Lethal Ability

I have a superpower. After killing someone, I can gain their memories from the past three years. Before my college interview, I killed my genius boyfriend and successfully got into university. When did I first discover this ability? It was when I was nine years old, the year my parents divorced. I stayed with my mom. I liked my mom, but truthfully, I preferred my dad. I often snuck out to see him and play together. But one day, when I went to find him, I caught him kissing another woman. My parents had always been discreet around me, so this was the first time I’d seen a man and woman kiss. The woman’s lips were bright red, as if they could devour someone. I felt angry. Even at my young age, I understood that my dad had done something wrong, which led to their divorce. Dad was the bad guy. Furious, I ran into my dad’s car and threw a bunch of marbles inside. The marbles got stuck in the brake pads, causing the brakes to fail. The woman was knocked unconscious, and my dad died on the spot. The police checked the security footage and found that I had put the marbles in the car. But a nine-year-old child knows nothing and isn’t criminally responsible. Plus, having lost my father, I was sobbing uncontrollably, completely devastated. No one blamed me. Everyone thought I was pitiful. But as I cried, my mind was suddenly filled with new memories. In these memories, I saw the woman’s face. It turned out that my dad had been cheating for a long time. I saw arguments between my mom and dad, saw my dad stealing money from home. I saw the woman and my dad in intimate moments, saw them disgustingly making love. I threw up. Mom and the police thought I was crying so hard that my body couldn’t take it. Only I knew that I was disgusted. At such a young age, I had seen two animals in heat.

Unexpectedly, my sadness dissipated quickly. What lingered was the disgust. At the same time, I realized something different about myself. As a child, I didn’t dare speak about it. As I grew older, I didn’t want to. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized what this ability truly meant. In middle school, I was in the same class as Emma, the girl next door, and we were close friends. We went to and from school together, inseparable to the point where we even went to the bathroom together. Our teacher jokingly called us conjoined twins. Emma didn’t have the best personality, but she was very pretty, much prettier than me. I sometimes heard people say, “There’s the princess and her maid.” I didn’t mind much, but Emma always seemed pleased. I thought this was one of the reasons she was so close to me. People are often reluctant to be outdone by those close to them. Emma liked feeling superior to me, which in a way showed that she truly considered me a close friend. I was very good to Emma, to the point where she became somewhat dependent on me. Emma’s grades were always better than mine, except for French. So I always helped Emma with her French homework, writing it neatly for her. As the French class representative, I would often help the teacher grade quizzes in the office. During these times, I would secretly change a few of Emma’s answers, adding some points to her score. Until the teacher discovered this. The French teacher didn’t blame me for changing the grades, but instead scolded Emma. The French teacher had always disliked pretty girls who loved to dress up, and given Emma’s poor French grades, the teacher disliked her even more. “You never focus on your studies, always up to these tricks!” “Girls like you will never amount to anything.” Emma’s eyes immediately turned red. She pushed her desk away with a bang and ran out of the classroom. The French teacher initially scoffed, but as Emma didn’t return, she began to worry something might happen. After teaching for a while, she couldn’t help but ask me to go check on Emma. I knew where Emma was. She was in the storage room next to the third-floor tea room. Whenever Emma was upset, she would curl up in there. I gently opened the door of the storage room, squeezed inside, and crouched next to Emma. Emma didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at Emma. I understood her; she didn’t want me to see her in such a vulnerable state. After sitting for a while, Emma spoke. “I don’t like Mrs. Thompson.” Mrs. Thompson was our French teacher’s name. “I don’t like Mrs. Thompson either,” I said in solidarity. Hearing my childish response, she couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Let’s go back,” she said. “Okay.” Emma and I grew closer and closer. But sometimes, you have to admit that when it comes to studying, some people just have a natural talent. I had tried hard, but I really didn’t have a knack for academics. Emma and I spent almost every day together, studying for the same amount of time. But Emma’s grades kept improving, steadily rising in all subjects, and even her French was catching up to mine. Sometimes she would offer to tutor me, but I couldn’t understand a thing. Mom would often compare me to Emma, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. I only had Mom. Seeing my grades not improving, I started to get anxious. A vague, dark thought appeared in my mind. What if I killed Emma? If I killed Emma, then I would have her memories. There are many things you shouldn’t think about. Once the thought appears in your head, it never goes away. I had an idea. Just last year, the school had installed new air conditioners with excellent cooling. Many seniors joked that the school only installed air conditioning after they graduated. Emma was quite short and always sat in the first or second row. I, on the other hand, sat in the fifth or sixth row. As summer approached, the school gradually turned on the air conditioning. I often complained about how hot it was and would walk to Emma’s desk during breaks. While talking to Emma, I would casually turn the air conditioning to 16 degrees Celsius on full blast. When the bell rang, I would leave. Sometimes Emma would remember to adjust it back, sometimes she wouldn’t. So Emma often sat through entire classes in the cold air. A few days ago, I had gone shopping with Emma. I told her my mom asked me to stock up on cold medicine and asked if she needed any. “Why buy cold medicine in the middle of summer?” she asked. “My mom says I’m always in air conditioning at home and school, and then I’m all sweaty outside. The big temperature difference makes it easy to catch a cold, so she told me to buy some medicine just in case.” Emma hesitated, thought it made sense, and bought the same medicine as me. Seeing Emma blow her nose and complain of a headache, I knew my chance had come. After school, Emma and I walked home together as usual. “Let’s sit on the grass by the river for a bit,” I suggested. We often relaxed and chatted there after school, so it wasn’t unusual. I pulled Emma along, deliberately choosing a spot visible to the nearby convenience store’s security cameras. I told Emma to open her backpack. Emma opened it to find two bottles of alcohol, seemingly high-proof. She took the bottles out of her bag. “Ta-da! A surprise for you!” I exclaimed. “We’re about to become high school students. Don’t you want to try it?” I turned my body slightly, using my hair to cover my mouth. I understood Emma. She was a girl with a rebellious streak deep down. Emma’s parents had always been quite strict with her. She hadn’t had the chance to do anything wild, but she had always wanted to. Emma held the bottle in her hand, then passed one to me. I turned around, pretending to suddenly have second thoughts and look a bit scared. I waved my hand, “Maybe we shouldn’t? Emma, won’t your parents be angry?” Hearing this, Emma’s rebellious side came out even more. “It’s fine, let’s just try it!” she insisted. I made a hesitant expression until Emma forcefully handed me one of the bottles. We talked about many things. We discussed the recent exams, our future, the French teacher we disliked, and the evening sunset. She apologized to me. She said sometimes she couldn’t help but treat me like a sidekick. She said I was her best friend, forever and always. I said yes, I was. Seeing that it was about time, I patted Emma’s shoulder and said we should head home. I hadn’t drunk much alcohol, mostly just pretending to sip. Emma, on the other hand, seemed quite drunk, stumbling as she stood up. I had found out beforehand that Emma’s mom was on a business trip recently, and her dad worked night shifts. Emma would be alone at home. I looked at Emma. “Emma, bye-bye.” “See you tomorrow.” “Oh, right,” I said, smiling at her. “You have a bit of a cold today. Remember to take the cold medicine when you get home.” Emma nodded with a smile. In the glow of the setting sun, her eyes seemed to hold a gentle flame. I calmly returned home, had dinner with my mom, and finished my homework as usual. Then I peacefully fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I found that my mind was filled with new memories. I knew I had succeeded.

Emma was dead. When Emma’s mom returned home that night, she found Emma collapsed in the living room. By the time they got to the hospital, it was too late. After investigation, the police concluded it was poisoning caused by taking cephalosporin antibiotics and alcohol at the same time. In an era when the internet wasn’t as developed, we middle school students weren’t aware of this common knowledge. Except for me, who had three years of my father’s memories. Everything went too smoothly, even beyond my expectations. I had considered many possibilities. Emma might not have taken the medicine as I suggested. Emma might have called for help in time after feeling unwell. Emma’s mom might have returned home early and stopped Emma. And so on. The fact that it went so smoothly, doesn’t it mean that even God was on my side? As Emma’s best friend and the last person to see her alive, I was called to the police station to give a statement. I was a minor, so a parent needed to accompany me. Looking at the police officer, I appeared very scared. Mom comforted me. “It’s okay, the officer just wants to ask you a few questions.” “That’s right, little girl, don’t be afraid. I just want to ask you a few questions,” the officer reassured me. They didn’t really think a little girl like me could do anything. “According to the deceased’s mother, the deceased didn’t usually drink alcohol, but you two were drinking outside that day,” he said. “Why is that?” I looked a bit scared and glanced at my mom. Mom patted me encouragingly, indicating that it was okay, just tell the truth. “Emma said she wanted to drink that day, wanted to feel excited, and suddenly took out two bottles of alcohol from her bag,” I said. “I didn’t want to drink at first, and I tried to persuade Emma not to, but who knew…” As I spoke, tears started falling uncontrollably. The officer nodded. The security footage indeed showed Emma forcefully handing me the alcohol. The officer asked a few more innocuous questions, then let me leave. The case was ultimately classified as a tragedy caused by a girl’s momentary rebellion combined with a lack of common knowledge. Emma’s death was even used as a cautionary tale within the school. I organized my thoughts and felt like I had discovered a new world. It turned out that Emma’s brain contained so much knowledge. My grades improved dramatically, making my mom very happy. I was happy too. On exam day, I performed normally and achieved the good grades I had hoped for. Mom sold our house and bought a new one near the school. My new bedroom was big, with a large window, and I even had my own study. During the summer break, I frantically previewed the high school curriculum. So when high school started, my grades were pretty good. But I knew this wasn’t a long-term solution. I didn’t have a talent for studying; I wasn’t smart. Even with Emma’s solid knowledge base, I would fall behind later. Last time, luck played too big a role. This time, I needed to carefully plan my high school life.

I set my sights on Jack. He was the top student in our grade and my classmate. Jack was as brilliant as his name suggested. With his handsome looks and academic halo, he was never short of girls who liked him. And I was so ordinary. It seemed we would never have any connection. Through observation and online searches, I discovered Jack’s most frequently used chat app. It was a very niche app. The app featured anonymous chatting and didn’t have message notifications. I scoured through almost all of Jack’s posts for analysis – he was a sunny and lively boy from a well-off family; he had low blood sugar and often carried sweets; he seemed to enjoy reading classic novels and mystery novels. I changed my profile picture on the app to a beautiful jasmine flower, Jack’s favorite flower. I didn’t directly add Jack as a friend but slowly built up my account. I started sharing daily posts regularly, shaping myself into someone with similar interests to him. After a while, my account had a few followers and no longer looked like a zombie account. “What do you think Makoto was thinking when she killed Yukio?” I posted out of the blue. It was a plot point from Riyoko Ikeda’s “Virgin Mary.” Jack hadn’t mentioned reading this book in any of his posts, but I had seen him reading it in class. There was no response to the message after I sent it. I waited patiently. A day later, I received a response from Jack. “Protection and fear, I guess.” “Hello, how did you know I was reading this?” “Fear? Do you think Makoto was afraid of Yukio?” I ignored his second question. “I think Makoto was afraid of past memories.” Realizing I had no intention of revealing my identity, Jack didn’t pursue it further. We continued chatting about our interests. At first, it was just one or two sentences a day, and I would quickly withdraw after getting a response. As time passed, Jack found that I was a book enthusiast with interests very similar to his. Our chat times gradually became longer, moving from books to movies. Until one day, Jack asked me: “You’re really interesting. I’d like to know how old you are? Which city are you in?” I didn’t respond. For several days, I didn’t reply to any of Jack’s messages. He sent many messages, apologizing for his intrusive questions. About a week later, I finally responded to his message. “If you want to know me, come to the rooftop of the teaching building tonight.”

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