Post by shortstop on Aug 29, 2016 10:57:51 GMT -5
In his short life, he had dreamed many times of being a hero.
He had imagined flights across an open sky, of strength great enough to break rocks, of the power to turn invisible to the eye. It was no secret to anyone who knew the boy, rather, it was a source of amusement, a testament to the power of a young child's imagination.
But there came a night when they were no longer fantasies.
His mother had closed the door with a soft click behind him after his bedtime story, like she had plenty of nights before. His nightlight had flickered on, illuminating the area next to his bed. He leaned over the side to check underneath for monsters, as usual, but he only saw the ordinary- stuffed toys, little things cast aside and forgotten. He smiled to himself before settling down for sleep.
His dreams were a swirling mass of color and nonsense, as they always were. Flashes of pictures that would mean nothing once he woke.
In the world of the waking, thunder cracked once and lightning lit up the sky, shaking the earth with ferocity that would ordinarily wake a seven year old.
He twitched in his sleep but didn't stir.
In his dreams, he was sitting at his desk in his kindergarten classroom. She shimmered her way into his existence in front of him, a small creature with tiny, sparkly wings.
He had gaped at her in delight. His small hands reached out to touch her, following instinct the way any child did when left to their own devices in the safety of dreams.
She ducked away, giggling softly. She had offered him a choice, a way to be special like his heroes that he watched on screens and spent days fantasizing about. Only, it was his choice as to how.
He answered with the first that came to his tongue- the power to read the minds of others. It was perfect. Strength and speed were cool, but this was more so. And, even better, he was just like his favorite superhero.
For the rest of the night, he was his own hero. He solved crimes. He could tell when people were lying. He didn't hurt anyone, although he could have, and he turned the worst villains back to the side of good.
When he woke, he lay back on his pillows with a smile. The first part of the night had faded into hazy memories, but the second part, the best part, remained crystal clear.
The world seemed more vibrant now. Something was buzzing outside his room.
Wake him up, make him eat breakfast, send him off to school, go to work, come home, make dinner, eat, sleep, repeat.
He tilted his head. His mother's voice, though it was lower in pitch and tone than it usually was, like the voice she had used when she told him that his grandma had moved away. At the moment, his door had opened. Wake up, she had told him. She spoke cheerily, like she always did. His breakfast was downstairs and waiting.
Before he could ask her why she had spoken outside his door, she left.
He ate his breakfast like she had asked, when he heard her voice for a second time. How is it possible to love a life and hate it this much?
This time, he asked what she had said. It was nothing.
He heard it a third time while she hugged him goodbye while he was leaving for school. When are we going to tell him the truth?
He drew back and asked her what the truth was. She stiffened and just hugged him tighter. The truth about me and his father, the sadder voice told him, though the light one offered him no answers, only his lunchbox.
What about you and Daddy?
How does he know?
The bus pulled up. Leaving his mother staring after him, he ran to meet it, saying a hello to the bus driver.
Why does he run from the door instead of waiting by the road? It would take much less time. They say I'm late, but it's because of these stupid kids and their clingy parents.
But her lips didn't move, except to say a rushed greeting. He turned away from her, simply accepting that today is a stranger day than usual. He smiled as he wondered if he can still read minds, like in his dream.
He walked past the other children, took his seat near the front.
I've got ham and cheese today, right?
I'm bored.
I don't want to go to school.
I can't wait to show Sarah my new shoes!
No one's mouth moved with the voices he heard.
The voices kept speaking to him, more and more as the rows of the bus slowly filled. His friend sitting next to him also had two voices. One spoke of his lovely new baby sister. The other spoke about how much he hated her.
He realized it was true, that somehow he still had his power. He told his friend quickly, and while his mouth told him how cool it was, and said they could play later, his thoughts told him, Haven't we played this game a thousand times? Why am I always the sidekick? Why can't I be the hero for once?
He frowned, tried to tell him it wasn't a game.
When they arrived at school, there were too many voices. He didn't want to listen anymore, it was too loud. But he could still hear them.
When he sat down in his chair so that his teacher could teach them how to read, he tried to tell about how it was here that the creature had appeared and offered him his choice. His teacher, a large woman with long blond hair and a sunny smile, told him to share his dream at recess maybe, because now it was time to listen. I can't even get through a whole lesson without being interrupted, Her thoughts told him.
It went on like this. On the playground, a girl got angry when he knew that she was lying about her grade on a quiz. His friend was upset that he refused to admit that the mind-reading was just another game.
When he went home, he couldn't convince his mother about the reality of the situation either.
When she read him his bedtime story, she refused to answer her son's questions about why she had cried at work.
He learned that other people didn't seem to take him seriously when he told them he could tell what they were thinking, but didn't appreciate it when he could prove it. He realized he should probably just keep it to himself.
It wouldn't stop, even when he asked. He didn't want to hear the voices, the ones that would speak of darker things than lips did, the random questions that would pop out of nowhere, or even worse, the constant singing that told him someone had a song stuck in their, and now his, head.
When he was eight, his parents tried to hide from him the custody battles they fought behind closed doors of courts, but he lived through them anyway. He would hear the thoughts of his mother and father when they came home, almost like shouts of frustration piercing the air. He felt his father's anger, at his lawyers, at the settlement that they reached. He heard his mother's silent cries of distress, at the world, at God for being so unfair.
But none of it was ever directed at him, never at him. He felt the pity, the sorrow, the love that they felt when they looked at him, but they were never angry. It wasn't his fault, and they always tried to remind him of that, with their words and their thoughts.
It was the only time he was grateful for his abilities.
When he was eleven, his mother asked him to be the ring-bearer at her wedding to the man who would never look him in the eye when they met. The man who tried to befriend him, for the sake of the woman they both loved. The man who possessed a loathing for the boy's resemblance to his father, which he could hide from his girlfriend, but not from her son.
He agreed to be in the wedding, but that didn't mean he liked it. What an idiot, the new husband had thought scornfully when he dropped the rings by mistake.
When he was sixteen, he hardly suffered. If he could hear the thought of a teenager one minute, he would be hearing the words from their lips from the next. Nothing was hidden. They possessed no filters, and it was one of the greatest years of his life.
When he was eighteen, he learned to control it.
He could hear the nice voices, but it was the harsh ones that he remembered. He grew used to it. He learned to tune out the worst of their thoughts, but when they were about him, they could not be ignored.
He had learned to live with them, but wished for life without.
Some people found it strange that he could read them so well. Others found it strange that he could answer every question that was ever asked of him, like he knew what they were going to ask ahead of time. All of them stayed away. It was fine.
Who needed their companionship when he already knew anything they could tell him?
He passed through all of his schooling with high honors. It was easy, too easy when he knew the answers. He passed through life in a similar fashion.
When he was twenty-four, he met her.
It wasn't that he couldn't hear her thoughts. It was that they were pure.
He slowly fell in love with her, every day she came into the diner and sat in the booth across the room. He couldn't work up the courage to speak with her, something he had not experienced for a long time.
He listened in on her life, a silent observer.
It was she who eventually approached him when she caught him staring one Thursday evening. He cringed, waiting for the inevitable, What a freak. Or perhaps, Doesn't he know it's rude to stare?
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Her lips said.
For the first time since he was seven, the words spoken were the best ones.
He didn't need any others.
He had imagined flights across an open sky, of strength great enough to break rocks, of the power to turn invisible to the eye. It was no secret to anyone who knew the boy, rather, it was a source of amusement, a testament to the power of a young child's imagination.
But there came a night when they were no longer fantasies.
His mother had closed the door with a soft click behind him after his bedtime story, like she had plenty of nights before. His nightlight had flickered on, illuminating the area next to his bed. He leaned over the side to check underneath for monsters, as usual, but he only saw the ordinary- stuffed toys, little things cast aside and forgotten. He smiled to himself before settling down for sleep.
His dreams were a swirling mass of color and nonsense, as they always were. Flashes of pictures that would mean nothing once he woke.
In the world of the waking, thunder cracked once and lightning lit up the sky, shaking the earth with ferocity that would ordinarily wake a seven year old.
He twitched in his sleep but didn't stir.
In his dreams, he was sitting at his desk in his kindergarten classroom. She shimmered her way into his existence in front of him, a small creature with tiny, sparkly wings.
He had gaped at her in delight. His small hands reached out to touch her, following instinct the way any child did when left to their own devices in the safety of dreams.
She ducked away, giggling softly. She had offered him a choice, a way to be special like his heroes that he watched on screens and spent days fantasizing about. Only, it was his choice as to how.
He answered with the first that came to his tongue- the power to read the minds of others. It was perfect. Strength and speed were cool, but this was more so. And, even better, he was just like his favorite superhero.
For the rest of the night, he was his own hero. He solved crimes. He could tell when people were lying. He didn't hurt anyone, although he could have, and he turned the worst villains back to the side of good.
When he woke, he lay back on his pillows with a smile. The first part of the night had faded into hazy memories, but the second part, the best part, remained crystal clear.
The world seemed more vibrant now. Something was buzzing outside his room.
Wake him up, make him eat breakfast, send him off to school, go to work, come home, make dinner, eat, sleep, repeat.
He tilted his head. His mother's voice, though it was lower in pitch and tone than it usually was, like the voice she had used when she told him that his grandma had moved away. At the moment, his door had opened. Wake up, she had told him. She spoke cheerily, like she always did. His breakfast was downstairs and waiting.
Before he could ask her why she had spoken outside his door, she left.
He ate his breakfast like she had asked, when he heard her voice for a second time. How is it possible to love a life and hate it this much?
This time, he asked what she had said. It was nothing.
He heard it a third time while she hugged him goodbye while he was leaving for school. When are we going to tell him the truth?
He drew back and asked her what the truth was. She stiffened and just hugged him tighter. The truth about me and his father, the sadder voice told him, though the light one offered him no answers, only his lunchbox.
What about you and Daddy?
How does he know?
The bus pulled up. Leaving his mother staring after him, he ran to meet it, saying a hello to the bus driver.
Why does he run from the door instead of waiting by the road? It would take much less time. They say I'm late, but it's because of these stupid kids and their clingy parents.
But her lips didn't move, except to say a rushed greeting. He turned away from her, simply accepting that today is a stranger day than usual. He smiled as he wondered if he can still read minds, like in his dream.
He walked past the other children, took his seat near the front.
I've got ham and cheese today, right?
I'm bored.
I don't want to go to school.
I can't wait to show Sarah my new shoes!
No one's mouth moved with the voices he heard.
The voices kept speaking to him, more and more as the rows of the bus slowly filled. His friend sitting next to him also had two voices. One spoke of his lovely new baby sister. The other spoke about how much he hated her.
He realized it was true, that somehow he still had his power. He told his friend quickly, and while his mouth told him how cool it was, and said they could play later, his thoughts told him, Haven't we played this game a thousand times? Why am I always the sidekick? Why can't I be the hero for once?
He frowned, tried to tell him it wasn't a game.
When they arrived at school, there were too many voices. He didn't want to listen anymore, it was too loud. But he could still hear them.
When he sat down in his chair so that his teacher could teach them how to read, he tried to tell about how it was here that the creature had appeared and offered him his choice. His teacher, a large woman with long blond hair and a sunny smile, told him to share his dream at recess maybe, because now it was time to listen. I can't even get through a whole lesson without being interrupted, Her thoughts told him.
It went on like this. On the playground, a girl got angry when he knew that she was lying about her grade on a quiz. His friend was upset that he refused to admit that the mind-reading was just another game.
When he went home, he couldn't convince his mother about the reality of the situation either.
When she read him his bedtime story, she refused to answer her son's questions about why she had cried at work.
He learned that other people didn't seem to take him seriously when he told them he could tell what they were thinking, but didn't appreciate it when he could prove it. He realized he should probably just keep it to himself.
It wouldn't stop, even when he asked. He didn't want to hear the voices, the ones that would speak of darker things than lips did, the random questions that would pop out of nowhere, or even worse, the constant singing that told him someone had a song stuck in their, and now his, head.
When he was eight, his parents tried to hide from him the custody battles they fought behind closed doors of courts, but he lived through them anyway. He would hear the thoughts of his mother and father when they came home, almost like shouts of frustration piercing the air. He felt his father's anger, at his lawyers, at the settlement that they reached. He heard his mother's silent cries of distress, at the world, at God for being so unfair.
But none of it was ever directed at him, never at him. He felt the pity, the sorrow, the love that they felt when they looked at him, but they were never angry. It wasn't his fault, and they always tried to remind him of that, with their words and their thoughts.
It was the only time he was grateful for his abilities.
When he was eleven, his mother asked him to be the ring-bearer at her wedding to the man who would never look him in the eye when they met. The man who tried to befriend him, for the sake of the woman they both loved. The man who possessed a loathing for the boy's resemblance to his father, which he could hide from his girlfriend, but not from her son.
He agreed to be in the wedding, but that didn't mean he liked it. What an idiot, the new husband had thought scornfully when he dropped the rings by mistake.
When he was sixteen, he hardly suffered. If he could hear the thought of a teenager one minute, he would be hearing the words from their lips from the next. Nothing was hidden. They possessed no filters, and it was one of the greatest years of his life.
When he was eighteen, he learned to control it.
He could hear the nice voices, but it was the harsh ones that he remembered. He grew used to it. He learned to tune out the worst of their thoughts, but when they were about him, they could not be ignored.
He had learned to live with them, but wished for life without.
Some people found it strange that he could read them so well. Others found it strange that he could answer every question that was ever asked of him, like he knew what they were going to ask ahead of time. All of them stayed away. It was fine.
Who needed their companionship when he already knew anything they could tell him?
He passed through all of his schooling with high honors. It was easy, too easy when he knew the answers. He passed through life in a similar fashion.
When he was twenty-four, he met her.
It wasn't that he couldn't hear her thoughts. It was that they were pure.
He slowly fell in love with her, every day she came into the diner and sat in the booth across the room. He couldn't work up the courage to speak with her, something he had not experienced for a long time.
He listened in on her life, a silent observer.
It was she who eventually approached him when she caught him staring one Thursday evening. He cringed, waiting for the inevitable, What a freak. Or perhaps, Doesn't he know it's rude to stare?
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Her lips said.
For the first time since he was seven, the words spoken were the best ones.
He didn't need any others.
