She lay on the floor of her cell, and listened.
She was dirty, her hair stringy and greasy, her clothes stiff with grime. She could not remember the last time she had bathed. Not recently, judging from the smell. She could vaguely remember a time when she would have been appalled at her unwashed condition. Right now, however, she didn't care in the least.
Some of her guards/captors/doctors found her mildly repulsive.
If she could do more than simply listen, revulsion would be the least of their worries. She’d tear them apart, as they had her. She’d make their whole world red.
She couldn’t, yet. Soon, maybe. She hoped. Soon.
No. Please. Spare her that.
The first time she heard with her mind instead of her ears, she felt like lightning had struck her brain, roasting it inside her skull, splitting her open. She thought – prayed – she might die from the pain. Instead, she just threw up. On the doctor. She was still proud of her aim, when she remembered to be.
She felt like that all the time, now. Caught in the midst of a perpetual thunderstorm, and she the lightning rod. The doctors with their shiny knives and needles had vivisected her, filleted her brain, leaving it open to the weather, letting the rain in. They had their umbrellas, but did not care if she got wet.
What would it feel like to kill someone with her mind? To be the lightning, instead of the lightning-struck? Would she feel good? Strong? Powerful, a force of nature?
Or would she sear herself with that blast? Kill what little was left of the girl she had been? Would that be murder? Or a coup-de-grace?
She listened for Simon, urging him to hurry.
They wanted to turn her into a weapon.
Sometimes, she wanted to let them.