Some say the hardest part of their morning is waking up. Others may use that as the means to tell a particularly vulgar joke. Even more rare for those nightshift workers is saying when they head off to bed. For Deacon, that difficulty was in taking his suppressants. Over the night as he slept the last dosage would inevitably wear off. If nothing else, it made the journey to the dresser different every morning.

This morning the man awoke on a couch clad in only his briefs. Around him the air seemed to fluctuate, almost like the rising and falling of the tide. Yet it wasn't visible, more so that he could feel it. When Deacon's bare feet kissed the cold wooden floor, the movement in the air grew harsh for a second, like a sudden ghost wave struck.

All around him stood mirrors, reflecting the image of an unhealthily skinny african american man. Raising one trembling hand, he held it before him for a few seconds before the mirrors in front of him parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Walking into the new room, Deacon was greeted to the sight around him. It was a small room, almost cozy. Against the far corner sat an unfolded black futon, where the sheets and pillows lay in a haphazard mess. A window saw above the head of this futon, blinds drawn. For the best it stayed that way until the suppressants were ingested. Opposite of the futon sat a small television set upon a table. TO the right of that sat the dresser with the mirror. Only three objects sat on the dresser. A pair of black rectangle sunglasses, a single grey glove, and a plastic bag filled with white pills. Target ahead.

All around him the room began to shake. The mirrors closed back over the door. Flooring panels were creaking, ready to ascend upwards. The curtains waved, giving glimpses of the ever expanding darkness beyond. The eyes, ever seeing yet unseen, could be felt around Deacon. Something beneath his skin began pulsating along his back, trying to break free. Feeling hungry. A liquid, most likely blood, could be felt leaking from his left eye.

Free us.

Hand shaking even more, Deacon managed to pour the last few pills into his other hand.

Killing us.

Now, accompanied with a sound not unlike gunshots, the floorboards shot upward through the ceiling. Splinters and fiberglass were in the air. The suppressants hit the back of Deacon's throat.

Stop! Don't!

Swallowing them dry, Deacon felt like he was coming down off a high. Hard. Pitching forward, he barely managed to catch himself on the dresser. Panting heavily, he forced himself to look around.

Everything was back in place. The air was normal. No longer was his skin threatening to burst apart. His eye looked completely cleaned of blood. One could imagine that the outside looked the way an average city block should look.

Taking a deep, Deacon opened a few drawers and threw on his outfit. Very simple grey sweatpants with a light blue hoodie over a black sleeveless shirt.

A few more deep breaths.

Looking back at the mirror, Deacon noticed his eyes. His eyes with the blown out pupils. Raising up two fingers, the glasses carefully placed themselves over his eyes.

Better.

Walking out of his room, Deacon took a look around. His couch was back in place, as were the floorboards. The mirrors were gone, revealing peeling white paint. On the wall sat a small mounted tv. It was currently playing some news report on an unexplainable explosion that occurred a few miles away in Brooklyn an hour ago. Hmm, that may actually be important. Sitting down, Deacon snapped his fingers and a bag of chips levitated to his hand as he watched.

"And we have with us a man who saw the whole thing from his apartment window," the newscaster seemed excited at this, most likely for the extra viewers, "Mr. Benjamin, please tell our audience at home what you witnessed." No new man jumped on, so he must be talking over phone. "I was sitting in my living room when I heard several explosions happen outside. Looking out my window, I saw manholes bursting open, cars flying through the air. Oh god there were people everywhere. It was a ni-"!

With that the television was shut down. Deacon could guess the rest. His own fault, thinking he could put off getting more pills and trying spreading out his dosages. No matter, new current goal, find more pills. Standing up carefully, he began walking towards the door. Before reaching it, the handle turned and opened.

After walking through his apartment, Deacon levitated up to the roof. Reaching the top, he looked towards the smoke rising to the north. His arrogance. He'd have to try harder in the future. Except now his supplier could be in danger...

Floating up slightly, the telepath became to fly towards his carnage.

It was worse than he feared. The supplier's building had crumbled into the ground. No time for subtlety, Deacon needed to know. Turning his palms upward, he stood still as a statue as the ruins began to rise into the air. People around him were freaking out, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed more suppressants.

A solid minute later, the provider was found. Crushed. No hope for the pills then. Turning around, Deacon found several members of the national guard aiming rifles at him. Idiots. All of them. Holding a hand palm upward, he flicked his fingers towards him. All their rifles landed at his feet. Pausing for a moment, he took a closer look at his fingers. Wavy. The air was fluctuating again. Guess there really wasn't enough pills left.

By the way they were recoiling back, along with the liquid feeling out of his eye probably meant the blood was leaking out again.

They're watching.

The eyes were watching, sky was going black. The people were being misshapen. Ground shaking.

Let them watch.

The screams were getting distorted, unable to see clearly.

Let us out.

I will.