THE CYPRESS DECREES

No Boring Normies.

No Fight Clubs. 

No Death Sticks. 

The Cypress Decrees. Three institutional rules carved on every campus doorframe in proper English – reduced to slang here. I carefully trace the graffiti, feeling a sense of camaraderie with another social exile. Someone else chose this bathroom stall as their oasis in the chaos of Cypress Institute. It’s like having a buddy. 

The Institute’s foundation is the First Decree: The campus does not welcome the natural. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my ability manifestation. My entrance exams promised an awareness event before graduation, but I’m a junior now and nothing. 

Everyone here has powers, but it turns out the only thing I’m good at is making a gigantic fool of myself. Which is why I’m hiding during fourth period instead of learning the calculus of flight. In the parking lot last week, I backed my rust-bucket into a Cape’s convertible. Now they’re throwing butt-chin bravado around like I killed their beloved animal sidekick. 

Brutes in leotards without fully-formed prefrontal cortexes are terrifying when you’re not an equally-matched villain. That’s probably why the Second Decree exists. The Office of Transgressions must approve all intramural combat. Bullies need paperwork before they can kick your ass, or be rendered powerless in detention. Maybe I should let the Capes catch me, so they can see how it feels.

___

The next day, my period shows up unexpectedly. There’s a cigarette taped to the inside of the disposal lid beside the toilet, like someone needed to hide evidence. A closer look reveals a lighter tucked beside the disposal liner. 

No death sticks, my buddy wrote. An interpretation of the Third Decree: Supernaturals do not smoke. This one has never made sense to me. We have students who shift every full moon. What’s a little lung cancer?

Curiosity overwhelms me. I peel the cigarette from the lid, sniff it, and then stuff the end between my trembling lips. I surprise myself with the lighter igniting on first flick. I inhale smoke, and the world freezes. 

It’s like a switch flipped. Every molecule in my body crackles with electricity. Lightning threads along my fingers. I blink in shock, and the cigarette drops from my mouth. 

I stare at my hands. 

My normal, powerless hands. 

I drop to the tiles and pinch the cigarette, but it’s soggy from the damp floor. 

“Shit!” I cry out, my chest quivering with the need to be filled with power again. 

I slam my fist down in frustration. The cigarette shimmers with a bright white aura before it fizzles out amongst the crumpled remains. 

The tobacco held residual power. I just smoked someone’s power. My fingers itch for more.

___

Over the next few weeks, I learn how careless people at Cypress Institute are about breaking the Third Decree. 

I discover a pipe deposited near the faculty lounge. Thanks to its flashy orange aura, flames shoot out of my nose as I exhale the smoke. Something inside of me feels less empty.

Rolled up in a yoga mat behind the wellness room, I find a bong and choke on the sickeningly sweet contents. Its heavy purple aura envelops me in a silence so thick, I can hear the thoughts of my classmates in nearby rooms. I feel full.

Each pilfered puff fills me with an array of abilities I have only been able to watch others conquer. I become a mosaic of their strength.

Residual power is all I can think about.

I stay awake at night, visualizing what the next aura will feel like in my veins. When I doze off in class, the professor sends me to the office. I sit numbly and let the Dean admonish me about being more careful, about keeping the rules in place. Instead, I read the carving of the First Decree, then the Second Decree. 

There is no Third Decree above this door. 

I am dismissed. I sprint to my oasis, thoughts racing even faster than my feet. 

Every doorway I fly past bears two carvings, two carvings, two carvings. 

In the bathroom, I stare at that last line of the graffiti. My fingers brush against something in my pocket. Carefully, I withdraw a hand-rolled cigarette. The pads of my fingers pinch with practiced movement, like they’ve held this before.

The residual aura oozes out, so black it is more the absence of light. My heart pounds, but I light it. Thick smoke floods my chest. My veins erupt with power, dark and dismal, and I know in my bones that this is a killing power. It feels like home. This is mine.

Memories ricochet to the surface.

A body slumped across from me in the entrance examination room, blood streaming from her ears. 

Electroshock therapy. 

Darkness. 

Suddenly it’s clear.

I’ve finally taken enough from others to have my own power back.

I slap my hand over my mouth and nose, keeping the smoke inside as I hold my breath. Several seconds later, my power in my veins explodes, a shockwave of death detonating from me. Screams echo from down the hall. 

My temples pound. I groan, stumbling towards the stall. 

Bits of bone and sinew stuck to the soles of my shoes as I rush out of the library.

Electroshock therapy. 

Darkness.

The bathroom door flies open, and the Dean falls forward onto his knees, hands pressed over his ears. “No… not again,” he gasps. Crawling across the floor, he moans, “Where… did you… get… smoke? We… have to… mute you.”

Blood drips from my nose.

My powerful hands, pinching tobacco between papers as I roll one last cigarette to smoke.

Blood on my fingers as I reach for the stall door. My hand shakes as I underline the Decree I previously left as warning: No Death Sticks.

I pass out from lack of oxygen.

__

I’m hiding in my oasis, hoping the manic Pixie I accidentally sat on in Elvish doesn’t know about this bathroom. I stare at the graffiti across from me. Is that… blood?