Thirty Minutes to Heartbreak

Chapters 1 - 4

Chapter 1: Defying the Laws

A feminine hand clad in a fingerless leather glove pulled a hard left on the steering wheel, maneuvering to avoid a car that had swerved into the way at the last second. The woman's face remained emotionless, but she felt anger rise up inside of her at the other driver’s reckless act. She raised her hand, palm facing forward and fingers spread apart as she breathed deeply.

“Oh, I could just…”

She could see the flow of heat emanating from her volcanic center, obliterating the other car and its driver in mere moments—and then, perhaps, continuing on to clear out the highway for the next few dozen miles. Her windshield began to crack. No. She abruptly stopped visualizing the gratifying havoc she could wreak if she released all the pent up power which hummed at her fingertips. The temptation was too great, and she immediately closed her fist and returned it to the steering wheel.

She grimaced, fighting to control her twitching fingers, and forcing them back down onto the Jeep’s steering wheel placidly. Regret coursed through her, and she acknowledged that she would need to replace her windshield again. A foul smell reached her nostrils, causing her forehead to crease. She glanced down at the bruised, tanned knuckles visible through little oval holes in her worn gloves. Smoke was drifting up from between her fingers as her heated palms burned into the rubbery-plastic material of the steering wheel.  She felt sick at the stench.

Thorn. How could you?

The heart of her anger wasn't caused by reckless drivers. It was the lingering sting of betrayal. Startling her, a cell phone buzzed against her hip, and she fought the instant urge to crush it like a pesky insect. Was it him calling? She hadn’t answered her phone in weeks. Why would anyone still bother to call?

Thorn in my side, thorn in my brain.

The sections of the steering wheel she gripped had finally melted completely. Yet another part of the Jeep would need to be replaced. Luckily, her mechanic no longer asked questions. She removed her hands from the wheel and tried to wipe the sticky substance off her gloves. Giving up, she interlocked her fingers together before resting them in her lap. She continued steering with only her mind. She enjoyed driving with just her thoughts. She liked the idea that her body was flying through the air, and direction was controlled by her mere intent. It reminded her of what made her special: this inherited telekinetic ability. The ability she had promised her family never to use. The phone rang again.

The feminine posture of having her hands clasped demurely in her lap brought a sardonic smile to her face. The only thing which had ever been feminine about Pax was her long black hair. She had taken great pride in being able to sit on the lustrous mass, and had enjoyed the competitive factor of being able to say that hers was longer than that of any woman she knew, and almost all women she met. (In retrospect, tying her ego to the length of a physical extension of her body had not been completely feminine.) Even then, it had always hung in tangled, messy waves which she had hardly ever brushed.

It was only a month ago that she had shorn it all off. She still felt awkward when she turned to check her blind-spot and did not have a pound of tresses rolling over her shoulders comfortingly. She still felt like something was missing when the window of her Jeep was open, and the harsh wind did not whip unruly strands into her eyes. She felt naked without these little luxuries. Pax had not realized that her hair had been her security blanket—and once she did realize this, she had quickly introduced it to a pair of garden shears.

Pax wanted to stop depending on external substances for strength. She was sure that she could find a greater confidence inside her that had nothing to do with her hair, her car, or her lover.