The Steak is Always Perfect

My mother experienced an accelerated pregnancy with me. Went for a run before breakfast, tummy flat and toned. Groaning and sweating over a grossly swollen belly by teatime. I slipped out before supper, cracking her pelvis.

I know all this, because I hear thoughts. I could bend thoughts, as well. Before the Chip.

I'm too strong. I hurt people. That's why I live here. They Cage me here, in this quaint suburb, so I can't hurt anyone. Surely I'm happier this way? The Red Memories sponged away.

I've never been without my powers. That'd make even the best human arrogant, surely? Eroding their compassion. Their humanity.

These might not be my thoughts. They could be putting them in my head. That'd be one step too far. I'll consult Mother about it.

She lives here, in town, since Father died. It feels good to see her wave at me from her neat green lawn, her dark hair wind-tugged under a floppy hat and a smile stretching her mouth. To pretend to be normal.

Her kitchen is almost exactly as I remember. It's a polished version. There's details that don't match. Like: that's a modern fridge. But I remember that dog from when I was a baby.

Sometimes, I see another version of her behind that smiling, perfect mask. Hair in disarray, face contorted in horror, blood pouring. It's gone in a blink. I'm left to wonder if I've gone mad. Is this part of the Cage? Like the steak, always cooked to perfection?

I wonder, (maybe not for the first time): did They Cage me? Or did I put me here, and put these strange barriers around my mind? Because there's a bit of human in here, and I don't want to hurt people?

Where did that thought come from?