Empathy

Chapter Two: Two Months Later

"Hello, darkness, my old friend," I sang to myself quietly, lying down on my back, knowing full well that no one would be able to hear me in here.

By "here," I meant my bedroom. It wasn't anything special. The wall with the window was a navy blue, a stark contrast to the other purple tinted gray walls. My room was dark due to the darkening curtains blocking out any light that may make me collapse in on myself. Light was just as much a trigger for my Empathy as touch was.

In the two months since I passed out at my father's funeral, I became more and more attuned to my new ability. Empathy, with a capital E, that's what I called it. It was the only word to popped in my head to make this thing make remotely any sense.

Yeah, because this situation makes sense.

My eyes scanned the ceiling, pop-corned, with the glow in the dark stars long faded but still nice to see. The numerous raised bumps giving me something to count to calm down.

I have since found that when I just relax and escape from the world around me, I'm able to control it. For a few minutes, but those minutes are all the time I need.

The twin bed underneath me creaked in protest as I slowly sat up. As I rubbed my hands down my face, I felt the sweat and tears that dried on my cheeks, making them feel cracked and sticky.

Oh yes, the two month anniversary was last night.

Let me explain, from what my understanding of what this ability of mine is, is that if I feel too much grief, sadness, anger, anything even remotely related to the topic, I can feel everyone else's emotions around me, granted in a hundred mile radius. If I feel at all, I feel it all. Whether someone is happy, sad, frustrated, annoyed, whatever, I feel it all.

And I can't stop it.

The crying is from my own grief, but mostly from the emotions I receive from other people near me. And the more I feel others, the more I become empty inside.

The more I lose myself.

Turning my head away from the ceiling, I stared at the bookcase opposite my bed. Books of any genre, any age group, any author. Books are what once made my world but was now just a reminder of what I lost.

Books were one of the biggest connections I had to my father. We both enjoyed many of the same genres to start a little family book club, just him and me. Feeling an Attack make its way in my gut, I twisted away from the offending piece of furniture.

I turned my attention down to my night stand. My clock read 8:10 am. I rubbed the remainder of sleep from my sorrowful brown eyes. I only got three hours of sleep last night. My last night to get even a sliver of a good night's rest, gone, down the drain.

Goodbye, summer vacation, hello hell on earth.

My mattress moved off the box spring as I finally had the courage to end my pity party, the only party with an invitation for one, not a crowd of unwanted people.

And yet, I feel unwanted in my own head sometimes.

The trek down the stairs was an effort in and of itself. I always feel disoriented whenever I have an Attack, my feet heavy as lead, my brain full of information I didn't want and pure, and utter, mush. Luckily there weren't a lot of stairs in our house, and they were carpeted.

Holding my head, I felt my mom before I saw her. She was feeling sorrowful, and there was something else that I couldn't quite place, but it made my head throb and my stomach clench in discomfort.

I entered the kitchen, seeing Mom cooking up waffles in the Belgian waffle iron on the counter. She wore an over sized T-shirt, obviously Dad's, and a pair of her old, rattiest pajama pants she's had longer than I've been alive.