I remember when I was younger all the kids used to ask what super power you wish you had. I remember I’d always give the same answer: telepathy. How neat would it be to be able to read anyone’s thoughts on a whim?

Now that I’m older and more experienced, I realize how much telepathy would suck. To bear everyone else’s emotional burdens? What if you couldn’t turn it off?

My name’s Nina. I’m currently residing in Salem’s mental institution. The way I came to be here is odd indeed – I suppose I’ll have to start at the beginning.

I was born to a certain Mr. Jared Dawson and his sixteen year old fiancé, whose name I took. You see, she died in a fire the day I was born – an emergency delivery from my dying mother. I was everyone’s miracle baby, their angel – Nina Angel Dawson.

As I grew up, I was treated like a queen. Daddy’s only little girl, I got everything I wanted. Every day it seemed I became more and more like my mother, and it only made my dad love me more. I had her silver green eyes, I had her ebony black hair. I had her scattered freckles on the same pale skin. I had her fiery spirit. Dad was so convinced she was reborn in me that he called me his little phoenix.

Of course, puberty changed all that. My fiery spirit that was so akin to my mother’s took hold of me fiercely during those years; I must have been only twelve or thirteen. I took out all my anger on my dad, and when that failed, I’d take it out on my belongings. I broke many things during that year, including my father’s heart.

Now don’t get me wrong: I love my father dearly. But he was no match for the raging hormones that became my life, or for the fire burning in me that threatened to destroy him and me. And by fire, I don’t mean zeal or passion. I mean literally – fire.

The day I turned fourteen, I developed a skill that can only be known as pyrokinesis. The ability to set things ablaze just by willing it so. I remember the scene so vividly – my boyfriend had broken my heart that day, and I came home on a rampage. As I smashed things in my room to pieces, including a crystal heart he had given me a few months back, I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed at the top of my lungs. And fire – fire shot out of my fingertips.

See, my dad had failed to tell me what I connected myself to in later years: I got pyrokinesis from my mother. It was how she died; during the contractions before giving birth to me, her screams set their studio apartment ablaze. Someone was fortunate – or unfortunate – enough to call an ambulance, and alas, Nina was born.

You can probably imagine how traumatic the scenario was – to discover that you can create fire? I told no one, not even my father, for fear of being shunned. But it wasn’t frightening at first; no, it was rather fun. It was easy for me to control. All I had to do was will something on fire, and it happened. But after awhile it spun out of my control. Like my thoughts on telepathy: what happens when you can’t control it? What happens when your power becomes your life?

The first incident was the smallest and also the most vivid in my mind. It was a beautiful day, midsummer, and I was lying in the sweet scented grass below a fragrant juniper bush. I was half asleep, just staring at the sky in wonder as puffy white clouds floated by, when the prettiest little butterfly flitted by. He was purple, with black tipped wings, and I began watching it with increased fancy. Eventually I sat up, and the pretty creature flitted to my extended finger delightedly. It landed, flapped its wings once, twice, and I smiled. And then the creature burst into flames.

I know it’s not much, but this first incident burns the worst in my memory. To see such an innocent, pure creature lacerated in a single moment hurts worse than any of the larger crimes my pyrokinesis committed. And I say that my pyrokinesis committed these atrocities rather than myself because it’s true: I honestly had no control.

Now to why I’m in this asylum – a number of fires spun out of my control and numerous times I was charged with arson, only to say that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. It was my pyrokinesis! But as you can imagine, that plea doesn’t hold up in a court of law too well. I was committed almost instantly.

The first fire was no big deal. It happened during a sexual encounter with my boyfriend at the time, David. I was consumed with passion, and as you can imagine, passion or bliss of any kind does not mix well with pyrokinesis. The bed caught fire. Daniel was terrified, and convinced I had purposely set the fire, just for kicks. It’s not like I could tell him the real story, so I let him believe it. And I was charged with arson.

The second fire though – the second fire destroyed my life. I was sixteen years old, and like every teenager goes through I got caught coming in after curfew. My dad was irate; looking back, I can’t blame him – he put up with so much from me all my life. Nina’s heart is broken; Nina’s too busy to be bothered with her father; Nina’s friends come first. Looking back I see why he screamed at me that night.

But as I said before, I had a fiery persona and a fiery temper. I screamed right back at him, cursed him and his love for me. I told him I wish he would just vanish from my life forever so I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I told him I wished he was dead.

I don’t know what killed him more – my cruel words, or the fire that had begun to consume the house.

Now here I sit, in a room of padded walls. There are singe marks around the steel doorway where I tried to burn my way out. They’ve grown smarter; my arms are now pinned mercilessly to my side.

I’ve grown smarter too; I’ll gain their trust, and the next time they take me out of the straight jacket, I’m going to set myself on fire.