I have spent all sixteen years of my life denying it. I have done everything to suppress the feelings, to hide my golden eyes and what lies behind them. I have tried to crush the memories and the truth, the unmistakeable truth, of who I am. I have done everything. Yet denial is not enough. I have waited too long, and now over a decade of reality has caught up with me and I am dying, slowly dying, because of what I refused to accept. Of who I refused to be. How ironic that I am dying because I will not be a murderer.
A thought, almost a dream but a little clearer, floats into my mind like a drifting cloud; lost with no direction. There is a woman, a mother, who comes into focus, silhouetted in a doorway. She says some words, soft ones. I am in the picture, too, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I am dressing a doll with a lacy dress, an innocent pastime, but I am confused. Why is mommy so worried? Why are her words getting loud? I didn't mean to hurt the girl. I just glared a little; she was saying bad things about me. And when she looked at my eyes, my eyes were angry. "I'm sorry for being angry, mommy..." But why did the girl have to die? And why did it make me feel so much better, so alive?
I suppose that maybe there could be a scientific word for it. Or maybe I am one in billions who can take the phrase "if looks could kill" and take out "if." Maybe I am the only one on this lonely planet ever born with golden eyes, so brilliantly golden, yet so deadly. Maybe I will be the only one.
Let me bring you back to last week, when life was rolling along as smoothly as it could. Well, considering the entire existence of my life, it was quite an okay couple of days. My tutor was done with me for the day, which meant being free of the bonds of insistent harassment about suppressing my... Well, power, if you will. 
You see, it wasn't just avoiding eye contact that saved me from being a murderer several hundreds of times. There was a boiling desire inside me, eating away at my soul. It was like a constant, raw itch deep down, threatening to break away from its chains at any given moment. Even as a young child, I quickly learned the meaning of my power, and after killing that classmate during my first year of school-- from one seemingly innocent look of resentment and the eye contact that went with it-- I soon realized that it was something that I would have to tread very, very carefully with. I still remember-- of course-- the twisted, terrified look of shock on that girl's face; how her features went from delicate to stone-cold. Reliving it still brought waves of revulsion. 
I was taught since kindergarten by an uncle of mine, my mother's brother, to control my thoughts and keep a steady resonance of peace. I never really knew Kevin as an uncle; only a tutor. A psychologist. A hypnotherapist. Ever since that incident with the girl in kindergarten, Kevin had worked with me, using what he knew and researching what he didn't. From what both he and I could find out, there had never been another human to possess this power to kill as I do. But through hypnosis, reasoning, and careful persuasion, that first incident has not duplicated itself in any way. 
Although most days, I feel like my insides are being chewed up, spit out, and stomped on over and over again. This is what I hide, have always hidden, from anyone else. If Kevin knew that the problem wasn't completely taken care of... Well, for one thing, he'd feel betrayed for my lack of confidence in him, and he'd be sorry for not knowing what all he could do to help. If I put this terrifying weakness into the open, people would start to look at me like they'd eye someone with a disability- with pity and false sympathy. And I, for one, do not want to be treated like charity. I am my own person... In many ways.