"Sit up straight, dear," a terse voice snaps. "I won't have you slouching."
Gwen tries to sit up, even though her back is already stiff as a board and she doesn't know how much straighter she can be. She obeys this time, without question, because her mother has been in a rotten mood ever since she discovered she'd been denied invitation to the Van Tonsin's formal dinner party. One day, Gwen will ask her if it's because she is so different from the other children. Her mother won't answer, but Gwen will be observant enough to see the shame there.
"And for God's sake, I hope Lynette ironed your dress," her mother continues at the breakfast table, primly dabbing at her lip with a folded napkin. "I can't very well bring you to such a proper event in the manner of a...of a..."
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"Gwen, did you do this?"
There are eyes, angry, frightened eyes and the smell of burnt metal.
"Where are your gloves, Gwen?"
But she doesn't understand. It is very hard to eat with the mittens. She only took them off for a second, and only touched the computer because she found the 's' key on the floor and wanted to replace it.
But those eyes are unrelenting, and unforgiving.
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"You know, maybe when this is all over, you and I could..."
She feels the strike much longer than it takes to find her. It always finds her. Her body practically calls out to it. There is a flash of bright, white hot light and she is thrown backwards with the power of it. The light is gone, but her body still hums, still aches, still flowing with fresh current. The boy with the shy, charming smile has replaced this pleasant expression with one of sheer terror. He's off, as fast as his feet can carry him. Part of her doesn't blame him. The other part, well: "Really, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."
Lightning always finds her. It is a game, almost. Just when she thinks she can escape it, can evade it, there it is, reminding her.
You can't change who you are, honey.
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"Professionals are discreet, young lady. You, on the other hand, are a freak. A dangerous freak. Which is why I had them remodel the elevator you're standing in. More of a retrofit, really. Low-teched the whole thing with six inches of Plexiglas separating you from any available current. Tempered Lucite."
The anger rolls off her in waves, but they too are barred from escaping the impenetrable doors of the elevator, which shut tightly. She can almost feel the air deplete even before the gas streams from the vents above her. And she wonders how she let herself be cornered, why she distracted herself with this stupid vampire Don Juan. There's no escape, no air, even as Angel shoves her to the floor, even as he breaks through the Plexiglas, even as he grabs her hand and the electric current flows freely through her, through him, to the utility panel to free them. Even as she is carried out, light as a feather, out of the poisonous elevator and onto the cool floor of the lobby, Gwen is still trapped inside that elevator, wondering what the hell she did wrong.