Psychic

...

People who call me a mind reader or 'psychic' are idiots. I am neither. Reading minds, hearing thoughts, is impossible. Your thoughts are your own, so you can remove that tin foil hat, you look like an imbecile. Even if I did know what you were thinking, I'm sure the foil would not stop me doing so.

Although I cannot hear your thoughts, or read your mind. Although I am not psychic. I can pick up brain waves. And no, not waves caused by your brain going for a surf. I mean the projected messages that your brain sends out and receives from your body. If you touch something soft, a message will be sent to your brain telling you that you are touching something soft. That is what I can hear.

I can hear your body transmitting information from your nerves, to the nerve centre. I can hear those messages, understand their meaning, and interpret them into tangible words.

As a child, my mother would sew. She was always a clumsy woman and so would often prick her finger. While my eyes would see this action and watch her pull her hand away, and my ears would hear only her muttered 'ow', I could hear her body cry out, "Get back, get back. Pain, pain. Get back." And a split second after this message is transmitted, my mother would retract her hand.

I never considered the possibility that I might be the only one hearing these messages. I would comment every so often, about why the man over the road is limping. I would ask why his knee is cut up, even though the injury was covered by his trousers. My parents would look at me, then follow my gaze to the man and ask how I knew it was his knee. I never had an answer good enough. They believed I was making up stories.

It took a few years of my commenting on these messages I heard before my parents finally sent me to a professional. It took only a little while after this for me to realise, nobody else could hear what I could. The psychologist I was sent to showed up that first day with a bruise hidden by his sleeve. I could hear his body muttering about it. His groin was sore also, though I never got an answer for why that was. I asked him how he got the bruise, and he just looked at me. There was no way I could have seen the discoloration as he was wearing long sleeves.

It is not only the messages of pain that I can hear. Emotions too. You can look at me like I'm crazy all you want. You can tell me that to 'hear' emotions I would need to read your mind, but you're wrong. Every emotion you ever have affects your body. If you're excited, your heart will race, your eyes will widen or close to slits, you might shiver or tense. Each of these reactions are a message sent to your brain by your nerves, telling you to react this way. I might not see these reactions, but I will hear them.

The reason I am telling you all this is because I have lived my entire life having to hide who I am. I am tired of it. So, for the purpose of keeping my sanity, I will write. I will write down my experiences, and share them with you, the reader.

I will not give away who I truly am, instead of my birth name you may call me Clair. Taken from the word clairvoyant, which I suppose you could use to describe myself and the way I am.

I guess in writing about a set of happenings, you need to have a scene and characters set.

I live in a city. Not a big one, not a capital. It's well known but not overly popular. It's typical in having the dark, dangerous streets that you know to avoid, and the creepy streets that are safe but you avoid anyway. The mayor likes to waste money on ugly decorations, and does little to nothing about the growing ice epidemic. There are also the parks, and popular shopping centres. The buses that are always on time and the buses that are always late. The people are as diverse as ever, not consistently kind, and not consistently rude. They are not all white, or Asian, or black. Or whatever other labels there are for separating people. And the prices in stores are okay. Nothing to celebrate, nothing to complain about.

My family is quite small. My mother only ever fell pregnant thrice, one of which ended in miscarriage. My older brother died three months before I was born. He was mauled by a stray, rabid dog at only two years of age. That dog was shot. I have no uncles, one aunty on my father's side. My mother has no siblings. My mother and father have a love-hate relationship. They are constantly fighting, but make up soon after regardless of whether or not the conflict was ever resolved. I will let you know that it is strange hearing and understanding from a very young age when your mother and father are feeling aroused. I learned very early on what sex was. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I have only a few friends. Two to be exact, and that's how I like it. Too many people and there is an over load of sound. An over load of hearing bodies sigh at the comfort of a couch, at hearing feet celebrate the removal of a shoe after a long day of standing. Hearing a friend complain verbally about the cold and listening to her body agree just as loudly.

My friends know nothing about my abilities. If you can call them abilities. Abnormality might be more suitable. I cannot risk telling them. If I did then they would likely disbelieve me and use it as teasing rights later on. Or they would disown me as a friend completely, labelling me a freak. While neither outcome would be detrimental to me, I prefer my relationship with the two as is, rather than changing it.

One, who we shall call Pitch for her occupation as a diver, I have known since I was small. I cannot pinpoint at what age exactly that we met at, but I know I have known her for a very long time. She is a tall brunette with neon blue streaks, often dressed in a kind of hipster look. Though without those ugly glasses thank god. She is determined, a little bossy and very loyal. Though she has an annoying habit of being overly touchy.

The other, Sketch, for his traditional animations, is short and a little big. Not overweight, and not unhealthy, but certainly not at today's idea of the 'perfect' size. He has a scar on his left eyebrow that I can hear being tugged whenever he furrows his brows. I have known him for only a couple of years. We met late in high-school, having grown up together but never recognising each other's presence. He is ambitious, humorous and always quick to put a smile on anyone's face, however I have noticed a tendency for his loyalties to sway when presented with an option to better suit himself. An example of which I might allow you to know of later, it is not a story for now.

You already know me as Clair. I am somewhere in between Pitch and Sketch in terms of height, the same goes for my weight. I'm a brunette, my hair a few shades darker than Pitch's and a little lighter than Sketch's black. I cannot comment subjectively on my own personality, so I suppose I will have to just let you figure that out for yourself.

My name is Clair. I am clairvoyant, and this is the tale I have to tell.

(A/N New story, new idea. I'm not sure about this, but please let me know what you think and if I should expand on this. I have some of (I suppose you could call it) a first chapter, written up but I wouldn't expect many updates anytime soon.

I just want to get a feel for this first, and see what you guys think. So, enjoy.

Please vote and/or comment. Tell me what you think.)

(I'm also aware that this isn't very well written, I'm just very busy right now and will be for a couple of weeks so I am unable to edit and fix the clunkiness of the writing at this present time. Hopefully that will change sometime in the not too distant future. Fingers crossed.)