Excerpt
Please God, help me to be normal. Take away the things I see and make me be like everyone else.
She wasn’t sure why she continued to recite the words. If there was a God, he didn’t seem to be listening – at least not to her. Maybe it was habit that kept her praying, or maybe it was the need for control. It certainly wasn’t faith. Praying was like making a wish on a dandelion or blowing the candles on a birthday cake. There were promises in the whispers of rituals, and they enticed her.
To feel no pain, she asked of the force that carried wishes to the wind. To be free from absorbing the emotions of others and escape the trap of knowing their motivations. To dislike someone because they had crooked teeth, not because their soul was like the air on a damp, rainy day.
She was happy when the visitors stopped coming. After the first day of silence, she thought she might be free. No more talking to an empty room or watching a teenager’s suicide. No more feigning surprise when the phone rang. Just peace.
And then the feelings came in their place – strong, intuitive senses that choked and overwhelmed. Reactions to people and places that caused her to leave a party or end a conversation. Warnings that threatened and stalked until she listened. She hated them and wanted the visitors back. They didn’t return, and she was forced to live with strong emotions that raged and rattled her senses.
She had them all day at school. Vague and transparent, they lingered as she sat through classes at the local high school. She tried to push them aside as she moved from room to room. It was like being in the middle of a light fog or a soft summer mist. Feelings that were trying to reach out and warn her. Sprinkles of emotion ran down her neck and spine, searching for a way in. She tried to brush them away.
When they came on like this, the best thing to do was concentrate on the details of her surroundings; force herself back into reality. She directed her attention to the sounds of slamming lockers and gossiping teenagers. Focus, she reprimanded and stared at the posters that cluttered the hallway. ‘Go Mustangs’ and ‘We’re Number One’ screamed from the stretches of concrete beneath the ceiling. What’s the quarterback’s name again? Burns. Yea, that’s right. Chris Burns. And what’s his number? She searched her memory. 14…or maybe it’s 15. Come on, Jessica, think. She needed to start paying attention to school sports.
“Hey Jessica!”
“Hey!” She waved and faked a smile. That was Christine. Christine Connolly. She sits behind you. Mr. Klein’s class. Third row from the window.
Infinity. That’s how she sometimes described them; a tornado with no beginning, or end. They started slowly, small pinpricks of rain falling against her skin but quickly gaining momentum. If she didn’t hold on, she’d be caught in the spinning cycle. Something bad was going to happen…