With all likelihood, you will not understand this story. So only review if you get it. Inconsistencies are a problem...and a few times I switch from present tense to past, purposefully, so watch out for that.

I've decided put all five chapters in this thread. So, just make sure to specify which chapter you're reviewing if you do. Thanks.

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Everything is easy. It is as if the whole world fits into my head, with still space left over. And it is not just the world fitting perfectly, it is the way that every piece makes perfect sense, every idea, every tragedy, every triumph. Knowledge drips like a broken faucet and once I decided I wanted to switch it off I realized I could not. I wanted something to be a challenge, I wanted to study with my friends, I wanted to be forced to exert myself. But it was not to be.

Before they finish their thought I’ve deducted what it will be, before they realize what they are trying to tell me I know what results they want, the results they are still unaware of. Honestly, I only had to finish half the books in my huge public library before I could conceptualize what the rest would say. Now that I’m at the ripe old age of fourteen, I know everything.

The only true, awful and unstoppable problem with this gift, disease, malfunction, is that it does not just provide intellectual knowledge. My body seems to have soaked up some kind of synthetically enhanced muscle that lets it do whatever I tell it to. Anything that is physically possible, and does not require supernatural assistance, I can do. I can run faster then Devon Hester and Adrian Peterson put together, I can jump higher then Shaq and Kobe, I can dodge quicker then Ladanian Tomlinson, and I can pick up twice my body weight. So I all I need is to get heavier, and the world is mine.

Not true, because the world actually weighs 170 billion times more then I do, and I don’t think I could quite squeeze it into my pocket, not as of yet. The curiously frustrating part about this is that it is useless. I look around me and I see nothing worth saving, no one worth loving, and the fact that everything put together cant stop me. I’m bored, I’m so very bored. What do you suppose I might do with that?

People have told me, ‘If you could just understand you would want to do the right thing!’ or, ‘If you knew everything about this you would want to help me!’ I am the one who proves them wrong. My very existence tells them that they do not matter; because I know everything and I see no reason to pick up the pieces, cry for the dead child, love those with no one. That sounds cruel, but it is simply the product of knowledge. You are forced to truly know that not only can you not really change anything, but also there is nothing worth changing. I can hear you saying it, ‘Even people without your power have changed the world!’ or, ‘Knowing everything is loving everything!’ Both ignorant assumptions are wrong. I have read about people who ‘changed the world’, people who give their whole lives to entropy, it’s a waste. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, things will always get worse.

You call me cynical, disgusting, pompous; I agree. But those are just truths, anyone who is not that way is simply lying to themselves or stupid. All of it tells us to be that way, and who are we to fight reality?

I live in a city. One of those cities that is not really a city, but enjoys calling itself one for very conceited reasons. My city had a population of 94,000 people, before I decided to make it an even 90,000. I do what I can. I will not give my city a name, a name would dignify its existence, and dignity is the last thing it deserves. A city where 4,000 people can die in their beds and the so-called ‘authorities’ arrest and execute an innocent man. Thoroughly despicable; something that made me vomit in the sink. The toilet is out of order at the moment, I keep it that way because we already have one, two is unnecessary. In any case, I find this city to be more then slightly idiotic and I have formulated a plan to sink it into the ocean, just like Atlantis. Just kidding. These people are much more miserable alive then dead, and I refuse to do them any favors.

I have parents, a sister and a baby. You assume that since I am so ridiculously intelligent my parents must be at least smart enough to have more than three kids, but, alas no, they are like everyone else. They obey, they lay down when they’re told, they speak when they’re spoken to and they believe everything they hear on TV. Quite disheartening in the fact that they are the least unique people on this dreadful planet; I have met their clones and I have laughed; I laugh a lot. Two sons and a daughter, fantastically original. My sister is a sweet little girl, I expect her to be more like me than my parents. I have been teaching her, waiting for her to give away the disease she might have incurred from fate. And if I never see it, of course I’ll know it’s there. The baby is ordinary, and not only because he has a different father than me - a father that my father knows nothing about - but for other reasons that need not be discussed.

I am Trey and my sister is Claire, together, we will reap what the world has sown.

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Cold whispers clog my ears and I look up for 167th time in forty minutes, they are talking again. Jorge and Grayson sit behind me and they do not have quite the brain capacity to whisper something that might at least amuse me. They are my friends, because friends are something that everyone must have, and not because I feel very much affection toward them. I call Jorge ‘whore’ because he is the only Mexican in the school and because he is a whore. He is sometimes less ordinary and annoying than Grayson but not often enough to make his company something I would voluntarily seek out. And yes, I realize that technically my being his friend must mean I did seek out his company but in this case the act of volunteering is somewhat forced; institutions such as the one I am included in at the moment have voluntary rules that are not actually voluntary.

I know what they are whispering about but I cannot imagine paying it any close attention or even considering it for a moment; they do not know. I do not plan on staying in ninth grade much longer, it has no point and all the havoc that can be wreaked is being wreaked by another who, although not so talented in the art of wreaking havoc as me, is doing an adequate job.

And so I shall soon leave. I can very easily be eighteen or nineteen if I wish, the mirror tells me that, and half the student body. I am 5’11”, 147.23lbs and more importantly than that, I am close to picking where I shall start. I admit that I did have some trouble with that choice. Of course I knew where I should start but then I began to wonder if I should perhaps simply choose where I wanted to go and not just follow what I know. And then on top of that I had to finish some documentation on my sister and I, because she undoubtedly must come with me. Sometimes I feel something close to regret when I am forced to imagine what life might have been like if I was even just a little bit more like my classmates. Not that I would prefer stupidity, no, nothing like that. Its something like a loss of stability, I almost feel like I am constantly stumbling and there will never be someone to take my hand, to steady me. But that is not exactly right, because I do not even know how to stumble, neither physically nor mentally. So I suppose my teetering must be emotional, my certainty does not seem to quite reach that far. I doubt because I must be human, that is just slightly comforting.

The day stretches on as I formulate plan after plan to keep Claire and I either above or below whatever law-enforcement might be asked to interfere. I have not told her; I do not know when I will. I have found that children seem to see something in me that compels them to obey, I try not to take advantage of that fact. Okay, I don’t try at all.

The lights in the Library are much too bright, the Librarian told me once, at a moment of weakness, that she put the wrong bulbs in on purpose. She told me that she hated the children, and she wanted to keep them from studying so that they would all feel as awful as she does. I admit that her tearful confession did not manipulate me into compassion, like she had hoped. The slightly ironic part is that her little six-hundred watt bulb trick has severely injured her eyes and she will be completely blind in five more years. The power she supposed she had could not have been more misplaced. I laugh when I see her - her badly dyed red hair, her watery eyes and unnatural bulge seem unnecessarily accentuated under the fluorescent glare. I feign distraction and annoyance, sensing her eyes on me and feeling in need of a game. After carefully counting the seconds that will fully contain her satisfaction, I stand, slinging my messenger bag across my chest and then trotting innocently over to her desk.

'Ms. Souture, I got a 100% on my geometry test! And I only have you to thank; without you to guard the precious books there would no library, and without a library where would I be able to study hard enough to get such a good grade?' I grin, watching her complexion turn blotchy, the caked make up cracking as her eyes narrow. I lean closer, donning a conspiratorial smirk. 'Good grades are what life is all about, no?' Her fingers curl, scratching the keyboard. 'Well, your agreement is not necessary, I simply wanted to let you know how happy I feel.'

'Trey - one - more - word -'

'That’s okay, I have none left, not for you at least. Have a fantastic evening.' With a last wink that surely will cause pathetic Ms. Souture a few weeks worth of hatred and suicidal thoughts, I spring happily from the building, leaving those murderous lights until tomorrow.

The trees touch me as I walk beneath them, they think I’m an abomination, they don’t like to share knowledge. But I am sympathetic with their feelings since I am very private with what I know. Attempting to prove to someone that I have this odd power would only prove that I did not have it. Anyone who knows anything does not tell everyone else that they have power, even Spiderman. I have hit upon the perfect plan, I can almost see it in the scattered leaves that throw a syrupy sweet smell onto my lips.

It is only a few blocks to Claire’s middle school and the time that it takes to get there seems much too short. I do not always walk her home, but she knows that today is one of the days that I do. The school is painted a slightly garish green; it used to be red brink until a kid offed himself because he said he went to school in a building painted in blood, the ugly green is the product of his melodramatic suicide note. He was only thirteen, the entire school had loved him, and then one day he was dead. That was when I was in sixth grade, I didn’t mind much. The playground is a little old fashioned, the blue paint peeling from the merry-go-round, spotting the dying grass in mock confetti; the picnic tables are dirty, littered with brown and gold leaves that resemble the rotting hands of some legendary giant. As I reach the black iron gate I become aware of something out of place. The palms of my hands begin to sweat and I clutch the cold metal of the gate.

I cannot say that I am afraid, that would not be entirely accurate. Disappointment, cold irritation, supreme annoyance mix in my veins. Being able to predict the future is not included as one of my many attributes. Claire is likely the only child in the world who can disobey me, I find myself hating her, and then I stop. Does she do it because she knows? No, she cannot, for her own disobedience would give away her secret and that is the last thing she would want. Or perhaps - what if I am meant to think that?