I have a superpower. When I kill someone, I can gain their memories from the past three years. Before the SAT Exams, I killed my overachiever boyfriend and got into college without a hitch. Content When did I first discover this about myself? I was nine years old when my parents got divorced. The court awarded custody to my mom. I loved my mom, but honestly, I loved my dad more. I often sneaked away to visit him just to spend time together. But one day, when I saw him, I caught him kissing a woman—Mallory Chase. My parents had shielded me from adult matters, so it was the first time I’d ever seen a man and a woman kiss. Her lips were bright red, like blood—so red they looked like they could devour someone. I was furious. Even at that young age, I understood. Dad had done something wrong, and that’s why they divorced. Dad was the bad guy. Brimming with anger, I stormed off to his car and tossed a handful of marbles onto the seat. They’d poke at Dad’s back, maybe make Mallory fall on her face. But instead, the marbles jammed the brakes. The car malfunctioned. Mallory ended up in a coma. Dad died instantly. The police checked the surveillance footage and saw me throwing marbles into the car. But I was just a nine-year-old kid. They are too young to know better and to be held legally responsible. And when I screamed and cried, inconsolable over losing my dad, everyone pitied me. No one blamed me. They just thought I was a poor child caught in tragedy. But as I cried, memories poured into my mind, memories that didn’t belong to me. I saw Mallory’s face through someone else’s eyes. That’s when I learned just how early Dad had started doing bad things. I saw arguments between him and Mom; he stole money from our home. I saw him wrapped around Mallory, their disgusting intimacy like two animals snarled together. I threw up. Mom and the police thought my body was overwhelmed by grief. Only I knew the truth: it wasn’t grief. It was hatred. Even at that young age, I saw them for what they were—two beasts twisted together.
Unexpectedly, my sadness quickly faded. What lingered was disgust. At the same time, I realized there was something different about me. As a little girl, I didn’t dare to say it. As I grew older, I didn’t want to say it. It wasn’t until I got older that I understood this ability. When I was in middle school, my neighbor, Lydia Prescott, and I were in the same class. We were very close friends. We went to and from school together and were inseparable—even when going to the restroom. Our teachers joked that we were “conjoined twins.” Lydia wasn’t the nicest person, but was beautiful—far prettier than I was. Sometimes, I overheard people say we were like “the princess and her sidekick.” It didn’t bother me much, but Lydia always looked smug when she heard it. I think that’s one of the reasons she stayed close to me. People don’t like being outshined by those closest to them. Lydia liked being the star. In some ways, it showed she thought of me as her confidant. I was so good to Lydia that she became a little dependent on me. Her grades were always better than mine—except in English. So, her English homework was often my responsibility. I wrote it neatly for her. As the English class representative during small tests, I helped the teacher grade papers in the office. E’d secretly change a few of Lydia’s answers and bump up her score. each time That was until the teacher found out. But Ms. Vivian Hale, our English teacher, didn’t scold me for altering the grades. Instead, she took it out on Lydia. Ms. Hale had always disliked Lydia—too pretty, too into makeup, and her English skills were lacking. Lydia was everything Ms. Hale frowned upon. “All you do is focus on nonsense instead of your studies!” “Girls like you will never amount to anything.” Lydia’s eyes turned red instantly. She slammed her desk and ran out of the classroom. Ms. Hale scoffed at first, but she grew nervous when Lydia didn’t return. After a while, she stopped teaching and told me to find Lydia. I knew where Lydia was. She was in the storage room next to the third-floor break room. Whenever Lydia was upset, she hid there. I opened the door quietly, slipped inside, and sat beside her. She didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at her. I understood her. She didn’t want me to see her vulnerable. After a while, Lydia finally spoke. “I hate Ms. Hale.” “I hate Ms. Hale too,” I said, joining her indignation. She couldn’t help but laugh a little at my childishness. “Let’s go back,” she said. “Okay.” Our bond grew even more potent. But I had to admit, there’s a natural difference in aptitude for learning. I worked hard, but I just wasn’t good at school. Lydia and I spent the same time studying, but her grades steadily improved, even in English. Sometimes, she’d offer to tutor me, but it was useless. I just didn’t get it. My mom often compared me to Lydia. I didn’t want to disappoint her. She was all I had. As my grades stayed stagnant, I started to panic. A dark thought crept into my mind. What if I killed Lydia? If I killed Lydia, I’d have her last three years of middle school memories. Some ideas are impossible to shake once they’ve entered your head. I had a plan. The school had recently installed new air conditioning. The cooling system was robust. Some older students joked it was ironic the school added A/C right after they graduated. Lydia, being short, always sat in the front rows while I was stuck in the back. As summer approached and the A/C turned on, I often complained about the heat and wandered to Lydia’s desk during breaks. While chatting, I’d casually adjust the thermostat to its lowest setting—cold air blasting at 60°F. When the bell rang, I’d walk away. Sometimes, Lydia remembered to reset it. Sometimes she didn’t. She often sat through an entire class in freezing air. A few days ago, Lydia and I went shopping. I mentioned my mom asked me to stock up on cold medicine and asked if she wanted some. “Cold medicine? In the middle of summer?” she asked. “My mom said the A/C at school and home is too much of a temperature swing. She told me to keep some medicine handy.” Lydia hesitated, then nodded. “That makes sense.” She bought the same medicine I did. When I saw her sniffling and complaining about a headache, I knew my chance had come. After school, as usual, we walked home together. “Let’s stop by Greenfield Riverside Park,” I suggested. We often relaxed there. It wasn’t unusual. I led Lydia toward a spot near a convenience store’s surveillance cameras. “Open your bag,” I said. Inside her bag were two bottles of liquor—highproof. She pulled them out, surprised. “Ta-da! A surprise for you!” “We’re almost high schoolers. Don’t you want to try it?” I turned slightly, hiding my mouth with my hair. I knew Lydia. She was a rebel at heart, yearning to break the rules her strict parents imposed on her. Lydia grabbed one bottle and handed the other to me. I acted hesitant, almost scared. “Maybe we shouldn’t. What if your parents find out?” That only fueled her determination. “Don’t worry! Just one sip!” I pretended to waver until she practically shoved the bottle into my hand. We talked for a while. We discussed our latest tests, dreams for the future, how much we hated Ms. Hale and even the warm tones of the sunset. She apologized. She admitted she sometimes saw me as a sidekick. She said I was her best friend. Forever. I said, “Yes, forever.” As the evening wore on, I patted Lydia’s shoulder and said it was time to head home. I barely drank, only pretending to sip. Lydia, however, was tipsy, her movements unsteady. I’d already checked. Her mom was working late, and her dad was on the night shift. Lydia would be alone. “Goodbye, Lydia,” I said, smiling. “See you tomorrow.” “Oh, and don’t forget to take your cold medicine tonight. You’ve got a bit of a cold.” Lydia smiled back, her eyes glinting with the soft light of dusk. I calmly went home, ate dinner with my mom, finished my homework, and fell peacefully asleep. The following day, a sharp pain pierced my head. New memories flooded my mind. I knew I had succeeded.
Lydia Prescott was dead. Her mom found her collapsed in the living room when she got home that night. By the time they got her to the hospital, it was too late. The police investigated and concluded she had died from alcohol poisoning due to mixing antibiotics with liquor. In those days, before the internet became widespread, middle schoolers like us didn’t know much about these kinds of things. Except for me, who had three years of memories from my dad. Yes. The cold medicine Lydia and I bought together that day included antibiotics. It went so smoothly—almost too smoothly. I had thought of so many ways this could have gone wrong. Lydia might not have taken the medicine. She could’ve taken it but skipped the antibiotics. She could’ve felt sick and called for help in time. Her mom might have come home early and stopped her. But none of that happened. Could this smooth success mean that fate was on my side? As Lydia’s best friend and the last person to see her alive, I was called to the police station to give a statement. Since I was a minor, my mom accompanied me. I sat there looking scared while my mom comforted me. “It’s okay, sweetheart. The officer just wants to ask a few questions,” she said. “Yeah, don’t be scared,” the officer added kindly. “We just need to clear a few things up.” They didn’t think for a second that a little girl like me could have done anything. “According to the victim’s mother, she wasn’t in the habit of drinking, but you two were seen drinking that day. Why?” I glanced at my mom nervously. She patted my hand reassuringly, silently encouraging me to speak. “Lydia said she wanted to try it, just for fun. She suddenly pulled two bottles of liquor out of her bag,” I said, my voice trembling. “I didn’t want to drink, and I tried to talk her out of it, but…” My voice cracked, and tears streamed down my face. The officer nodded. The surveillance footage supported my story: Lydia had forced the bottle into my hands. After a few more harmless questions, they let me go. The case was ruled an unfortunate result of teenage rebellion and ignorance. At school, Lydia’s death became a cautionary tale. Meanwhile, I was busy organizing my thoughts. It felt like I’d struck gold. Lydia’s mind had been full of knowledge. My grades skyrocketed, much to my mom’s delight. And mine, too. When the SAT Exams came, I performed flawlessly and got into the best high school in the city, Ashwood High School. My mom even bought a house near the school district—a prominent place with a spacious bedroom and my study. During the summer, she enrolled me in a prep course for high school. When the new semester started, I wasn’t behind like some classmates. But I knew this wasn’t a permanent solution. I wasn’t naturally gifted in academics. Even with Lydia’s solid knowledge base, I’d fall behind again. Last time, luck had played too significant a role. This time, I needed a better plan for my high school years.
I set my sights on Caleb Summers. He was the top student in our grade and also my classmate. Caleb lived up to his name—bright and dazzling. With his clean-cut good looks and academic brilliance, he had a swarm of admirers. And then there was me: plain, ordinary. We seemed destined to remain in separate worlds. But I observed him and did some online digging. That’s how I found the obscure chat app Caleb used most frequently. The app was anonymous, with no notification system. I pored over every detail of Caleb’s activity. He was a lively, optimistic boy with a good family background. He had low blood sugar and always carried sweets. He loved classic literature and mystery novels. I changed my profile picture on the app to a delicate jasmine flower—Caleb’s favorite. But I didn’t add him directly. I couldn’t risk spooking him. Instead, I built my profile slowly. I shared posts regularly, shaping myself into someone with interests that aligned perfectly with his. Over time, my account gained a few followers. It no longer looked fake. One day, I sent out a cryptic message: “When Rachel killed Alex, what do you think she was thinking?” It referenced a plotline from The Madonna of the Sleepers, a classic novel Caleb had been reading in class. He hadn’t posted about it anywhere. At first, there was no response. But the next day, Caleb replied: “Protection and fear, I guess.” “How do you know I’m reading this?” “Fear? Do you think Rachel was afraid of Alex?” I ignored his second question. “I think Rachel was afraid of her memories,” I replied. Seeing I wasn’t revealing my identity, Caleb didn’t push further. We continued chatting about books, cautiously at first. Eventually, the exchanges grew longer, evolving from literature to films. One day, Caleb asked: “You’re interesting. How old are you? What city do you live in?” I didn’t reply. For days, I ignored all his messages. He flooded me with apologies, worried he’d offended me. About a week later, I finally wrote back: “If you want to know who I am, meet me tonight on the rooftop of Hawthorne Hall.”
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