“El, it’s time to wake up,” Flick hovers blurrily above me, his hands darting nervously from his rosary to his hair.

“Elliot, you’ve been out for a full day now, you need to wake up,”

Flick fades into view, his tight black curls dripping with sweat,

“El, you with me?” He asks, leaning over me as I force my eyes open.

White-hot pain floods the space behind my eyes and I slam them closed against the bright light streaming in from the windows.

“Flick,” I mutter, reaching up to block my eyes.

My hands hit bandaging up the side of my head, and I run my fingertips up, spiky, freshly shaved skin taking the place of where my hair should be.

“I had to shave it all off, El, César messed you up pretty good.”

I force my eyes open again, and Flick takes my hand, smiling sadly.

“I thought I lost you, El. When I found you in the park, half-drowned and bleeding out. I thought he killed you this time,”

“Flick, is mama okay? He said he went to see her. Did he… Did he hurt her?”

Flick looks at me with concern and nods.

“She’s okay, El. But she doesn’t want you back. I went to check on her as soon as I heard César was after you. He’d already stopped by, spinning some story about saving you from Muerte Del Padre himself. They didn’t hurt her, but they’re watching your house, looking for you,” Flick tightens his grip on my hand and adjusts the bandage on my head.

“They’re not gonna stop looking for you, El. Not now,”

I wiggle my hands out of Flick’s grasp and sit up, grimacing as pain shoots through my ribs.

“Is he still alive?” I demand.

Flick shifts uncomfortably, leaning back in his chair.

We’re in his tiny loft downtown, all the windows are closed, and yet a stiff breeze slides across us.

“Flick. Is César still alive?” I urge, gripping the covers.

The breeze sharpens and Flick’s eyes go wide.

“Did I kill him?”

“Elliot. Calm down.”

Flick takes my hands again, squeezing them gently.

“You didn’t mean it. I know you, El. You can’t control this,”

The breeze turns into wind, cold and sharp against my skin.

Tears leak out of my eyes, and I can’t help but fold forward into Flick’s chest, sobbing.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” I cry into his chest, gripping at his shirt.

Flick takes my face in his hands and pulls me back from him, wiping tears away with his thumbs. He looks scared.

I’ve lost control before. I’ve hurt people. I don’t know where the storms come from, only that whenever I get excited, angry, scared, or emotional in any way, they unleash. It doesn’t matter where I am, rain would pour from the ceiling of Flick’s loft if he wasn’t here to hold me. It started a few years back, the first time I crossed Muerte del Padre and they came after mama and me.

I let Flick hold me for a while; until the wind stops stirring around us and I can breathe again.

“I got some clothes for you, El. And the mail from mama’s. She still loves you, you know. She sent me off with tamales and everything. She just can’t take any more,”

I nod, breaking out of Flick’s grip to rest against the wall. My head is pounding.

Mama started getting scared when the first storm happened, right out on our front lawn. César had cornered me, trying to feed me something about ruling the world and being kings. He always called me mijo and acted like he knew me. Like he was something other than my sister’s crazy ex. Mama had saved me then, as she had so many times before, but even my own mother couldn’t handle the things César and his buddies did to get my attention. When the storms started getting worse, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she’d had enough.

“You got beat up pretty bad out there, El. You’re gonna have a scar like crazy on your head. But you’re alive,” Flick stands up and walks to the corner that serves as his kitchen. It’s little more than a minifridge and a microwave, but Flick would burn the whole building down if he tried to cook, so it works for him.

“Thank you for finding me, amigo,” I whisper, leaning my head against the wall.

The room is swirling before my eyes.

“I couldn’t leave you out there to die, or worse, get arrested, Hermano. I need you state-side. Who else is gonna feed me?”

I smile, rubbing at the bandage on my head.

“You’d charm some pretty girl into it, Flick,”

“Ah, yes, and when she tried to take me home to her parents her mama would chase me out with la chancla and I would be the one nearly dying in a ditch,”

He means it as a joke, and normally I would laugh, but the image of César, dead by my hand, flashes in my head and I sober again.

“I really did kill him, didn’t I?” I look up at Flick, who is paging through a stack of envelopes and chewing on a Slim Jim. He stops and looks at me, an unreadable look on his face.

“El, it wasn’t you. They said on the news that he got struck by lightning,”

“My lightning. Flick, the last thing I remember is my hands sparking. Lightning striking right near us. It’s my fault and you know it,” I chew on my lip. I’d messed some guys up before; trying to keep Muerte del Padre- more of a cult than a gang- out of our house, but I’d never killed anyone.

“You’re getting stronger, El. Your… storms? You just need to learn to control it before you…”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Before I kill everyone in the whole city?”

“You did some real damage, Hermano, they called it a hurricane on TV, but they don’t understand where it came from.”

I can’t meet Flick’s eyes as he walks back over to the bed, a stack of envelopes in his hand.

“You’re gonna be okay, El. You’ll learn to control it,”

I look up, still avoiding his eyes, and catch sight of a frame on the wall above his bed. It’s a picture of us from a few summers ago, Flick has his tongue out and his arm around my shoulders. He’s wearing the skull cap he didn’t take off for three months straight that year, and a bright red shirt unbuttoned to show the chest hair he’d been so proud of at sixteen. I look nervous, there’s a cut on my cheek that I still have a scar from, and my hair is long, brushing Flick’s hand on my shoulder. That had been a week after the first storm.

“What if I don’t, Flick? What if this is just how it is? It’s been three years now and I still make the ground shake whenever I get angry. What happens when you’re the one struck by lightning?”

“This looks government, El, open it,” He commands, ignoring my question and dropping an official-looking envelope onto me.

I look up sharply, wincing in pain.

Government couldn’t be good.

It’s got my full name and mama’s address on it, but the huge seal where the return address should be isn’t one I recognize as I squint at it, scanning for signs that it’s from immigration.

I hold my hand out towards Flick’s anxious face, grimacing at the lightning-shaped bruises that snake down my arms.

“Knife, amigo?” I more demand than ask, fingers shaking.

He deposits some kind of dull, fantasy looking dagger in my hand instead of his typical pocket knife and I frown in confusion.

“What is this? A butter knife?”

“A letter opener! I’m an adult now, El, adults have letter openers,”

“You can’t even cook dinner, Flick, just because you’re a legal age doesn’t make you an adult,” I roll my eyes as I carefully slide his fancy letter opener underneath the glue.

“Hey, at least I’m legal Hermano,” He pokes, slouching down to the floor in front of me.

I wave the envelope in front of him, flashing the unknown seal.

“Trying to fix that, “Mister-I-was-born-stateside”,”

Flick grimaces, leaning back on his hands as I pull the letter out of the envelope.

A set of hard plastic cards fall out as I unfold it and I frown, as I scan the short letter. It’s in oddly formal Spanish, and I frown at the strange grammar.

“Ay,” I sigh, tossing the letter onto the floor and leaning back, gripping my head like I’m trying to hold my brains in.

“It’s another one of those weird ones. The anomaly letters? This time with-” I hold up the plastic cards and frown again, pain snaking its way behind my eyes.

“A bus pass and hotel room?”

Flick scoops the letter off of the floor and glares at it, his lips moving as he reads, sounding out the words.

“This is bad Spanish,” He mutters after a few minutes of trying to slog his way through, and I crack an eye open to smirk at him.

“It’s like, Google Translate Spanish,” I hold my hand out for the letter and Flick obliges, leaning over me to look out the window above the bed, eyebrows knit together in worry.

“It’s basically the same thing as all the others I got, but in Spanish this time, like they think I couldn’t understand the other nonsense they sent,”

Flick sits down next to the bed, chewing on his lip and avoiding eye contact.

The words on the page dance in front of my eyes and I have to squeeze them shut to keep from throwing up, the crisp white page shaking in my hands.

“Hermano,” Flick starts warningly, but I wave him off, forcing my eyes to focus on the page and my brain, which currently feels like a bowl of pudding, to translate what’s in front of me.

“Elliot Reinaldo Romero,

As early as 1935 individuals across the world began to show signs of a rare genetic anomaly resulting in unexplained phenomena issuing from the individuals. These phenomena include but are not limited to forms of human flight, control of the weather, earth, and other natural material, and other influences on the psyche of other humans. Until very recently we had no way of tracking or understanding these anomalies, but thanks to advanced genetic information we are beginning to form an understanding of the effects of these anomalies on both the individuals and the world at large. You, Elliot Reinaldo Romero, born July 8th, are one of these individuals. We have much to learn about these anomalies and would like to invite you to participate in our research. This is a live-in program surrounded by others with similar anomalies, your schooling, boarding, and necessities will be provided. Together we will learn not only about your anomaly but how to control it to prevent further harm to yourself and your communities. The start date is August 12th, at the address below. A bus pass and pre-paid hotel room cards have been provided to make your journey as easy as possible.

The Higher Institute For Genetic Research”

I shake my head, tossing the letter to the side again, and lean back into Flick’s pillow. All I want is to go back to sleep. I don’t want to think about genetic anomalies or secret government institutes that have my full name and address. I don’t want to think about the pile of letters I have with this same seal, tucked under the floorboards in the closet at mama’s house. I don’t want to think about Cesar, lips blue, eyes bloodshot, lying in that park waiting for the coroner to come. I don’t want to think about the cold breeze playing with Flick’s mismatched curtains or the static electricity humming under my ribcage.

“El,” Flick cuts through the roaring in my ears, and I can feel the shock pass between us when he grabs my arm.

The sensation makes me want to vomit.

“Dude,” Flick is saying, his tone tight, like he’s just barely keeping it together.

“There’s no storming inside the loft, you know this. If you’ve gotta make it rain so badly you can go outside, but I wouldn’t recommend it, given that half of the street is currently crawling in enforcers looking for you,”

I look at him sideways, trying to put the pieces together, trying to act like I haven’t lightning fried my own brain.

“It’s not safe here, El,” Flick whispers, grabbing my hand again.

“Cesars’ dead. They know who did it. They know where you are, and who your family is. Hermano, you know they won’t stop,” Flick shook his head, grimacing at the temperature drop that means he’s scared me.

“What if it’s real?”

I look up at Flick, frowning.

“What if this is like, a known thing, like rare cancer or something? What if they can get rid of it? Or even better, teach you to control it?”

“I’m not going to be a superhero, Flick!” I throw the first thing I can find in his direction, not bothering to open my eyes.

My body aches, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and my chest buzzes with unspent electricity, feeling like my throat is vibrating.

Flick throws the worn teddy bear back at me and I catch it half-heartedly, draping my arm across my eyes and wincing in pain.

Cesars’ dead.

It doesn’t matter how many times I hear Flick say it I can’t seem to get the thought through my head.

It’s not just that he’s dead, we all knew he’d get himself killed at some point, running around with his dad’s gang like he ruled the world, desperate for any bit of power, it’s the fact that I killed him.

It was my lightning. My wind. My rain.

I force myself into a sitting position and lean heavily on the wall, pulling the curtain just enough that I can glance out onto the street without being seen.

There are too many people out there for Flick’s neighborhood, the normally quiet, trash-filled street seeming to be covered by late-afternoon commuters.

A closer look reveals dark eyes watching the window as they pace on fake phone calls, a few red armbands marking the enforcers of Muerte del Padres.

“I’m dead,” I mutter, dropping my head against the wall.

Flick nods, picking at the edge of his shorts.

“I know it’s stupid,” He says, looking back up at me.

“But at the very least it’s a bus pass and a few nights at a hotel,” He offers the hard plastic cards that had fallen out of the envelope and I take them with a sigh, squinting.

“It just doesn’t make sense,”

Flick shakes his head again, tossing his feet up on the bed next to me.

“You’ve been getting these letters since it started, El. It’s like they knew, like they can track it or something. It’s… It’s gotta be worth a shot, right? At the very least you’ll be away from here, away from them,” He gestures towards the window, grimacing.

“It’s been three years, El. It’s only getting stronger, you’re only getting stronger,”

Flick glances towards the window again, and I’m suddenly reminded of him at sixteen, the first time Cesar had come after me, the first storm.

Flick still has scars on his knuckles from the debris I’d sent flying at him.

There’s a picture hanging on the opposite wall, above the microwave, and although my vision is too blurry to make it out I know what it is. Flick and his older brother, Arturo, smile in front of a roller coaster the day before Flick turned seventeen. I remember because I was the one who took the picture, and I was the one who had taken Flick’s hand and started to run when the shooting started. They’d killed Arturo, Cesar’s little piece of the gang. They’d killed him because he wouldn’t let them anywhere near me, near my storms.

Flick shifts in his chair, picking at his shorts again.

They’ll kill him too.

“I’ll go. When it starts, in August. I’ll go. And if it’s some crazy gang trap or ICE thing I will blame you the whole way to the grave,”

Flick raises his eyebrows at me as I rub at my scratchy shaved head, choking on the pain.

“If you don’t think it’s safe don’t go, El. Don’t do it for me,”

I lay back down in Flick’s bed, reaching out to grab his arm.

“I’m doing it for you, Hermano,”

~