I'm sitting in class, mainly because I got the entire school to forget about what I did. The teacher wants us to write a poem for Halloween. Here's what I wrote:

Blood spots,
gunshots.
Bodies all around,
soldiers' footsteps against the ground.
As they near,
I run in fear
for to these murders, I am bound.
They grow closer,
to me, a monster.
The monster they must slay
to save the day.
Alas, this monster will never be found.

He wants us to share, but they'll think I'm crazy. However, they would be right. I finish my poem, and my head whips to the left. A boy was reading my poem as I wrote it. I almost feel bad for them.

"How about we let Bess go first." The teacher whose name I forgot says.

I stand, and recite my poem. The class looks at me like I'm a psychopath as I return to my seat. Even the teacher looks surprised. The final bell rings, and I walk to my locker to retrieve my belongings.

I quit ballet yesterday. The rest of the class weren't surprised. I walk to my hole filled apartment, and sit at my desk. It wasn't touched by the bullets, so there are no holes. The bodies sit in the dumpster below, and as I gather the last of my things into a pillowcase, a man walks inside.

He doesn't wear a uniform like Cap or the Avengers. He's probably a thief. No, he's the thief I sent to father my things.

"What do you want, Jose?" I ask. He pulls out a gun, but I throw it out of his hands and through the broken window.

"Filthy mutant scum. You should be in a grave, not running around on the streets. However, I got what you wanted from that house." He says, throwing me the getaway bag from my San Francisco home.

"Gracias, Jose. Ahora, sal de mi apartamento antes de que te arroje por esa ventana (Now, get out of my apartment before I throw you through that window.)." I reply in Spanish. He runs away, and I freeze him.

"Anything else that I need? Like that sketchbook?" I ask, taking the sketchbook from his hands. I snap his neck, throw his body out the window, and drop it into the alley.

That is death number fifty-seven. I counted the bodies in the hallway. As I return to my work, I hear more footsteps. Ugh, he called them. A pirate- I mean Fury, stands in the doorway.

"I didn't know you were fluent in Spanish." He says.

"Sì. Andiamo al punto, però. Esci dal mio appartamento prima che i tuoi sei uomini facciano arrivare il mio conteggio delle morti a sessantatré (Yep. Let's get to the point, though. Get out of my apartment before your six men make my death count reach sixty three.)." I reply in Italian. I've had some time to learn foreign languages while running for my life.

"Italian too?" He asks. I know seven languages, Nick, and moron isn't one of them, so stop speaking it.

"Qu'est-ce que je t'avais dit? Sortez avant que vos six hommes s'ajoutent à mon décompte de la mort (What did I tell you? Get out before your six men add to my death count.)." I snap in French. That's language four.

"English, Spanish, Italian, and French?!" He asks, surprised.

"I know seven languages, Nicolas." I reply, "I do not know moron, though. I would prefer if you start speaking English instead of that."

He scowls as he leaves, and I smile. I have won! I am victorious! His six men leave behind him, and I grab my bag. I jump from the window with my bag, and I'm met with loaded guns. I should have known it wouldn't have been that easy.

"Come with us, Miss Jansen. We can help you." Fury says.

"I don't need help. I don't need my special abilities taken away from me. I can handle the burden." I reply.

The guns fire in sync, and I stop the bullets. Another round fires, but they're stopped, too. They keep firing, and I keep the bullets suspended. Blood runs from my nose and ears.

"Is this how you always treat unarmed mutants? Firing bullets at them?" I ask, rhetorically.

"Yes." Fury replies, and the last round is fired. I turn the bullets to face the agents, and let them go.

That's sixty-three deaths. Fury looks, well, furious. I run past him, trying to avoid any other bullets. As I make my way to the Hudson River, I keep feeling the urge to turn back. I reach the pier, and dive into the river.

As I leave Manhattan, I lose that urge. I lose a part of myself as I climb onto the shoreline of the Hudson. Slowly, I jog to the edge of the city. No matter what, I keep going. There's no telling what lurks behind me.

When I reach the woods, I take a bed sheet from my pillowcase/bag and drape it over some sticks. I lay a comforter on the ground, and another sheet on top. I pull my bag into the pillowcase, and settle in for the longest nightmare known to any man, woman, child, or mutant.