I wake in a world unknown. Yes, I do “know” this world—I wake in it every day—but it grows stranger to me every time I do. I don’t know what to expect when my eyes open. After that day, I fear the outside world. I fear what will hear. What I’m forced to listen to.
There is a reason why I sound overly dramatic—just seeking “attention.” I hear people. I know what you’re thinking, “Yeah, I do too.” But let me explain what “hear people” means. If I come within three feet of anyone, I hear their exact thoughts. Furthermore, if someone touches me, I feel their pain. This is complete hell.
I tend to stay away from others.
My ability formed a year ago. Separating myself from my close group of friends and my best friend, my “other half”, Rachel, was the hardest thing I have ever done. I hate seeing them in the hallways. Seeing anyone in the hallways makes me feel like I’m going to suffocate. Now you may understand why I avoid you. Terribly.
Before this all happened, I would pray to God that I could know if Michael liked me. Are you surprised? Did you think I was confident because I was popular? Well, you were wrong.
Michael finally told me how he felt. I started thinking he was the one.
He wasn’t.
I felt it coming, and then it did.
It started in the kitchen. Standing next to my mom; hearing more than my thoughts. Driving to school with my brother, Luke, I heard more than my thoughts. At school, as I opened my locker, my thoughts didn’t exist. Hearing one hundred voices. Hearing five hundred thoughts. I was going crazy.
I ran. Ran back out the school gates, my legs moving in autopilot, and found myself behind an abandoned strip mall. Without people. Finally.
I cried there. What was wrong with me? No. What is wrong with me. I felt like ripping the hair out of my head. I tried hopelessly to stop the throbbing thoughts, but questions and worries continued their rampage. My seventh date with Michael was only nine hours away. My friends had teased me, calling it “seventh heaven.” No one understood why I wouldn’t want the seventh date prize that a girl’s awarded when dating a popular guy—the most popular guy. I wasn’t ready for the prize. Surprised again?
Crying there, all alone, my skin pricked with goose bumps as I imagined bringing myself near another person. And bringing myself to that date.
I couldn’t bail on school, so I started walking—not knowing the neighborhood my legs had brought me to. I arrived at school for the second time—this time during lunch. I missed my five morning classes. Never did that before. Back then, I wasn’t like those burnouts that are lumped together for ditching school, failing classes, ignoring everything and everyone. You probably lumped me in there by now.
Four o’clock, Rachel came looking for me in the nurse’s office. I missed our afterschool gossip review. Her thoughts began.
A strange quite lurked between us as Rachel walked me to Luke’s car. It made her uncomfortable. No surprise there. You know Rachel. She’s the type of person who literally can’t stand awkwardness; she’s too “fun.” Her “fun” attitude draws people in.
Laughing people are attractive in high school. Now I find laughter unattractive. Laughter comes with thoughts. Happy thoughts that I know I will never have again. Those thoughts fill me with envy.
Envy follows Rachel.
She silently looked into my eyes. Ironically, she was trying not to say the wrong thing, but it didn’t matter. Now I hear every wrong thing.
She hugged me before I climbed into Luke’s car. The loneliness in her heart filled mine. I had no idea. Behind the closed door, I watched her joking with Luke, their laughs muffled by the piece of glass separating us. I would get used to this feeling. My brother plopped into the driver seat of the Mustang. He didn’t speak, but I could hear his thoughts over the loud drums of the new Strokes album. His thoughts disgusted me. I didn’t feel happy knowing that Luke finally noticed Rachel—something she had been praying for since we were twelve.
The seventh date went down the toilet. Michael’s thoughts blasted in my head. I started to pray.
I found myself in the bathroom, my stomach empty, my body resting against the toilet with my knees pulled under my chin. Maybe I didn’t like what I heard, but Michael hurt me that night—a stranger to me.
After that night, I tried desperately to avoid everyone. I made excuses so I didn’t have to go out and eventually stopped talking. Completely. Rachel continued telling me that I didn’t need to keep secrets from her; I could tell her anything. I ignored her, but her thoughts filled my head; she saw tears fill my eyes and she actually cared about me. When she touched my arm, I felt too much—shaking right now just thinking about it. Overwhelmed, I walked away. I never went back.
You assumed he did something terrible to me. He thought about the prize all night, that’s what he did. The one thing I didn’t want to think about became the only thing I could. He is just like any other boy. Maybe that scared me most. This person, who I thought was perfect, beautiful, the boy who filled my dreams, was actually not special at all.
Now you think I’m stuck up. But I don’t want to separate myself because I think I’m better. I separate myself because I feel like s***. How can I look back into someone’s eyes when I know that they’re keeping their dad’s secret? How can I step into people’s private business and then agree to go to the movies with them? I separate myself because I don’t want to listen anymore. Sometimes, I want to tear the skin off my body. Rip my ears off my head.
You shouldn’t assume someone hates you. Sometimes you should consider that someone may hate themself. Or at least I think I hate myself. I hate myself. Yeah, that sounds right.
I watch Rachel from hidden spots. I see people all around glance in her direction—religiously. People envied me too. Do you remember? Only a year ago. A year ago, I would sit with those people. I would laugh with those people. I would breathe with those people. I was those people.
I’m a ghost looking in on the lives of the people who used to be part of mine. How does that sound? What do you think of me now? Of my silence.