There's a reason it's called a white-knuckle grip. When you are driving down the freeway at seventy-five miles per hour and some jackass cuts you off, you grip that leathery radial like a ship-wrecked survivor clinging to a life-line. Your blood vessels constrict, cutting off the flow of that crimson juice. The color in your fingers and hands fades as your mind races with thoughts of violent revenge.
Well, in my case, I took it one step further. You see, ever since I was a kid, I've had this gift. I've never told anyone about it, I've never seen anyone else with the same gift, and I sure as hell have never shown anyone what I can do.
I can reach out and touch things with my mind. It started with things like levitating the remote control into my hand and opening soda cans with a snap of my fingers. See, I spent a lot of time by myself. My parents were separated and I was an only child. It left me ample time to develop my "talent" in secret. By the time I was seventeen, I could move parked cars with a wave of my hand. I felt like a god, having complete control over the world around me.
As you might assume, this was a recipe for disaster once I started driving. Impatient and inconsiderate, I used my telekinetic abilities to push cars out of my way. Most of the time this caused minor fender benders. Confused drivers would storm out of their dented Fords and hurl obscenities at one another, completely unaware of my influence.
On one particularly nasty occasion, I pushed a car into a busy intersection. As cars struck it from opposite directions, that little Hyundai exploded like a piñata. Car and body parts flew in every direction. I sped past the wreckage, refusing to take responsibility for what I had done. It was their fault for being in my way. They should have known not to get in the way of a god.
Because that's what I was, ya know? I was a god. A god of the road.
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