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I was beyond exhausted as I peeled off my clothing. I desperately needed a shower, but there was no way I was leaving this room again. With a deep sigh, I covered Ella up, cleaned up her trash, and put her DS away before climbing into bed. I set my alarm and hoped sleep would claim me quickly.
Chapter 2
Just as I was drifting off, his sweet, smooth voice came to me.
“What happened?!” His thoughts drifted into my near slumber.
“Nothing,” I muttered back in my thoughts.
“Honey, I felt your fear. I felt your panic,” he gently chided.
If I didn’t think I was a freak enough, this sweet male voice had been plaguing me for years. Well, since the death of my father to be exact, seven years ago. The first time I heard him I was sitting by our inground pool at our old house. I never felt more alone, so grief-stricken. After the funeral, I sat by the pool as Heidi flitted around the house entertaining our “guest.” I didn’t understand back then, as I do now, but she had quickly gotten over the unexpected death of my father and was quickly on the prowl for a replacement supporter. She was beautiful back then with her olive complexion, long dark hair, and doe-like hazel eyes. She had a beautiful hourglass figure. The drugs had caught up with her, her hair had lost its luster, her skin became wan and sickly looking. She was almost sickly gaunt with her sunken in cheeks, protruding collar bones, sagging deflated breast, with stick arms and legs.
No one was paying attention to the orphan. I didn’t remember my mother, I had never even seen a picture of her. All I had were stories from my dad about her beauty, vivaciousness, and popularity. Other than her looks, my light had been extinguished the day I lost my dad. I had been outgoing once, optimistic, trusting. My dad had laughed at me and said I never met a stranger that didn’t become my friend.
“Are you okay?” the boy had asked in his childish voice. As I grew, his voice deepened as well. At thirteen his voice even had the cracking of an adolescent.
I had looked around, panicked. There had been no children at the funeral, save myself.
“Who are you? Where are you?” I stood up and looked around.
“Well,” he seemed to hesitate. “It’s kind of hard to explain. I think you’re gifted like me.”
Back then I spoke out loud to him. I hadn’t learned how to project my thoughts yet. “More like crazy,” I muttered as I sat back down, placing my feet in the pool.
“You’re not crazy,” he said insistently. “I thought I was the first time I felt your presence, but my dad assures me that it’s totally natural to feel this way if you are gifted and have a connection with someone.”
I was so confused back then, and I
had no clue what this boy was talking about; it was freaking me out. “Stop talking to me,” I said in anger and fear.
“I can’t,” he said sadly. “You’re sad and I can feel it.”
“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
We continued our conversation until Heidi had interrupted me. “Blake,” she said with feigned concern, a glass of wine in her hand, and her arm threaded through the arm of a man old enough to be her father. “Who are you talking to?”
I instantly recognized my dad’s boss. I also spied enough on my dad to know that Mr. Jones was a “pervert” and liked his women younger. He was always on the lookout for some “trophy” girlfriend.
I was slightly naïve back then, as I shrugged and said. “I don’t know. He won’t tell me his name.”
“Who won’t tell you his name? Where is he?” Mr. Jones asked with true concern. He may have been a pervert, but he had always been nice to me.
“I don’t know,” I responded innocently. “He’s in my head. He says I’m gifted like he is.”
Twenty-four hours later I was shipped to a juvenile mental facility. I spent two weeks there, only to be told that I may have a split personality disorder manifested by the death of my father. Nobody believed me. Eventually, the boy had returned to me. He tried to tell me the ungifted couldn’t understand us or the abilities we may have. He apologized to me and told me this gift was new to him, so he was still learning how to “reach” me. He coached me on what to tell the next counselor so I could get released out of the facility.
It was scary. I saw and witnessed so many disturbing things. I never realized children could be prone to the disorders that I had encountered. Even though they tried to separate us by the level of our danger to others, I still heard the screaming and crying at night.
Eventually, I learned to talk to him through my thoughts. For years now, he has been frustrated that I wouldn’t “drop my barriers” so we can communicate all the time. I refused to, my stint in the facility was enough to scar me for life. I may not be crazy, or I may be, but I wasn’t willing to explore it further. On numerous occasions, I asked for his name, but he never told me so I spitefully wouldn’t tell him my own.
I could tell I frustrated him when I constantly changed his name for my own amusement. When we were younger he always called me girl; as we got older he started giving me the cutesy nicknames that boyfriends and girlfriends gave each other. It was oddly comforting.
After a few attempts at dating, I knew I couldn’t date. I was considered trailer trash, so I was either pursued by those who wanted a quick lay or pursued by those that wanted me to follow the dark path that my stepmom and so many of her other friends were on.
Plus, with school, work, and Ella, I didn’t have much time to entertain the thought of having a conventional relationship. Maybe after I graduated high school, got a great paying job, and moved myself and Ella out of this crap hole, I could think about it.
I was nearly back to sleep when he said insistently. “Honey, what happened?”
