The Empath

I wrote this last month as one of our Creative Writing assignments. As such, it is very short, and not well written. I only uploaded it at the request of another member (wink-wink, LoveIsLimitless). As my signature states, I don't upload stuff here much anymore (mostly because hardly anyone would ever keep reading... I'd get a few reviews and then it would end up being only two people would care to look). If you have MySpace, please feel free to add my authour page (link is in the signature). Just say you found me through here, and I'll gladly approve. Now, on to the pathetic attempt at a short story.

The Empath

By Joseph Dean

©2009.02.09

I should probably make this opening statement. I am not crazy. I am only different, unique among all others. I see things that people don’t; I hear things that people won’t. For I am an observer, able to simultaneously see the world in two perspectives: the way the world actually is and the way that it pretends to be. I have known this since I was very young. At first, I seemed like a prophet to the nuns who ran my orphanage. I could tell when people were behaving falsely. But only when I began to pick the minds of those holy women did they shun me from their respect, labeling me as one of the many spawns of Satan that they were sure roamed the city.

If one assumes that all those who devote their lives to religious service are immune to the evil desires each human faces, he would be wrong. I had made this known, and I was punished for it.

Everything about me forces me into seclusion; even the colours of my eyes stand out. One iris displays brown, the other blue. My psychiatrist joked one day that I had a dormant twin residing inside me. He’s not my psychiatrist anymore.

I have yet to meet one person who truly believes in my ability, someone who blindly accepts it without question. With the brighter eye dominant, I see the world for what it wants to be, what is culturally referred to as the truth. It is really just the layers of smokescreen that each of us emit. However with the darker eye in charge, I can observe further into the human mind, to see them for who they really are.

Apparently not everyone likes to be mentally revealed. Just ask the nuns.

I am only sixteen, completely self-educated. I have no parents, no one to explain this abnormal disability. I’m not even sure I have a name. The nuns called me Gabriel. “A good religious name,” they said. But after they assumed my father was none other than a devil, they referred to me as Damian. Extensively. My many therapists were encouraged to let me choose what I wanted to be called. I told them it did not matter, for I knew who I was. They would then identify me as merely a patient, nameless clay for them to psychologically mold.

Now I live in a new orphanage with others relatively like me. They cannot see into others’ souls as I can, but I perceive that each has their own mental handicap, able to obtain knowledge that normal society has no access to. For instance, I know all about the human race, the thoughts and actions each member experiences, but never did I expect for there to be another species present. One of the other members here claims that these alien beings communicate with him. I don’t think the nuns would respect him either.

I like how this new building is completely void of the nuns. The staff members bring us edible food, the comestible equivalent of the Holy Grail in comparison to the distasteful soups given to us by the nuns. I thank those workers constantly for letting me have the cushioned walls in my bedroom. I had to specially ask for them. They help drown out the noise, both verbal and unspoken.

A man came to visit me this morning. He claimed he believed in my ability. He wanted me to see if his wife was being honest when she says she is with her girlfriends. Obviously he believes she is being unfaithful. But that isn’t for him to decide. It’s for me.

I now sit in the small grey room with the desk and mirror, across from the man and his wife. He says that if I can help him with his problem, I would never see the inside of this asylum again. Asylum must be a synonym for orphanage.

I gaze at the woman’s face. Her eyes show fear, fear of what I may reveal. I sense her nerves; I feel her body shaking. I start to see through her, into her mind. She is attempting to put up a block unconsciously, but I can phase right through it.

Instantly, I see myself in a large nightclub; I’m dancing with friends. I am seeing her memories, I understand. But there’s something odd about them. Some people’s faces are blank. Areas of the big room are blotched out. Sounds are distorted. She is fooling me, trying to conjure up false memories. I look at the man’s face as I zone back in. He is displaying anger and greed, mad at his wife, using me for his own selfish needs. How dare him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McDermott,” I mumble. His eyes immediately broadcast worry, as does the woman’s. “But you will have to apologise to your wife. She has been completely faithful.”