Chapter Text
I was three years old when I first realized that my mother was terrified of me. When I was five and started school, I discovered that my kindergarten teacher was, too. Between the two women, I think I saw every counselor, psychotherapist, psychologist, and psychiatrist in three parishes. Most of them convinced themselves that I was ‘just good at reading people’ and ‘lying for attention,’ but obviously ‘troubled.’ All of them thought I was creepy as hell. And the ones with prescription pads were quick with their pens — Ritalin and Adderall for ADHD, lithium and haloperidol for psychosis, amitriptyline for depression and anxiety, and dual Valium prescriptions for Mama and me, for my mother’s peace of mind. No matter how much they slowed my brain down or sped it up, it didn’t stop my problem and just made it harder to control.
Right after I turned eight years old, I was referred to a new doctor. She was different from the others, who all talked down to me like I was an idiot or a baby. Dr. Beaumont was terrifying — stern, severe, and ice cold. Almost literally, I discovered, when she glared at me until I shook her hand. Which was also when I realized that her mind was completely silent to me. You see, I’m a telepath, and have been for as long as I can remember. At eight years old, I couldn’t control my ability at all, and touch turned up the volume so loud that it made me wince and my head ache. But with her? Nothing. Complete silence.
There was something else about her that set her apart from the rest. Dr. Isabel Beaumont believed me. She really believed that I could read people’s minds. She tested me, asking me to read my Mama’s and Daddy’s minds in the waiting room, the receptionist’s, the security guard’s. She had me try to read hers and seemed very pleased when I wasn’t able to. She had me read a baby book, then one for older kids, part of a novel she had tucked into her desk, and then excerpts from random medical journals on her shelves. She administered a Rorschach test, a Thematic Apperception Test, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, and the Wechsler Intelligence Scale For Children.
When the doctor had me wait in the waiting room while she talked to my parents in her office, I pretended to read one of the Highlights magazines on the table beside my seat. I homed in on my mother’s brain and listened incredulously as the doctor told them that I was obviously an incredibly disturbed child who must be institutionalized immediately. Daddy tried to object, but my mother was secretly thrilled. Finally, someone really believed her. Finally, I wouldn’t be around anymore to frighten her or embarrass her, at least for a while.
The doctor held my arm in an iron grip as I sobbed for my Daddy not to leave me behind. Neither one would look me in the eye as they hustled out the door. Mama was eager, but Daddy was just sad and sorry and ashamed, and I’m sure I saw tears in his eyes before he walked out into the driving rain. I was inconsolable, thrashing and sobbing for my father. Dr. Beaumont reached into her pocket, pulled out a syringe, and jabbed it into my upper arm above her fist. Within seconds, I was out. And when I woke up, I was in the room that has been mine ever since.
That was the last time I saw my family. On their way to my grandmother’s house to pick up my big brother, Jason, their car was washed off a bridge in a flash flood. Dr. Beaumont showed me the newspaper article two days later. Apparently, the shock was too much for Gran, and she had a heart attack. I was told that Jason went to live with my uncle, Bartlett. I really hoped, for Jason’s sake, that Uncle Bartlett only liked little girls.
My new life was strange, but I guess I adjusted quickly enough. I had a tutor for schoolwork, and without thirty other eight-year-old brains drowning out my own thoughts, it was actually easy. Within days, I was caught up, and within months I was doing junior high and then high school courses. I also had training in endurance, martial arts, marksmanship, and general weapons handling. I became fluent in German, Russian, Mandarin, and Arabic. I was taught to play chess and could soon beat everyone on my ‘team.’ I was educated on strategy, geography, world politics, history, computer science, and psychology. I learned how to withstand torture — both through my formal teachings and through ‘discipline’ — and my telepathy was constantly tested. I learned how to control my gift, to sift through thoughts and memories, to home in on one mind in a thousand, or read fifty at once. And, most importantly, how to shore up my shields for my own peace of mind.
Touch was still a problem, though. I couldn’t shield my thoughts while maintaining any physical contact at all, except with Dr. Beaumont. Her mind was still a complete void to me, although I could sense that void as soon as it entered the building where I had spent the past nine years. And her brain was the only one I’d encountered that was completely silent to me. I used to struggle with the red and snarly brains that some of the security staff and weapons trainers had, but I had those down by the time I turned twelve or so.
I didn’t have friends. I didn’t play. I knew no other children. I studied. I worked. I trained. I read. I slept. And the next day, I did it again. I pretended that I was too busy to be lonely. I made up for it with anger, and I poured it into everything I did. I made it a point to listen to my instructors’ thoughts as they wrote their reports about me. There were almost as many ‘very drivens’ and ‘exceptionally gifteds’ and ‘like a machines’ as there were ‘extremely difficults,’ ‘antisocials,’ and ‘a danger to herself and others.’ They somehow forgot that I could just listen in on them whenever I pleased, as long as they were in the building. That was also how I discovered that I was being trained as a spy for the NSA in Fort Meade, Maryland.