Everybody has a story. They all have a reason for being in a specific place at a specific time. It may be boring. It may be a story of habit, of the days, weeks, month and years blending together like a bowl of ice cream on a hot summer's day. But more than the specific story of that day. Everyone has a story of their life, their past. And I can see them all.
It is a curse, disguised as a gift. Any time I look at someone, their story floods through me, inflates me like a helium balloon. I don m best to ignore it, to give them privacy, but I retain details. The man in the ratty T-shirt is going food shopping, his in-laws are coming over tonight and he wishes to impress them. The little girl down the road is excited for her first day of school next week. The woman across the street is going to a doctor's appointment; she has been experiencing chest pain and hopes it isn't serious.
Sometimes, I see parts of the story that the characters aren't aware of yet. The man with the grey hair and business suit is unsatisfied with his life. The teenager with the fidgety hands has her rapists spawn growing inside of her. The middle aged man with the constant scowl's young abused wife moved out this morning.
It may seem I can see the future. I cannot. But there is a fine line between past and future, for in a sense, they do not exist. Everything is the present. And the past is just as, if not more important. If you have no knowledge of the past, how can you expect to make a better future? But I cannot even see the past. Just the individual lives and stories that make up a small part of it. It is not worth it, my curse. I cannot change anything, and my knowing benefits no one, not even myself. The important things are up to you.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Short StoryJust a collection of short stories that are too short to post on their own. Some of these I wrote for school a while ago, and some I don't feel like turning into a whole book. Enjoy!
