"Statson, coffee! The usual."
"Y-Yes sir, Mr. Grant. I'll get right on it, sir."
I turned my back to my employer, pushing my face into my elbow as I faked a sneeze. Doctor Stirling said to never let them see you defeated; don't let them see you cry, don't even let them think for a minute that you aren't happy where you are. So I raised my head up, and I went about my job: making the coffee while everyone else does the important work.
My name is Richard Statson. I'm 29 years old, and I work at the Maple Shade Tribune, my town's local paper. We're one of the few places in America where journalism isn't completely dead, and I guess I'm a little grateful for that; if a degree in journalism got me the job of practically being everyone's bitch, I'd hate to see how I would fare in a different line of work.
Mr. Grant is the editor in chief of the Tribune, and I still remember the first thing he said after he shook my hand for the first time:
"We'll let you know if we need anything from you."
That was it. No story for me to write, no fellow journalists to acquaint myself with; he put me on the back burner as soon as he laid eyes on me- hell if I know why. All I know is that he and the rest of my co workers always say they'll "let me know" if something comes up; until that something comes up, my primary function is to make coffee, which is apparently my only skill. A journalism student in a newspaper career- it's the most useless job I can imagine.
I entered the break room, ensuring that nobody else was in the room with me. Looking over my shoulder, I quickly shut the door behind me and approached the coffee maker that sat on the counter. I filled up the coffee pot with water, and placed it next to the machine.
The others don't know about my... ability. Hell, I'd call it a superpower if it weren't virtually useless. But that's why I always make the coffee with the door closed and nobody else in the room.
It doesn't happen instantly, and it always takes a good amount of concentration. I dipped my hands into the pot of water, closed my eyes, and began filling my mind with mental images. I forced myself to picture the fires of Hell; the roaring flames, razing the flesh of the souls that inhabit it. I imagined the sound of drums in my head; slow, rhythmic jungle drums that thundered on endlessly. The mental flames grew higher, rising up to the point of scraping the cavernous ceiling of the underworld. I could feel the rush of flames, my body growing hot. That was the telltale sign that it was ready.
The flames stopped burning. The drums stopped beating, quickly crescendoing into a roll before ceasing. I opened my eyes, and the pot of water had grown boiling hot from my touch.
I smiled, proud of my work. At least I was good at what I did.
I carried the scalding cup of coffee out of the break room, taking it to the office. Mr. Grant and several other reporters were in the middle of a meeting, but one of them saw me and beckoned for me to enter. I opened the door quietly, closing it behind me and placing the cup of coffee in front of Mr. Grant.
"H-Here's your coffee, sir." I muttered, quickly stepping away from the table. He nodded, giving a simple "Mm-hm" before continuing on with his conversation.
I watched him take a sip before almost spitting it out. "Statson!" he scolded through gritted teeth, "Coffee is supposed to be hot, not scalding! Don't mess up again, or it's your ass! Are we clear?"
"Yes sir. Sorry, sir." I responded, giving no thought to the words leaving my mouth. What else could I have said?
Sorry about that sir, it's just that you hired a freak who can burn things with their mind. Got a little carried away, you know how it is.
After that ordeal, I shamefully returned to the break room, quietly collapsing into one of the open seats. I was perfectly content to spend the rest of the day wallowing, when...
"Statson! Just the guy I was looking for. Heard you fucked up Grant's coffee, huh? God, what kind of retard fucks up something that easy?"
Bryant. He was one of Grant's top reporters, and just like Mr. Grant, he had decided almost immediately that I was the worst thing that ever happened to the Tribune. He came up the most often in my sessions with Doctor Stirling, and I could hear his words echoing through my head as my face grew hot:
Don't feel like you have to engage him. There's no reason for you to prove yourself to someone as antagonistic as him.
"You shouldn't say that word," I mumbled, ignoring my own subconscious warnings, "it's not w-workplace appropriate."
"What, retard?" Bryant sneered. "I guess it really is offensive to retarded people, because it's got your panties in a twist, huh?"
My face grew hotter, and so did my hands. In my head, jungle drums began to pound softly.
"I mean it," I stammered a bit louder, "just... leave me alone!"
"Or what, Statson? You gonna beat me up? Maybe serve me some coffee that's too hot?"
My mind went back to earlier- my hands in the water, feeling it bubble and boil against my palms. The fires of Hell grew ever clearer in my peripheral vision...
No. Please don't.
"You know, Statson," Bryant jeered as he approached my seat from behind, "I think you need to be taught a l-"
He patted my shoulder in a show of mock support... then stopped. I glanced over to him as he struggled to remove his hand from my shoulder. He locked eyes with me, and I could see the panic beginning to dawn.
I could also begin to smell the flames that were being kindled inside his body.
You've all seen something burn on the outside; it's engulfed in its entirety, withering away to a blackened husk in an instant. But if you want to burn something from the inside, it takes a little bit longer. And from the look on Bryant's face, I imagine it's a whole lot more painful.
His eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he tried desperately to scream, acrid black smoke billowing out of his open mouth. His skin grew red and began to blister, the blisters instantly popping and bubbling over. Wherever the skin broke, black smoke rose from the wounds. He dropped to the floor, his melted hand on my shoulder nearly taking me with him. He jerked and spasmed wildly, his body glued to the inside of his cheap blue suit. When it was over, he looked like a dehydrated husk of a man, smoke still seeping out of every open crack on his body. Without entirely thinking about what had just happened, I scraped his hand off of my shoulder, letting the rest of his body collapse limply to the ground.
I opened the door a crack, glancing over to the meeting room where Mr. Grant deliberated with his reporters. Now that I had seen the full effects of my skill, maybe I could use it to finally get rid of all the assholes that made my life as vivid a hell as the one I pictured.
Extra, extra, read all about it! Entire Paper Staff Internally Combusts, Underappreciated Journalist Tells Story. Now that's a headline for you.
I could burn them alive, I know. I could torch the whole building with all of them in it just by thinking about it. But looking back on Bryant's withered corpse, I realized that for the first time in a long time, I had finally felt the rush of being alive. I had unlocked the key to a new form of pain entirely; cooking a human alive from the inside. How did I do it? It's simple, really- I just did to his body what I always do whenever I have to make somebody coffee.
I boiled the water.