The old lady made it extremely clear the following morning that I would be traveling with her to Front Royal to have Thanksgiving dinner with her extended family. It would be the first time in a very long time that her entire family would be together for something, and the old lady thought it would be a good experience for me. “I believe that Thanksgiving dinner will be both beneficial to helping you recover your memory and be a wonderful experience for you, so that is why you’re coming with me to my oldest son’s house to eat,” she insisted over breakfast on my first morning in her house.

“Huh?” I expressed my surprise with a mouth full of toast, nearly choking on it. The old lady repeated what she’d said, explaining how a Thanksgiving dinner with a ton of complete strangers would be beneficial for me. “Uh huh,” I muttered. Those sounded like good reasons and the old lady’s tone seemed to match her caring personality. The key word here was ‘seemed’. I knew better. The old lady simply didn’t trust me enough to leave me to my own devices, perhaps fearing my bad running from authority habit. So, she’d decided that leaving me in a small house on the outskirts of a city where I most likely would take a nap was worse than having me in a house with at least fifteen people I had never met before.

The old lady returned my frown when she realized I didn’t believe her. “Anyways, when you’re done with your breakfast, I want you showered and ready to go by ten. We have so much to do, yet little time to do so. I want you presentable when you meet my family, so that means we start by fixing your hair and removing what is left of that pink hair dye.”

My hair? I reached up and grabbed a few strands of my short hair. My dull brown hair. But the tint was there. You needed to truly focus on my hair to see the tint, otherwise you wouldn't notice the pinkish tint that my hair possessed. I wonder how and why I would attempt to dye my hair pink. Still, I didn’t see the importance of it. It was just hair. “Rotten luck,” I muttered under my breath.

------

As it turns out, the hair stylists that the old lady took me to couldn’t remove the hair coloring. Sure, they were able to fix the mess I made back when I first arrived at the hospital, but the stylists struggled for four hours trying to remove the fading pink hair dye. Whenever I decided to pay attention to the old lady and the stylists and not the magazine that I was reading, they seemed to be trying something new. It was a war between me and the stylists and I didn’t give a shit about it. In the end, the hair stylists admitted defeat, stuck a beanie on my head to cover my hair, and regretfully informed the old lady that whatever was in my hair was never coming out.

The stylists ended up taking the defeat much harder than I would’ve thought as they repeatedly apologized to the old lady and declared they wouldn’t be charging us a dime for anything. So, a personal victory for me and not being charged money for the victory? Sweet. Another victory for me was that we spent all of our available time, so the old lady took me home. The following morning, at 9am, we sat in a doctor’s office at a small clinic. Deja vu.

I once again took up reading a magazine, trying to pass the time. I would’ve napped, but my lack of knowledge of events that occurred in the past few years drove me to find anything that had history. The old lady didn’t allow me to read the newspapers, and so far, all I had learned was that a guy named Josh had a massive scandal, a song called Uptown Funk was at the top of the music charts, and the iPhone 6 was meeting customer expectations. And I remembered absolutely nothing about those things. I glanced down at my arms. Although I was wearing a sweatshirt that the old lady just happened to have in my size, I could still see scars and the fading bruises. My injuries meant that I was in a bad situation before I woke up on that farm. Reading this magazine and the one yesterday while I was at the stylist made me wonder something. What if I didn’t have a family? What if I was held captive somewhere, like a slave, perhaps for my entire life. Maybe the reason I couldn’t remember anything was because there was nothing to remember.

“Claire?” the nurse called out. “Dr. Silas will see you now.” Great, another round with a doctor.

“Why am I here, anyways? I thought everything was handled when I was at the hospital?” I asked the old lady as we were led into the back.

“Yes, but this is for official documents and other things. The hospital cleared you, but the Agency sealed the medical records,” the old lady explained.

“Ah,” I said, pretending to understand what she was saying. Dr. Silas was a very tall woman who had a body that said ‘Marines’ and a face that said ‘hooker’. When she talked, her voice said ‘opera singer’. Geez, this woman is full of surprises. Anyways, the first thing she did was measure my height and weigh me, a job that I thought was reserved for the nurse.

“Currently, you are five foot two…” she said, at which I gave her the nastiest look I could muster. I didn’t need to be reminded of how short I was, “And you weigh 95 pounds,” she finished, writing it down on the paper and moving on. 95 pounds? I thought the officer told me the doctors at the hospital recorded my weight at 100.

“Is this scale accurate?” I ask Dr. Silas. She eyed me and glanced down at the papers she was writing on, then back at the scale.

“Bug’s weight at the hospital was 97.6 pounds, and the police officer rounded it up to 100,” the old lady intervened, answering my question and maybe whatever the doctor was about to ask. The old lady worked for the Agency and, in her words, was my guardian, so it made sense that she would have access to the records she told me were sealed.

Dr. Silas noted the previous weight measure and moved on without a word. Not very friendly, are you, Dr. Silas? “I know what you're thinking, Bug, but I have known Dr Silas for a very long time. She is the friendliest doctor I know. She just doesn’t show her friendly side very often.” The old lady made eye contact with Dr Silas when she said that. Okay, either the old lady is really good at guessing my personal thoughts and my emotions, or she had some sort of an ability that allowed her to reach into my mind and pluck what information that wasn’t erased from it.

“That makes no sense,” I pointed out. Her ‘friendly doctor’ statement meant nothing. Dr. Silas may be friends with the old lady, but she was certainly no friend of mine.

The doctor’s appointment after that passed mostly uneventfully. The doctor checked everything, including the injuries I had when I woke up on that farm. I also had the unfortunate luck of having what Dr. Silas called a gynecological exam, something that I prayed I never would have to experience again. Surprisingly, I learned that Dr. Silas had some sort of a medical ability when she put her hand over my stomach, closed her eyes, and declared that my period was coming in five days. At least I remembered what a period was. I would be in for a rough ride if I didn’t. Such wonderful news. The only thing that wasn’t addressed during the entire appointment was my abilities. I knew I had abilities, I knew that the old lady was aware that I had abilities and I am pretty sure Dr. Silas was aware I had abilities, but there was no word spoken between us about them.

--------

November 26, 2015. Thanksgiving. At the old lady’s oldest son Eugene’s home outside a town called Front Royal. A dinner with a guest list of thirty people. We arrived early, around 9:30, because the old lady wanted to help out with making Thanksgiving dinner. I was told early on, during the car ride, that I was to be introduced to as few people as possible. That request was odd. The old lady wanted me to come with her because she didn’t trust me enough to leave me alone, but she didn’t seem to trust me enough to allow me to know all of her extended family.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Was I to remain on the side, not socializing and looking like an complete idiot? Was I help in the kitchen and learn the necessary skills needed to survive life? As it turns out, I was going to do both. The few people as possible was defined as her son Eugene and his immediate family, who were already there. The old lady handed me off to Eugene’s wife when we entered the kitchen, a heavyset woman who introduced herself as Margaret, who then asked me what my name was. “Bug,” I told her.

She became confused, her face showing her thoughts. ‘What kind of name is Bug? Why would she even have a name like that? Wait, it must be a nickname, she must have a real name…’

She was just like that police officer, questioning my reasoning for my name. “It’s a nickname, one I personally chose.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. ‘Why did Nancy have to bring this reject into my home? Why did she even take in this reject?’

I immediately started to defend myself, “A reject? I’m not a...” Wait a second, “What’s a reject?”

Margaret’s face suddenly changed and before I could do anything, she raised her hand, and slapped me across my face. The slap had a large amount of force behind it, knocking me off balance. I would’ve gone flying straight at the floor, as I didn’t weigh much, 95 pounds as of that morning, had Margaret not grabbed my arm and yanked me back to her face. “You little bitch. How dare you invade my mind, you mindrapist!”

I felt tears beginning to form, but it wasn’t from the yelling, it was from the pain. “Why the fuck did you slap me?” Margaret’s words finally registered, “Wait, a mindrapist? What the hell is that?”

“You know very well, you little twerp! You used your telepathic abilities and invaded my mind!” Margaret drew me closer to her, her words reminding me of my unpleasant encounter with Frank.

“Telepathic? I’m not a fucking telep….” I was sudden pulled away from Margaret by none other than the old lady.

“Calm down, Margaret. See, ‘Claire’ here...” the old lady began to clarify by giving her my court-given name, “has a severe case of amnesia. I really can’t go into details about it, but Bug may very well not remember she’s a telepath, nevermind what is socially acceptable or not.”

Margaret grumbled, “And I suppose the Agency approved of her placement with you?” The old lady nodded yes. “Fine, take her to the living room. I don’t want to see her in the kitchen.”

The old lady led me out of the kitchen and into a bigger room with a sofa and two large recliners. The couch and one of the recliners were occupied, so the old lady had me sit down on the other recliner. “How’s your face?” she asked, concerned.

“It stings,” I said, rubbing it. I felt myself tearing up at the whole experience. “What did she have to do that? What did I do wrong? And what is a reject?”

The old lady sighed. “It appears that your memory loss was more severe than I originally thought. The word reject is used to describe orphaned superhuman children. As for the mind reading, Bug, tell me, do you know what rape is and how bad it is?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Well, at this point in time, mind reading without having permission is considered just as bad as raping someone, hence the word ‘mindrapist’ -- and that’s what you did, Bug. You read her mind.”

“How? I don’t have telepathy.” I looked at my arms, covered by the sweatshirt I was wearing, but I could still see the edges of the scars that covered my arm. “How could I have telepathy?” I asked. The abilities I had shown so far didn’t seem to fit in the same category as telepathy.

The old lady’s face had a worried look. “I don’t know, Bug. And that’s what worries me.” She looked towards a small teenager sitting on the couch, watching television. “Lacey, can you keep an eye on her for me while I help in the kitchen?”

“Sure, Grandma,” Lacey agreed. She walked over to the recliner and sat down right next me. Apparently, Lacey was small like me, because we both comfortably sat side by side on the recliner. The old lady left us to our own devices since Lacey settled in. “I’m Lacey,” she introduced herself.

I didn’t respond right away, mostly because I didn’t want to accidently ‘read’ her mind and get slapped again. Lacey picked up on my uneasiness. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you if you accidentally read my mind. I did it a couple of times when my ability first emerged.”

“You have an ability?” I asked, my curiosity rising.

Lacey smiled. “Oh yes. I’m a level 3 telepath. It's more of a curse though. The world isn’t exactly approving of my kind.”

“I’m noticed,” I said, rubbing my cheek.

“Yeah, my mother can be really harsh. My older siblings have told me that at one point, she didn’t have a mean bone her body.” So Margaret was once nice. I had a hard time believing that. A sudden thought strayed over me, ‘Fourteen years ago.’ It was a thought from Lacey. Dang it, I was still reading minds. “So, what’s your name?” Lacey asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s Bug.”

“Bug?” Lacey thought about it for a second, then started laughing. “Bug. I really like that name.” Lacey seemed like a carefree person. “Well, I’m Lacey, as you already know. The girl over on the couch is my niece, Riley. She’s about your age, fourteen. The woman sitting next to her is my older sister, Theadora, although everybody calls her the brat.”

The ‘brat’ quickly grabbed her empty cup and threw it at Lacey, who easily swatted at it, knocking it to the floor. “Geez, someone’s in a bad mood today.” Lacey frowned, then leaned over and whispered in my ear, “She’s totally a brat.” This got Lacey another cup thrown at her, and Lacey again knocked it away. “Moving on, the lady in other chair is Riley’s mother, Natalie. We are all on a first name basis around here, by the way.”

“Hello,” Natalie said while texting on her phone.

“Yeah, Natalie works for the Inland Port, so she is always busy, even on Thanksgiving.” Lacey noted that Natalie didn’t look up from her phone to say hello. I took a glance at Natalie’s phone. All it had was a screen, nothing else. I realized that I didn’t recognize it, making me wonder how far did my memory loss go.

“Yeah, work’s a bitch,” Natalie admitted, “but it pays extremely well. So, life must go on.”

All Lacey did was shake her head. “Brat,” she whispered. “Well, let’s watch some Firefly. I don’t think my mom wants you anywhere near her.” Lacey grabbed the remote and brought up something called Netflix? What the hell was Netflix? I didn’t even recognize the show and the television was this weird flat thing. My rotten luck. Unable to remember anything. “By the way,” she stated, “I like your dress.”

------

As episodes passed, more and more of the old lady’s family arrived and Lacey introduced me to each and every one, all from the comfort of the recliner, completely going against the old lady’s wishes. Regrettably, I also kept hearing stray thoughts from everybody. Now knowing how Margaret and the world minus Lacey feel about mind reading, I focused my effort and willpower in blocking out those thoughts. But it did little to stem the flow. Regardless, it was kind of nice hanging with Lacey and her relatives. I wasn’t too fond of the old lady, and I was pissed at Margaret, but Lacey was someone that I felt close to. A friend.

“Thanksgiving dinner is ready,” the old lady said after what seemed forever. Everybody got up to head to the kitchen, including Lacey, who paused the Firefly episode. I started to follow her when the old lady stopped me. “Um, Bug, after what happened this morning, I think it's best if you remain here. I will get you some food.”

“I’ll do it. We can eat in here together, Bug,” Lacey volunteered. I smiled, knowing that I really had a friend.

“You’re making friends.” I thought the old lady was going to get mad at me, for going against what she asked of me. But she got this wide smile. “That’s wonderful, Bug. You're making progress.” The old lady was actually encouraging me? Wow.

After everybody left to get some food, I looked at all the pictures. The old lady’s family really had a thing for pictures. Everybody that I had been introduced to had their picture somewhere in this living room. Even Natalie, who wasn’t related to the Rodes family by blood, had a couple of photos of her and Riley. Lacey told me that the only person whose photo was here in the room that didn’t come was her uncle, Frederick. She had told me that he was a Ranger in the military, whatever that was, was able to work out some sort of ceasefire and that he was currently in Singapore. But, still, other than Margaret, this seemed like a nice family. I rolled the sleeves of my hoodie up and looked at the scars, then back up at the family photos. I wondered if the family I came from was like this.

I looked down at my arms again. A thought crossed my mind, one that was coming up more and more. What if I didn’t have a family? What if I never did?

I heard someone walk into the living room, so I rolled down my sleeves. It was Lacey, returning with our food and drinks. She walked over and handed me my plate, but stopped. “I gotta tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” I asked with curiosity.

Lacey leaned in and answered with a whisper, “The thing with telepaths, you can always read something. Regardless of what level or willpower, you will always see something. Emotions, fears, something. It has been proven fact. I know you have been reading minds involuntarily all day. But my curiosity got the better of me and I tried to read yours.”

It didn’t surprise me. I’d suspected that. “And what did you see? My past?”

Lacey shook her head. “Nothing. And that’s what surprises me.”

I figured that, as depressing as it was. “I know. What can you see that I can’t see? I have nothing to remember.”

“No, I saw nothing not because of your memory loss, but rather, because I couldn’t see into your mind. Your mind is completely sealed off, which, according to history and every superhuman scientist that ever was, is impossible,” Lacey said, bewildered. I really didn’t know what to make of this. Lacey handed me my drink, which I nearly dropped. “I’m not going to tell anybody for now. However, from what I understand, you’re no telepath.”

I looked down at my arms, which were covered by my hoodie’s sleeves. I set my drink down and rolled my sleeves up, exposing the injuries I woke up with to Lacey, whose eyes grew wide. At this point, I could only ask one question, “Then what the hell am I?”