He can’t exist.
He's not supposed to exist.
Except on the safety of my television screen.
But I come out of the office and he's standing in the middle of my living room, in a navy blue button down, with his hair in haphazard spikes and whirls, and his eyes dark and intense without the distraction of thick framed glasses; behind him, the television that had been showing the NBC rerun is black, sparking, and gives off the faintest odor of ozone.
Whether it's my quick exhale of his name or the sudden resonating thud of my heart against my ribs that alerts him, I'm not sure, but he looks at me and I half expect his pupils to dilate like a cat's; every muscle in my body goes rigid when he steps forward—lips parting to draw in a soft breath, like a sigh of anticipation—and raises one hand before he stops short, head tilting, eyes narrowing and says, "You're not one of us…but you recognize me; who are you?"
I open my mouth and find that I only seem to be able to make basic vowel sounds; what exactly do you say to a fictional, psionic, serial killer who's suddenly appeared in your living room?
A self indulgent piece inspired by Heroes and first appearing at my blog over on the Six Sentences Social Network.