The Three Brothers: The Cure

A Fine Summer Morning

22nd July 1991

"It's the eye of the tiger, it's the dream of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger"

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 chest 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 ay 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.