Jabbing at the soreness of my arms by clenching my hands into fists, I recall the memory of Liz going into the block. It is not good taking pleasure in others' misfortune, much less death, by I can't help but feel some vengeful pleasure when I think about the accident.
I didn't tell Liz when she asked, but 'Mike' suffocated to death in his own blood after crashing his car while running away. His chest collapsed, his bones tore his lungs, and he drowned in his own overflowing blood, forced him to die painfully.
I can't help but feel some vengeful sweetness inside my heart. He beat Liz, shot her, and tried to kill her. I somewhat regret my lack of accuracy. Had I been better with the gun, he would not even have been able to step out of the house he has schemed to get into.
I exhale away the anger that has risen, and let go of that nefarious, dark feeling. Hating him and feeling anger would be giving her too much importance. He is dead, having in a way paid for his sin. Now I should just live my life. I don't even need Liz to tell me that.
My emotions dull to become somewhat flat, somewhat indifferent, and I return to the present. As I relax, I seem to come back online.
I didn't notice the silence before, but with the return of the noise, they both become noticeable. And I also recall the headache I had forcefully kept at bay yesterday until I got news about Liz and lost consciousness.
'It hurts.'
'He will get better. My son still has life before him.'
'Hehe, I will be discharged soon.'
'I hope he never leaves the hospital. Better yet, he should just die.'
'The operation is coming. I'm afraid.'
'He died too soon. I didn't get to tell him I love him.'
'She will not survive. With that medicine, she and the child will die! I will be free.'
My heart skips a beat at some of the things I hear, and I make to move, to stand up, pushing myself up with my hands, then I pause. I stop my movement, and I relax. Then I force myself to let my mind drift away as the thoughts floating in the small park of the hospital drift through my mind.
I recall yesterday, I recall what 'Mike' said, I recall how he said everything started, before ending in the nightmare that almost swallowed Liz and I. Because I tried to be morally good, because I was not discreet enough, because I did not make myself ordinary enough.
Maybe it is the truth, or maybe he just tried to gaslight me, tear at my defenses with guilt and self-reproach, or with Liz 's dissatisfaction and hatred, by tearing a fissure between us sisters by making her resent me as the cause of everything. Whatever the case, I hear many thoughts, clearer than ever before, but also fainter, at the same time, and more orderly than before. And I don't move. I keep looking at the shadowing underside of the foliage I am sitting under.
Come to think of it, my head is clearer than ever since the accident around half a year ago. Everything started with the shout yesterday, the cry I still don't really understand. Though I feel like I now have it in me, deep in my chest to call upon with some effort, I don't feel like trying, and not just for the fatigue that is certain to follow, but for safety.
I look around, my eyes lingering on the faces I can see, on the figures passing by. I am not really paranoid, but I am a little bit, just a little bit. I am not jumpy only because nothing seems ready to happen, at least not yet, or not so soon. Hopefully, not anytime soon.
Putting that aside, I return my focus onto myself. Onto what happened yesterday.
It is like throwing up everything, and feeling light after that. Like being constipated, with diarrhea making one offload part of the burden but without ever regaining the usual state, then the opportunity comes to throw up, and empty the stomach to free it from the rest of the burden, bringing about a deep state of relaxed comfort.
The metaphor is a little twisted, but it does encompass what I am feeling, somewhat. And considering how 'Mike' said not every mind reader is equal, the orderly and more comfortable experience I am experiencing makes me think that I have dug more of the potential I have. Like I have truly integrated the additional organ that has sprouted after the accident, making it a true part of my being, and not just an accessory. Even though the process put me through a wringer.
A curious thought makes its way up my mind, and I take my gaze away from the dancing shadows and light above to look around.
How far can I read minds now? How many minds can I read now? How deeply can I read minds now? And that gets me thinking. Recalling that day I followed a senior to the equipment room where she had a meeting with that pedophilic chemistry professor, an expression of disgust comes upon my face.
However, is it normal for mind readers to put themselves on the same frequency as the minds they are reading to share experiences or senses?
I frown, because thinking about 'Mike', his surprise and his unpreparedness at my shout yesterday, the question starts to bug me more than it should have. And that gets me going down a lane I have to consider now that I can't push things aside, now that the abyss is but a corner away, ready to stalk me for a bit too long.
Since I am an insulator, how can I read minds? And while I can read minds, how good am I compared to the average? How special am I? And finally, why am I special?
I bite the inside of my cheek as I frown, as if the question has become hot iron twirling inside my mind. I feel like I'm ready to drown when I'm interrupted by a call:
"Max!!"