Every Tuesday my mother takes me to see Doctor Bets, which I don't really enjoy since his office smells like cigarettes.
He is some sort of psychiatrist and I have been seeing him for some time. He likes to ask questions, as if i committed some crime.
Out of everyone I know, I have only told Dr. Bets about my superpowers. And we would talk and talk as the minute hand ticks past the hours.
I would tell him about how I could lift massive cars with one hand, then crush them into bits of sand. He would generally nod with his unemotional frown; then take his notebook and jot something down. I sometimes wonder what he could possibly be writing in that small book, but every time I ask he will shrug and say I can't look.
Our conversations tend to draw towards my social life at school; saying that I should stop playing around and make some friends. Though what does that jerk think I am, a fool? The miracles I preform is far from pretend.
After the weekly session Dr. Bets privately calls my mother in; while I wait in the blandish looking lounge, bored as hell. Positioning my ear close to the door gives me a idea of what's within. Its usually hard to tell, but the sounds of tears implies things aren't well.