The Crescent City Chronicles: La Lumière

Chapter 1: The Weight of Truth

 

One year ago, I had no idea my life was about to change. Well, if I'm being honest, it started a little before that. I'd made the decision to quit my high school teaching job back in Millbrook, Mississippi. Don't get me wrong, I loved those kids, but there's only so many times you can explain the importance of semicolons to a room full of teenagers more interested in their phones than Fitzgerald.

​

Millbrook was the kind of small town where everyone knew your business before you did. It was charming, in its own way, but for someone like me—always a bit of an outsider, always watching and observing—it could feel suffocating. I'd grown up there, the quiet girl with her nose always in a book, the one who could write essays that made even the toughest teachers tear up. Words were my superpower, my escape.

​

But it wasn't just my way with words that set me apart. There was something else, something that had been growing inside me since I was a child. At first, it was just a feeling, a little tingle when someone wasn't being entirely truthful. As I got older, it became more pronounced, more powerful.

​

By the time I started teaching, I'd learned that my gift was both a blessing and a curse. People's thoughts were always there, a constant background hum like radio static. Most of the time, I could ignore it, push it to the back of my mind like white noise. But when I asked the right questions, it was like tuning into a clear station. Suddenly, I could hear their thoughts as plain as day, feel their emotions as if they were my own.

​

My students used to joke that I had a built-in lie detector. "Miss Thompson always knows," they'd say, half in awe, half in fear. I'd laugh it off, but deep down, I knew they were right. I didn't just smell cover-ups; I could see right through them, straight into the minds of those trying to hide the truth.

​

It was overwhelming at first - a constant barrage of unfiltered truths and hidden desires. I had to learn to compartmentalize, to shut it out, just to maintain my sanity. But even with all my practice, when I focused or asked the right questions, the flood of thoughts and feelings would rush in, revealing secrets their owners desperately wanted to keep hidden.

One particular memory stood out, a perfect example of both the blessing and the curse of my ability...

​

It was the end of my fifth year teaching. I'd gotten better at controlling my gift, at not accidentally prying truths from unsuspecting minds. But sometimes, when the stakes were high enough, I'd let myself ask the dangerous questions.

Shanice, one of my brightest students, had been absent for weeks. When she finally returned, she was a shadow of her former self – quiet, withdrawn, flinching at sudden movements. My gut told me something was very wrong.

After class, I asked her to stay behind. "Shanice," I said gently, "is everything okay at home?"

​

She nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Everything's fine, Miss Thompson."

​

The familiar pressure built behind my eyes, a dull throb that signaled she was hiding something. I took a deep breath, weighing the consequences of pushing further. But the haunted look in Shanice's eyes made the decision for me.

​

"Shanice," I said softly, carefully choosing my words. "What's changed recently at home?"

​

Our eyes met, and I felt it—a surge of energy as her mind opened to me. Suddenly, I was bombarded with flashes of memories: a man's leering face, the creak of a bedroom door late at night, paralyzing fear.

Fighting to keep my voice steady, I asked, "Who's been making you uncomfortable at home?"

​

The question was like a key unlocking a flood of thoughts and emotions. Shanice's eyes widened, and I could hear her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.

​

My uncle. He comes into my room at night. I'm so scared. I can't tell anyone. They won't believe me.

​

"Your uncle," I said softly, not as a question but a statement. "He's been hurting you, hasn't he?"

​

Shanice broke down, sobbing, the truth pouring out of her both verbally and mentally. I held her as she cried, my heart breaking. I'd known something was wrong, but this... this was beyond what I'd imagined.

​

In that moment, I was grateful for my gift. It had given Shanice the push she needed to speak her truth, to ask for help. But as I sat with her in the counselor's office later, watching as she repeated her story to the authorities, I felt the weight of my power. My questions had unlocked thoughts Shanice had been desperately trying to hide, changing the course of her life forever. For better or worse, I'd set events in motion that couldn't be undone.

​

From that day on, I was even more careful with my questions. I used my gift only when absolutely necessary, always aware of the responsibility it carried. It wasn't just about uncovering lies – it was about being ready to handle the consequences.