Part 2 - Dad’s side

I’ve lost everything. My parents long ago, my wife, my son, all gone for good. I can’t help but feel responsible.

When I was born, the doctors said the chemistry of my hands was all messed up and by any logic no blood should have been flowing; they should have been dead. After a couple years, the power started to develop. It took me a while, but eventually I learned what the strange biology of my hands really meant. A superpower, if you could even call it that. I could touch people on the shoulder, and no matter what, they’d always look.

Of course it couldn’t have been the ability to shoot fire or lasers or something actually useful. But this isn’t the Marvel world, you don’t see people with superpowers often, if ever.

The question always pondered me what would happen if I touched both of a person’s shoulders at the same time. I feared the worst, and I always wore these leather gloves which nullified my power. My wife and son always made fun of me for them, but it was in their best interest. I just told them it was to prevent my hands from getting all splintered up as my job.

When my son was born and the doctors told me nearly the same thing they had told my father the day I was born, I knew he had inherited my abilities. I figured it best to keep a very close eye on his power, constantly making him tap my shoulder to see if it had started developing yet.

About 4 months went by, and I had a big job helping build this new house about a 4 hours drive from where we lived. I had to stay there a few days, so I just got a hotel.

Nothing prepared me for the sight of my return home. There were police everywhere. News teams, civilians trying to see what had happened, the whole 9 yards. What the hell happened? Why didn’t I get a call?

I duck under the caution tape and am stopped by some police before I tell them this is my house and demand to know what in God’s name is going on here. They advise me to stay outside the house but I ignore them.

I walked in, and laying there right on the floor is my wife, lifeless as a rock. An officer is holding my son. They tell me they are not sure what caused it, but they’ll have to wait for the autopsy, assuming it was something natural.

But me, I know what happened. I watched as my son reached for the officers shoulders, and I break into a dead sprint, grabbing him. The officers seemed suspicious of me for that but I had a solid alibi.

After the autopsy came back showing no sure signs of what had happened, I packed up and left. I couldn’t be there anymore. Plus, I figured it best to keep my son on the move to avoid this happening again. I pondered telling him but just didn’t know how he would handle the news that he killed his own mother. Either that, or he’d blame me. Which one is worse?

Then one day he came home from school in a panic, I had never seen him like this.

“Dad, I did something awful. We need to leave. I’ll explain later.”

“Start packing, we’re on the road in sixty minutes.”

He gave me an estranged look, like he was surprised I was so compliant to leave in a hurry. That was twenty years ago, and as soon as he turned 18 the next month, he bolted. I hadn’t seen him since. That is, until today.

Rest in peace, son.