I hear other people’s thoughts the way others hear background music. A low hum, the crackle of a dusty radio. Some people wish they could know what others are thinking. I see it as an irritation.
Most days I can tune everyone out. But this week was different.
Susan was different.
MONDAY
Rain battered the office windows as Susan talked nonstop, barely pausing for breath. She rambled through the day with a fixed smile.
But her thoughts were dark.
Not words.
Just frantic bursts of feeling, like a bird slamming against a cage.
They hit into me and I couldn’t stop them, then vanished.
TUESDAY
She talked even more, laughing off mistakes with an “Oopsy daisy.”
But her mind pulsed toward me like a heartbeat against glass. It was as if her thoughts were seeking me out.
WEDNESDAY
She hadn’t brushed her hair or changed. Mascara crusted her cheeks; whisky lingered on her breath. Her thoughts spilled into me like shards of glass.
A snap of fear.
A corridor.
A blinking light overhead.
“Stop,” I choked. Thoughts had never come to me like this before.
THURSDAY
She vibrated with nervous energy. Rain-soaked, she typed clumsily.
Panic.
Cold air.
A flicker of fluorescent light.
A metallic taste.
FRIDAY
She barely spoke. Her thoughts were quieter, heavier.
I went to her desk. “Susan,” I whispered, touching her shoulder. A wave of fear hit me, making my vision blur.
Her manager called her in.
“Come back fresh on Monday,” he said.
“I get a head start on the weekend,” she said, smiling through tears.
I didn’t stop her.
MONDAY
Her desk stayed empty.
At three pm we gathered in meeting room 3B.
“Susan Bishop passed away over the weekend.”
A hush fell.
The corridor.
The blinking light.
The terror.
They weren’t feelings.
They were memories. Hers.
I stared at her empty chair.
Add comment
Comments