“You know, Des, I really do wish I led an adventurous life—like… a superhero!”
“Of course, I know, Petite. You talk of almost nothing else.” She replied her heavy Cajun accent coating her words.
Petite is one of many little pet names Des has for me. I don’t mind the name though, especially since when she says it, I imagine Gambit from the 90s X-men cartoons. Ah, the 90s—best animation, I swear.
I have visions.
Sometimes, they’re terrible, cruel, unspeakable evils. Sometimes, they’re acts of beautiful, wondrous kindness. I never know which one I’m going to get, but now… Well, I’d say I’m perfectly accustomed to receiving them. I know that’s not a normal thing to say, but I’ve grown use to the thought that I am anything but normal.
Normal people don’t wake up in a sweat after seeing horrible creatures attack innocent people. Normal people don’t stare at a person’s face and see beasts or beauties. Normal people don’t have powers. But for as long as I can recall, I’ve been this way.