The Question - Chapter 1

The worst part about being me is that I only tell the truth.

Well, actually, the worst part is that people don’t like hearing the truth when it comes from me.  The truth is too blunt, too painfully loud.  It hurts their ears.  It’s not what they want to hear.  So, they get angry.  They get embarrassed.  And they blame me.  But it’s not my fault.  

The truth is what they pay me for, so that’s what I give them.

I can’t remember when I first noticed it.  My gift, I mean.  But I know exactly when I started to charge money for it.  It was the day after my dad died.

Most of my clients are local.  Occasionally, I get tourists who read about this open-air nightclub and want to see the bands that play in the courtyard.  Many are college students who are out for a night of drinking and partying downtown.  Others are regulars who are here every night.

They parade past me in my booth, cocktails in hand, and some of them laugh.  Some of them point and whisper.  Most of them stare.  And those are the ones who know my name.

It’s like I’m in high school all over again.  It started in third grade because of my freckles.  In seventh, it was because I have icy blue eyes, pale white skin, and dark wavy brown hair " a combination no middle school kid had ever seen before, at least not around here.  Finally, in my last year of high school, it got so bad I just walked away, for good.

It was no great loss, not for me.  I already knew everything they were trying to teach me.  I passed all of their tests, even though I skipped out most of the semester.  When I was in class, I blurted out the answer before the teacher even finished with the question, and apparently nobody liked that, especially from a girl.   I didn’t follow the rules because they were stupid and served no higher purpose.  And it didn’t matter if I got into trouble since they couldn’t threaten me with a note home to my parents.  My mom was already gone and my dad was usually passed out by noon anyway.

I frustrated teachers and alienated students.  I didn’t fit within their definitions of what was normal.  I didn’t fit, period. 

But the whispering in the halls made the final decision easy for me.  Their whispers were loud enough for me to hear and even when I tried to ignore them, I couldn’t get their words out of my head.  Quirky.  Psycho.  Freak.

I thought, maybe if I explained it to them.  Maybe if I told them what’s really going on, they would understand.  But I couldn’t.  Words don’t really describe who I am, or what I do, or how I see, and yet words are all I have to communicate with those who aren’t like me.  In the end, it was just easier to leave it behind and let them think they were right about me.

It’s better now, though.  Three years later, I can accept the fact that I’m different and that no one will ever really understand what it’s like to be me.  I may be on my own now, but it’s all good.  I know the truth of who I am, and most people don’t have that kind of insight - about themselves or anyone else.

Even now, they don’t know how to act around me.  They’re nervous.  They’re curious.  They’re confused.  They may want to understand, but can’t, so judging me from a distance is the only reaction that makes sense to them.

But then a brave few will sit down in the seat across from me and hand me their twenty dollars and ask me their question.  I will then close my eyes and give them the answer.  Like I said, it’s not always the answer they want, but I tell them anyway.

I never ask for details.  If they offer up their name, that’s fine, but nothing more.  The less information I get, the more impressed they are.  Plus I don’t need it anyway.  The answer is usually there, already lingering in the back of my mind, even before I close my eyes.  I may pause a few seconds, like I’m searching for the answer, but it’s only to create some drama.  After all, I need a little fun in my life too.  Watching them squirm is entertaining to say the least.

Closing my eyes starts the blue swirling of lights.  Flashes and shapes emerge from the darkness underneath my eyelids.  Usually, subtle waves ebb and flow and swoosh around without form, in the calm blueness of nothing.   Sometimes, the clarity of the vision is jolting and sharp.  Either way, words come from my mouth without forethought, without judgment, without context.  The answer is ready to be heard, regardless of what I see.  I can’t really explain it, but it’s what I do.

The truth is always there, I just have to be open to it.

Quietly, a crumpled but young man sits down in my booth.  I don’t remember seeing him before and he looks nervous, staring at the table top between us.  He holds the bills out for me.

As I reach out my hand to take the payment, he whispers, “Will I...kill again?”

Stunned by his question, I stare at him and accidently let my fingers touch his hand.  I usually don’t touch anyone.  When I do, the visions are way too strong, too private.  And the impact of this particular vision slaps my subconscious mind, making me flinch.  The weight of the answer to his question knocks the breath out of me.  The ‘yes’ screaming in my head is exhaled softly out of my mouth before I can even blink.

Despair-filled eyes look back at me and a tear runs down his cheek.

I want to close my eyes, but I’m afraid of what else I might see.

Reviews

[Melody]

This is good! :)