The Three Brothers

22nd July 1991

"It's the eye of the tiger, ...

... stalks his prey in the night ..."

Mark swayed his head to the beats of the song, his headphones sitting atop his head. They were connected to a blue Sony Walkman, currently playing a mixtape titled "Rock 3". Mark's eyes were glued to the book in front of him; a fascinating chapter on electromagnetic radiation.

The late July sun shined through the window in the bedroom. Mark was seated on the only chair in the room, a blue high back swivel type, his legs resting on the single bed. The wall to his left had a tall bookshelf standing beside his wardrobe, filled with books old and new. The wall behind him was plastered with posters of his favourite rock bands—The Who, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, and The Beatles.

At the bottom stood three guitars kept resting on their stands. One, a second-hand sunburst acoustic, the first guitar that Mark had learned to play on. The second was a black Washburn AB10 Acoustic-Electric guitar which once belonged to his father. And lastly, his latest birthday present—a black and gold custom 1987 Fender Stratocaster.

Mark's attention wavered from the book in front of him, his eyes making their way to his new guitar. A giddy smile graced his face as he admired the work of art. He still couldn't believe he now had something so beautiful, even though it had now been almost eight months since he'd gotten it.

'Dad really outdid himself,' Mark thought to himself. It was difficult keeping something a secret from him due to his ability, and he really marvelled at the way his Dad managed to do just that. He'd known his Dad had gotten him the books, but not about the guitar.

He wondered if there was another decent drummer at school. Now that Ollie had moved out of the city, he had no friends left to jam with. Of course, there was Steve, but he was a right git. Even though Mark had been the better guitarist of the two, he had refused to swap for Mark's Bass while they were preparing for the performance.

Well, now Mark had a guitar too. So, Steve had been a bit more bearable the last term, now that he no longer felt possessive of his own guitar. Mark knew this because he had gleaned it using his ability.

His ability. He still remembered when it had first surfaced itself. As a child, odd things had often occurred around him. But his ability; that had happened when he was eight.

Realising that his thoughts had drifted away from the book he had been reading, Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of his c.h.e.s.t heaving. It was Edwin who had taught him this meditation technique in order to help him control his ability, but Mark found it just as useful to apply whenever he lost focus.

Edwin. That old man had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to help Mark. An eight-year-old who could suddenly hear the thoughts of everyone around him? Certainly not covered in the SAS situation control manual. But Edwin had helped, for he had seen the pain in Mark's eyes, plagued by the silent cries of the sick that no child should witness, let alone feel.

So, he had helped. In six months, Mark had gained a semblance of control. Another six, and he could now close off any errant thoughts around him. That was two years ago.

Mark had wondered if his ability was some form of superpower. Maybe he was some form of mutant, just like Professor Xavier from the X-Men comics. He'd borrowed a few of them from Steve's collection. Well, he wasn't exactly like the professor; he'd never managed to actively control or implant a suggestion into another's mind. At least not yet.

Perhaps he was more like Jean Grey. She had telekinetic powers, in addition to her telepathy. When Mark had read about it, he'd tried to do that himself. He wasn't sure about the results. The book he'd tried to levitate did float a quarter-inch off the table, but only for a few seconds. At least the coin had floated for a couple of minutes; he'd even managed to spin it in mid-air.

The only one he had told about this was his dad. In spite of the fact that his dad had never been anything but positive towards him, Mark always felt nervousness when something like this happened. He knew it was stupid, but that was the truth. Having an insight into the minds of other people had taught Mark a valuable lesson — People hate what they fear, and they fear what they cannot understand.

On learning that his son could now perform telekinesis, albeit, in a limited capacity, John Smith had just smiled softly before wrapping his son in a tight hug. No words were spoken, for none were necessary.

As Mark breathed in and out, he finally felt the fleeting emptiness in his mind. Drawing himself back from the depths of his own self he opened his eyes, ready and focused once more. He resumed his reading of the passage on polarisation and was soon engrossed in it. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

"Don't get up. I'll get this," John's voice came in through the living room. Mark smiled. His dad was much better this month. The recent treatments had been showing positive results. He turned his attention back on the vector algebra of polarisation, the page illuminated by the bright summer sun.

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The bright summer sun shined on Harry as he pulled a rather stubborn weed from the garden bed. He hummed a tune in his head as he worked in the quiet of the late summer morning, sweat dripping down his forehead. As he lost himself in the monotony of the work, he wondered about his most recent punishment. Or rather the cause of it.

It had been Dudley's birthday, and to the Dursley's luck, there was no one to look after Harry for the day. Mrs Figg, a batty old neighbour who usually took him had broken her leg. Harry had offered to stay alone, but the Uncle Vernon wouldn't have it; he didn't want to come and "find the house burnt down".

So, after long deliberation, Harry ended up accompanying them to the zoo. Harry had been secretly happy about this; he never got to go anywhere special, not even on his birthday.

The day had gone great. The exhibits were interesting, and Harry had even got an ice-cream—a cheap ice lolly. Granted, it was because Dudley had dropped his sundae and when Uncle Vernon went to get another, the ice-cream man had given him a funny look for not buying anything for Harry.

The day did not stay great, however. It all happened when they entered the reptile house and encountered the boa constrictor. Somehow Harry had managed to talk to it, and it had responded. When Dudley saw this, he shoved Harry. What happened next was unclear, but the glass holding the Boa Constrictor in vanished and the snake managed to escape. Harry could've sworn he heard it hiss

"Thankss amigo" as it slithered past.

The moment they had returned home, Harry had been locked in his room, his limited meals being delivered through the cat flap in the door. By the time he was let out again, the summer holidays had begun.

'Well it wasn't its fault,' Harry said to himself, thoughts of the boa-constrictor entering his mind. 'It just wanted to be free. Just like me.'

He often wondered when he would be free of the life he was living. Maybe once he was eighteen, he could get out of here. There were jobs in construction and heavy labour in London. Perhaps he could even get a job as a clerk in some office; even though he was forced to downplay his competence, his marks weren't that bad.

"BOY! You better not be messing up my yard!"

Harry was jerked back from his thoughts by the loud voice of Uncle Vernon coming from inside the house. Harry hated Sundays, even when it was school time. There were double the chores, nowhere else he was supposed to be, and Uncle Vernon would be home eager to torment him.

"Just eight more years of this," Harry grumbled to himself, before turning his attention back to the weeds before him. After ten years of living with the Dursleys, Harry didn't expect any sort of affection from them. He had given hope on that long ago.

He chuckled; if one day they did decide to be nice to him Harry would probably have a heart attack from the shock. By now it was much more natural for them to be mean to him. After all, what reason did they have to love him?

Harry had often thought of his parents and wondered if they were hiding somewhere instead of being dead. Maybe they were secret agents, like the ones on the movies on the telly, out there saving the world. Or maybe they were just like his aunt claimed them to be; deadbeat good-for-nothings who got killed in an accident while driving drunk.

As he worked, a tall shadow appeared and covered the now high sun.

"How far along are you?"

Harry turned to look at his Aunt. The sun in his eyes forced him to squint.

"Just about halfway done. I'll let you know when I'm finished, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied with a

forced, but polite obedience.

She looked shiftily at him, then glanced around the yard as if expecting something to appear.

"Don't try to be clever, freak. Just get the work done," she said before turning back and going into the house.

'That's odd,' Harry pondered. 'She's been doing that ever since I've been let out of my room.'

It had now been a week since his month-long punishment had ended. Still, it was much better than the one he had gotten for changing the colour of his teacher's hair to blue in primary school. That had also earned him a month, but that had been in the cupboard, with almost no food. At least this time he was in his room.

Even though he had lived with the Dursley's for a decade, the house showed no signs of anybody beside Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley living there. There were zero photos of Harry, nor were there any memorabilia. The one small award he had won in school two years ago had been binned the moment he had gotten home.

Before he had been given the room, it had been Dudley's second bedroom. A room that he used to store the toys he had broken or got bored with. Harry still remembered the tantrum that Dudley had thrown when the room was taken from him. Uncle Vernon had been forced to raise his voice at his son for the first time, all because Aunt Petunia had heard certain rumours in the neighbourhood.

The news was going around that child protection services were conducting raids in Surrey, and the Dursleys were not stupid enough to want a child being found sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. Of course, Harry wasn't given this reason. He was told that as he was now growing too big for the cupboard, they had decided to reward him with the room to sleep in.

His room. The only thing that could be truly called his were the few school things he had; everything else was a hand-me-down that once belonged to Dudley. If Dudley had been older than him, Harry was sure he would have had to do with his school things too

'At least they would have been unused,' he joked to himself.

Other than the sparse mattress and the broke toys that were piled in the corner, Harry's room was b.a.r.e. No paint, no decorations. The Dursleys refused to spend anything on Harry.

His door was a different story. There were three bolts on it, all on the outside. A cat flap was installed at the bottom, even though there was no cat in the house. It was put there specifically for him when his punishments demanded him being locked inside.

A commotion down the street drew Harry's attention. He peered out of the yard to look down the street.

'Shit.' It was Dudley and his gang coming up, obviously done with whatever thuggish activities they spent their summer doing. When they would reach here, they would probably be wanting to play one of their favourite games — Harry Hunting.

It was funny in a way. On seeing Harry, dressed in baggy old clothes and broken glasses, everyone thought him to be the troublemaker, when it was Dudley who was the actual troublemaker and bully in the neighbourhood.

Harry looked at the garden bed in front of him. The weeding was almost finished. He started working faster, hoping to finish before Dudley reached here. At least then he would have the chance to make his escape.

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