The room blew up on itself. In the metaphorical sense, but it might as well have had an actual bomb in there.

The bomb in this scenario was Heath, who had been ticking closer towards exploding with every passing second.

Unfortunately, he was a human, so there was no green wire one could cut to stop the bomb. There was no switch, or a back-up off button, in case anything went wrong.

So when the bomb inevitably went off, it did so in a spectacular fashion.

The dining room shook at first, as though the bomb had only landed. His mother glanced at her husband, her anger fading to confusion.

Heath had no idea what he was doing, or that he was even responsible for what was occurring. His fists were clenched tightly, and though he noticed the shaking, he payed it no heed.

And then everything burst out of the cupboards.

The china plates flew through the air and smashed against the walls, shattering into a million tiny pieces and falling to the ground. The glasses slammed into one another, chipping shards off each other until there was nothing left. The cutlery flew up into the ceiling like thousands of daggers and embedded themselves there. One grazed Heath's cheek, and another cut his mother's jumper. The jars crashed onto the floor, and the contents flowed out of them.

Everything that wasn't too heavy or held down was either in the air or in pieces. The room looked like a bomb-site.

His mother had covered her head with her arms, her eyes wide as she stared at the tablecloth, as though she expected it to move. His father had done the same, whimpering whenever something got to close for comfort.

Heath didn't realise he was the cause of the chaos. Until he unclenched his fists and put his hands over his ears, attempting to block out the cacophonous sound of the kitchenware being destroyed.

Everything fell to the ground with a gargantuan, ear-splitting noise.

There was silence, as the three caught their breath. His mother and father checked if they were okay and then both turned to Heath.

Heath struggled to process what had just occurred. He never got the chance to gather himself before his mother stood up, eyes blazing and her mouth a thin line and spoke in a quiet, deadly voice.

"Get out."

Heath fumbled over his words as he went to apologise. "I-I'm sor- I didn't know - Mom, I swear, it didn't happen on p-"

"What did I just say?!" his mother screamed, fists clenched tightly at her sides,"I don't want to see you again, you freak!"

"W-what?" he asked, mouth ajar.

"For all we know, you could've killed him! You were never his biggest fan! You were always jealous, boy!" she shouted, her breaths quick and slight.

"M-mom, he w-was my brother. I-I loved h-him t-," Heath said, his hands slack by his sides and his eyes wide.

"You are no son of mine," she said, slamming her hands down on the table, but with less force than she would've done if she hadn't known about the powers,"Now, leave!"

He gaped at his mouth before turning his head to look at his father, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. He offered no comforts either.

So he walked out of the kitchen, shoulders hunched and strides slow. It was a long journey up to his room and he did his best to ignore the thoughts plagued his mind.

He lay awake that night, listening to his parent's conversation. He could almost here their whispers as well, despite the distance. He wished he could shut all of them out. He didn't care about what they had to say. They were like a constant humming in the back of his brain.

And what were the whispers anyway? He thought for a second that he was hearing others thoughts before banishing the idea before it could take hold.

Even before his parents began talking, he couldn't get to sleep. He came to the verge of tears several times, and occasionally accidentally made something shake or come close to flying off into the wall.

And then he just went silent. His breaths were calm and slow, giving nothing away about the inner turmoil. It was at this point he heard his parent's conversation. He quickly wished he hadn't. Ignorance truly was bliss.

"Mark?" his mother asked.

"Yes?" his father replied, in a muffled tone.

"We really have to talk," she said, and a there was the sound of a chair being pulled out.

"About what?"

"You know," she answered,"Heath."

"Oh, yes," he said,"Heath."

He had to strain to hear what his mother said next. "What if he did do it?"

"He may be a super, but he's not like that."

"Are you sure? He was always so... quiet. And he acted like he was jealous of Caleb."

There was a long pause. "I don't know." Another pause. "Maybe it was an accident?"

His mother's voice was cold when she spoke again. "Or maybe he did it on purpose. He might have gotten angry. You saw what happened when he lost his temper there."

There was another pause. His mother broke the silence.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice almost inaudible to Heath.

"About what?"

"I should've checked my family records before we had children," she whispered,"Caleb came out fine so I thought..."

"No, it was my fault," her husband said firmly,"I'm sure I have an aunt who has powers or something. I should've told you."

"It was both our faults then I guess," she said,"We should've checked with a doctor if we were capable of have a super."

Heath stared into the dark, tears spiking his eyes. He turned over, trying to dismiss the thoughts that he was a mistake from his brain.

There was a lull in conversation before the talk returned.

"What are we going to do about it?" she said, her voice barely comprehensible to Heath.

"We'll find a way," he said,"We could do therapy. Might make him stop using his abilities."

"I heard they've developed drugs as well," his mother said, her voice becoming more hopeful,"To hinder and stop powers."

"We'll organise something," he said.

"I hope so. It's getting late, sweetheart," she said.

"Goodnight then, love."

"Goodnight."

Heath lay awake until dawn, contemplating his discoveries. He spoke to neither his mother nor his father that morning and left as he quickly as he could.

In school, he was like a zombie. He was drained, both physically and mentally. Poppy got sick of him acting in that manner, rather quickly and just stayed silent for the day. He didn't want to talk to her anyway. He just wanted some space to think.

He just wanted the world to forget he existed, so he could be alone. So he just ignored everyone, hoping they would ignore him in return.

He didn't look at Ms. Allen throughout the lesson, too tired to get angry at her. Too tired to even pay her any attention.

He just wanted to be past the point of caring. Yet he found he cared far too much.

So when he was told to stay back after class, he just decided to stay in his seat while everyone left. He nodded off multiple times but he managed to stay awake, somehow.

Ms. Allen was the one who started conversation. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes darting to the knife cut,"What happened?"

"Sorry about what?" Heath replied, his gaze solely focused on the table. He ignored her question.

"Something bad occurred last night, didn't it?" she said, smiling sadly.

"How do you know?" he asked, his head resting in his hand.

"You're rarely this tired in class," Ms. Allen said,"Nor do you ignore Ms. Pena that much."

He didn't reply, tracing circles in the table with his finger.

"So what happened?" she asked, sitting down on the desk beside him.

He still didn't reply, his eyes falling to the table again.

"Heath, if you don't tell me, I can't help you," Ms. Allen said, staring him down.

"Don't need your help. I'm getting a therapist for that," he replied, clenching his fist before loosening it again.

"What?" she asked,"All of this because I told your parents about Poppy?"

"Indirectly, I guess," he alluded, still not meeting her eyes.

"Heath, please speak clearly and try to explain everything," Ms. Allen said, placing her hand on his desk,"I wasn't there, don't forget. I don't know what happened."

"Exactly," he said, eyes flitting to her hand,"Why do I have to tell you anything?"

"Because I'm trying to help, Heath," she replied, sighing,"I'm on your side."

"Why'd you tell them then?" he asked, returning to tracing circles in the desk.

"Because I'm a teacher, and it's my job to ensure my students do the best that they can," she said quietly,"And you can't do your best when you've got problems on your mind."

He nodded, staying silent.

"So, tell me what happened," she said, smiling slightly.

"Stuff. An argument. The kitchen blew up."

"Oh," she said,"Did the argument occur because the kitchen blew up, or the other way round?"

"Both," he said, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"How did the kitchen blow up?" she asked, sitting back down onto the seat.

"I blew it up."

"Oh," Ms. Allen said, blinking,"Well, it wasn't your fault. Maybe just your powers were explosive at the time." She paused. "Or maybe it was an actual bomb. In which case..."

Heath stood up abruptly. "It was my fault! And now I'm getting a bloody therapist! So stop trying to help me, because you don't know anything!"

He grabbed his bag, stomped towards the door and slammed it on his way out, leaving his teacher alone in the room.