Manifest

By T.L.M.

My name is Melanie Manifest. What I've written down here is the story of my life, and while I do regret most of it, it’s my life, and I cannot ever forget what has happened. I was a very angry child growing up. I had heard the phrase 'anger issues', and hormone imbalances that can cause episodes of uncontrollable rage. I had been sent to doctors and shrinks to try to control it, but when your father has deserted your family, and your mother is forced to work as a prostitute to make ends meet, you don't exactly have a lot of funds for psychiatrists.

So as a result, I got into a lot of trouble, especially when my mom was murdered. I left to live on the streets before child services could interfere, and I had a pretty tough time of it. I killed a would-be mugger by smashing him in the head with an iron pipe. When I was sixteen, when this story starts, my name was Darren Connors, and I'd just come down with MORFS. I was picked up by the paramedics on the front lawn of somebody's house, where I'd passed out. I was taken to the hospital where I finished my change into someone completely different. When the hospital staff discovered I was a street boy, they immediately handed me over to social services, where I was placed in a foster home for runaways.

Even now, I see the faces of all the people I've killed every night before I go to sleep. If I could undo all the pain and sorrow I've caused, I would. I can't, however, so all I can do is write my story down, and let the truth come out. I hope you'll learn to forgive me for what I've done.


I sat on the cot, in a body that was not my own, and I seethed with rage. I had proved that I could take care of myself. Being on the street, in the REAL world for the last five years. I'd like to see any of the pansies in this foster home do that. They wouldn't last a week. Hell, they wouldn't last a day. And that woman. She said she's my mother. Foster or not, that bitch isn't going to touch me. I'll fuck her up if she does.

That tingling pressure had returned to my right hand and for a minute I scratched idly at it.

Why did I have to come down with MORFS?! Why did this have to happen to me? I was fine! I made it after mom died. I was taking care of myself.

I grabbed the flat pillow and started punching it. The doctor I used to go to as a kid told me it would help me calm down when I got angry. It didn't. Not really. Well screw him! He didn't know anything about me! Fucking shrink thought he could boss me around. Then that stupid whore of my mother had to go get herself killed. I would have been just fine on my own if I hadn't gotten sick and turned into this.

I turned to the small mirror hanging on the wall and studied my new face again.

A pair of steel grey eyes glared back at me. Beneath my eyes was a little pert nose, and a pair of plump pouty lips. My hair tumbled down my back in a mess of black tangles. I hadn't bothered to tidy it up since I'd changed. A pair of C cup breasts hung inside my loose fitting t-shirt. The shirt had fit me fine last week, when I'd been a 16 year old boy. Now I was a tiny, helpless girl.

I started to pummel the pillow again. This wasn't fair. This shouldn't have happened. "THIS ISN'T FAIR!" I screamed into the empty room. I jumped to my feet and punched the wall as hard as I could. I barely felt the skin open up over the knuckles on my left hand. Blood started pouring down my wrist as I sat back down. The door opened, and my new foster mother came in. She was a short, red headed woman named Simone Harding.

"What's going on in here Donna?" she asked. I heard her new name for me and I saw red. I jumped up and screamed in her face. "MY NAME IS DARREN, NOT DONNA!"

She jumped back as if I'd hit her and started breathing heavily.

"You will not speak to me like that. I am your mother now, and you will respect me."

I walked up to her and got right in her face. I gave her a defiant look, planted both hands on her chest, and shoved her as hard as I could. She fell backwards and landed on her back with a very satisfying thud.

"You are not my mother." I sneered at her. "My mother was a hooker who got herself killed, and she's still less trash than you are."

The woman burst out crying and ran from the room. I slammed the door behind her."Bitch." I muttered.

I only had a few moments to myself before the door opened again and Terry Harding, the foster father, this big, hulking man with blue hair and eyebrows, came into the room. He stood over me and glared down at me. If he thought I was intimidated, or would do as he told because he was bigger than me, he was sadly mistaken.

"Because of your behaviour, you will not be receiving any dinner tonight."

"Fuck off." I growled at him. He raised an eyebrow at me.

 

“You will apologise to Mrs. Harding for your rudeness.”

 

“Go fuck yourself.” I growled.

 

“Give me your hand. I need to put a bandage on that.” He gestured toward my left hand.

 

“I’m fine.” I said. He turned around and started to leave. He paused in the doorway and turned to me.

 

“Because of your behaviour, you will be confined to this room until further notice.” He closed the door behind him.

 

I sat on the edge of my bed and hugged my knees. I stared at the mirror again.

 

Sometime later, I curled up into a ball on top of the blanket and fell asleep.

 

When I woke up, there was a tray on the desk with food on it. I ignored it and stared at my hands. That tingling pressure had come back again. My left hand was slightly swollen, but the cut on my knuckles was already starting to heal. It hadn’t been as bad as I’d thought. I studied my hands, feeling somewhat annoyed.

 

My hands used to be powerful tools. I could curl them into fists and they became weapons. Now they were dainty, small. I flexed them. They were weak. I scowled. I’d spent enough time being weak.

 

“I’m not weak.” I muttered. I stood up and tried to open the door to the hallway, only to find it locked. I knocked on it.

 

“What do you want, Darren?” came the voice of Terry Harding.

 

“I need to use the washroom.” I answered. I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything else. He opened the door and led me to the washroom. The whole time he kept trying to bait me into confiding in him. It was pathetic, really. What did he think would happen? That I’d do as he says if he talks to me? What a fucking moron.

 

“So Darren, what’s your favourite food? I left you some toast and cereal in your room.”

 

“How old are you, Darren?”

 

“Do you like sports?”

 

I ignored him and closed the bathroom door behind me. I stared at the toilet. I was somewhat torn between crying and screaming as I dropped my shorts and sat down to pee. I really missed my body. I didn’t need anybody. I took care of myself. This wasn’t fair. My hand tingled again, so I scratched it.

 

“I wish I never heard of MORFS.” I said to nobody in particular. I finished up and was escorted back to my room by Mr Harding, who finally seemed to have realised that I was not interested in being his friend. I walked past the desk and saw that in addition to the toast and cereal, there was a small cup of orange juice, and an apple. I picked up the tray and sat down on the bed with it.

 

The toast was dry, the cereal was soggy, the orange juice was watery, and the apple looked old. Whatever. I set the tray next to me and stared at the wall. How was I going to get out of this place?

 

“There’s no way I’m going to stay here for two years.” I whispered to myself. My hand started to tingle again. I looked down at it. The tingle started to intensify, and became a throbbing pressure.

 

“What the hell is wrong with my hand?” I asked the empty room. My stomach growled. I started to get angry again. Why did I have to deal with this crap in my life? I glanced over at the tray of inedible crap that Mr Harding had thought to give me. Maybe it was revenge for standing up to him yesterday. I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to submit. Like I’d give up my independence for an apple! The pressure mounted in my right hand and I suddenly realised I was holding something. I glanced down and gaped.

 

I lifted my hand in front of my face. I was holding an apple identical to the one on the tray. I glanced at the tray. The apple was still there. I gasped and dropped the apple. I gasped again. It vanished instantly.

 

“What the fuck?” I exclaimed. The pressure was gone from my hand. I stared at my hand and focused on the apple again. I felt a sudden push in my hand and an apple appeared in my palm. I poked it with my left hand. It felt pretty real. I raised it to my face and sniffed it. It smelled like an apple. I dropped it to the floor, and it vanished the moment it left my hand.

 

“I think I just discovered my power.” I said. I smiled. What else could I do? I looked around the room and focused on the lamp standing on the desk. I reached my hand out to the lamp and focused on it. I felt the push in my palm and I was suddenly holding a desk lamp. I grinned.

 

“This is awesome.” I said. I flicked the lamp switch and was surprised when the lamp in my hand turned on. It had no plug, and wasn’t connected to any power source. How could it be working?

 

I started to feel tired, and I became aware that I was powering the light. The light was being energized by my own energy!

 

I felt breathless and more than a little bit tired. It seemed powering the lamp took a lot of energy out of me. I had heard that when people gained powers through MORFS, that they would be able to use them more the more they practised. Something to do with their bodies getting used to it. I didn't know for sure if that was what happened, but I was ecstatic to have a power! I wouldn't have to be helpless!

I focused on the glowing lamp in my hand. If I could use the energy to create this, could i suck the energy back? I concentrated on the lamp in my hand and visualized the energy coming back into me. All of a sudden my hand was empty. I felt a rush of energy come into me. It was sort of like eating a really big meal, then working off the weight, but in a matter of seconds. It was amazing!

I stood up and started pacing the room in my excitement. What else could I make? Could I only make things that I could see? I pictured in my head a baseball, and focused the pressure into my hand. I looked down at the baseball in my hand. It looked so real! i tried tossing it from hand to hand but it disappeared in mid-air. I felt another rush of energy as I reabsorbed the energy I used to form it.

By this time I was feeling very sleepy, and very hungry, so I wolfed down the food on the tray and fell back asleep.

I got up and for a span of five seconds, I couldn't remember where I was. Then the last few days came back to me and I groaned. I sat up. The room was pitch black. I'd slept through the day until the night. I thought about a flashlight, and I felt the now familiar push in my arm as I drew a flashlight into being. I looked down at it and switched it on.

"What kind of power is this?" I asked myself aloud. "How am I doing this?" I waved the flashlight around a few times, playing with the light. I could feel the energy being drawn out of me. After a few moments, there was a knock on the door and Simone’s voice filtered through.

 

“Lights off, sweety, you should be in bed.” I growled in the general direction of the door and extinguished the light. I angrily glared at the door for a moment, thinking about all the things I’d like to do to that woman. I turned back to the flashlight, distracting myself from my anger. I reabsorbed the flashlight and stared at my hand in the darkness. It was like I was calling these objects into being. Like I was creating them from nothing. No, I realised. I was creating them from myself. It was strange. I’d never heard of a power like that before. I wasn’t making illusions, because the felt real. Then I thought to myself, I’ve only felt it myself. Can I touch other things with the objects?

 

I pushed the energy into my hand again and formed a knife. I looked at it closely. It was my old hunting knife. I’d lost the real one years ago. I turned, and jammed it into the sideboard of my bed. It stuck there and wiggled in my hand with the impact. I tried to pull it back out but it was stuck. I let go of the knife handle and the knife disappeared, leaving behind the imprint on the wood.

 

“Wow.” I breathed. They were real! The objects I was creating weren’t just illusions or something.

 

I was confused, though. This was a power unlike any I’d seen or heard of. I wasn’t an elemental, unless there was such a thing as matter elementals. And I doubted that. I wasn’t telekinetic, because all I could do was make the objects. Plus, telekinetics couldn’t make objects look or feel real.

 

“I’m….manifesting them from my own energy.” I whispered. Manifest. Why did that name jump out at me? I laid back down and played around with my new power, manifesting various objects in my hands before throwing them or dropping them and watching them disappear. This quickly made me tired, so I curled back up into a ball and started to go back to sleep.

 

 

 

I wish I had known what was going to happen the next day. If I had known then what I know now, I might have manifested a knife, and slit my own throat. I’m sure a lot of people wish that I had.

 

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