult for any parent. He probably healed unusually quickly after the incident, but he still died. No parent would know how to deal with that. He was upset because he thought they didn’t consider his feelings, but he wasn’t considering theirs. His story may have been heart-wrenching from his perspective, but from mine, at least he still had parents.

“Then I started to notice a burning strength and buzz inside me.” He said as if he were telling a secret. We were in, what looked like, his bedroom then. It was huge. There were posters of scantily clad women plastered on the walls. A new MacBook sat on an ornate hand-crafted desk; a handful of other computers sat on the floor next to it. One of them had a deep crack along the middle of the case, likely slammed against something and immediately replaced. There was a table with a few chairs and a bong sitting in the middle of it. Shawn sat on a neatly arranged, king-sized bed, staring at his hands with an ugly smile. He spoke in a fervor, “I endured my father’s torture, felt excruciating pain, and even died. I beat death; I overcame the pain; and I would escape the torture. All of my effort was being rewarded. I WAS special, I could feel power within me.”

“What effort?” I admonished aloud. “You didn’t do anything except get yourself killed.” My question was left unanswered. He was talking to himself, telling his story to a bunch of empty seats in the theater of his mind.

He continued his rant and slammed a fist on a side table, sending a lamp and his cellphone cascading to the floor, “But I should have known better. I could feel the strength, but when I tried to move it, I could feel my life leaving me. It was terrifying and I blacked out. Then it started happening without me doing anything. I felt overwhelmed, trapped. Then I saw Jesse’s billboard.” My ears perked. “That stupid billboard made me remember that he had powers too.” Low blow. That billboard was gold; he was dead to me, but a smile returned to his face. “If I could figure out how he controlled his abilities, maybe I could bring out the heat and static that I felt surging inside me. Then I could finally show people what I was capable of.” He sounded like an evil villain plotting revenge. That was what I was worried about when I agreed to help. Fire and lightning.

Imagine a circle that categorized every emotion. Basic feelings, like happy, mad, sad, and fear, split it into four sections. Complex ones, like anticipation, disgust, awe, and love, acted as transitions between those lines. Lastly, the distance from the center of the circle dictated the intensity of those emotions, from slightly down to absolute despair. Energy infused with emotion fuels magic of corresponding types and the intensity of those feelings affect the level of force behind the magic.

A person can be placed as a shape on the circle of emotion, based on their personality and disposition. The position of their shape outlines the wielder’s affinity or efficiency and capabilities with that type of magic. Al, my mentor, for example, is on the outer edge of anger and received a nickname for it: The Rage Mage.

Shawn carried a lot of hatred. That’s the magic he described feeling. Based on his initial actions within his world and in the real one, fear also comprised his disposition. Hatred and contempt were part of the transition between anger and sadness. Fear was directly across from anger.

Those conflicting feelings would limit his capacity, canceling each other out. That didn’t bode well for me. I needed as much power as possible to stop Cara quickly. I would have to push him toward one or the other, hopefully outside the boundaries of his shape, to stand a chance.

We were in my apartment then, it actually had furniture and decorations. Shawn was still staring at his hands, but sitting on my couch. My ex-girlfriend sat next to him. She was pre-occupied with her phone, but occasionally peeked up at him. He didn’t seem to notice. “It was hard at first and I struggled, but I wasn’t going to give up, finally there was something I could do that no one else could. I really was special, and it was me, all me,” he said. Shawn looked up from his hands and toward my ex who blushed when he smiled and winked at her. “Well, Jesse helped a little, I guess.” Son of a dead female dog.

He stood up and walked out of my apartment. Apparently, the door led right out to his convertible with the top down. He walked around it, lofted himself over the rolled down window, and into the driver seat. I was fuming, but I followed, opening the passenger door, and sitting down like a regular adult. He turned the key and the engine ignited. We accelerated down the street. He began to speak again, “Come to think of it, Jesse treats me differently than everyone else. Probably because I’m his only friend. He even put his faith in me to handle the job with the hot dead girl, but I fucked up.” With his sigh, darkness fell on the drive and the nightmarish world returned. He sat with his back against the counter and wraiths plummeted into my forcefield.

“Language!” I shouted. Shawn flinched. I took my superhero mask off and threw it on the ground. I wanted to yell at him for his arrogance, stupidity, selfishness, misunderstanding of our relationship, and lack of decorum. I couldn’t decide which point to berate him on first, but before I could say anything, his eyes cast downward. The fear he displayed from before had been replaced with contempt. However, he held it, not for his father, but for himself.

Rage never left my lips. It shifted to an overwhelming revulsion. He deserved every bit of this nightmare, and I had to hold myself back. The desire to tear apart his soul by stealing his energy and leaving him to wallow in darkness was so tempting. But, instead, I decided to cast him further into the pit of self-loathing.

“You disgust me. Everything that’s happened to you is your own fault. You’re the only one to blame for the situation we’re in. If we die, it’s because of you.” He brought his knees up to his chest and with clenched teeth, wrapped his arms around his legs again. “Now, we don’t have any more time to deal with your issues. Just let me handle everything so you can’t screw anything else up.”

Under his breath he said, “Whatever.” I took that as the permission I needed.

I turned back to the invading phantoms. I flicked the hand at my side and the forcefield vanished. The oncoming hoard accelerated toward us. Acting like a spiritual vacuum, my other, extended, hand captured them all. Then I raised it above my head expanding the suction to include all of the darkness in the fake city. It condensed into a small yellow-orange glowing ball. I closed my fist and turned back to him. He stared at me, confused by the sudden disappearance of the negative emotions that plagued him. I carried all of it, so I turned and stomped out of the building, down the street, and out of his madness.

I left Shawn World with an immense amount of energy flavored with abhorrence; it influenced my thoughts. I hated Shawn; I hated the Hasbrooks; and I hated the bird plates. Despite the power I was overflowing with, the sensations that wracked my body returned. A rush of hunger, pain, and nausea flooded me, but they were washed away by the torrent of loathing. I was ready for action.

Pushing into a crouch, my vision finally came into focus, but the only things in it were milky white eyes and an open maw lined with bloody teeth.