Peribat

Don't Mind Me Writing

I could hear multiple voices stacked in my mind. Each one had its own message to it. The next day, Mom pulled me out of school, and I stayed home and brooded in my bedroom. I started practicing ways to control my telepathy. I focused on controlling my thoughts. After that, I started wondering if I was the only one. If I was the only person with my abilities. I asked a series of questions, and after two hours without a response, I gave up and went to bed.
    As soon as I woke, I could feel the warm glare of the morning sun. The honest dew lying on the morning grass. The voices in my head telling me things I didn't need to know. My eyes were adjusting to the harsh light of dawn. I felt as if no one cared about my well being. How everyone freely thought, not acknowledging the mind readers of the world. How I could hear whatever popped into people's minds. Although this wasn't the human race's fault.
    After my second cup of coffee, I saw a sticky note labelled,"Amber." I picked it up and felt the corners penetrate my hand. The soft, red cuts the note left were painful and left a sore feeling imprinted onto my hands. The note read,
    "Amber, I left early for my trip. I put cereal in the pantry, and replenished the orange supply. Don't do anything stupid."
    I put the note down and proceeded to pour myself cereal. I snatched the box and begun to pour the flakes of deliciousness into my bowl. I carefully tipped the milk into the bowl and began to eat. The silver spoon scooped up the white liquid and cereal, then delivered the flakes into my mouth. I picked up the remote and flipped through the channels until I finally reached the Horror Central channel. Flicks of screaming people aired on the screen, and I found it relaxing. It gave me a distraction from the horror show that was unfolding in my mind. Ever since I discovered my telepathy, it's been hard. Random bursts of conversation blast through my mind at random moments in time.
I put down the dirty spoon and started texting Topi, my best friend. I heard my brother walk into the room. His thoughts circulated my mind. They disturbed me. "The teenage mind is a demented thing," I thought. He rushed out the door for a "study session." Like that was the truth. I slipped on my overalls and walked outside. The sun was burning my face with its rays, and after 5 minutes of standing outside, I already felt as red as a tomato. My mind was filled with words and phrases. To clear my head, I took a walk. I spotted Mrs. Chaven walking down the sidewalk with her poodle. Her thoughts were extra loud.
" I wish Mark loved this puppy as much as I do. Maybe if I get a lab, he'll warm up to Clara."
Mark was her husband. The whole neighborhood knew that his wife loved her dog more than she loved him. Mark worked long hours, but I'm the only one that knows that he works multiple shifts just to get away from his family.
Jamison glanced over my shoulder as I wrote, reading bits and pieces. If I'm being honest, I hate it when people read my work. It was like someone was monitoring my personal thoughts. My writing was personal and sacred. Writing was one of the main things that helped me cope with the plethora of mental disorders taking place in my mind. Even with Jamison, it felt uncomfortable having someone oversee my scribbling.
"Jamison could you maybe... uhhhh... stop looking over my shoulder."
"Sure," He said, just as he pulled over onto a patch of grass on the side of the road.
"I'm reading it either way, Percy, we don't have our phones and it gets kind of boring here in the driver's seat. I'd let you drive but you don't have your permit yet, so hand it over."
I reluctantly gave him the leatherbound journal. He peeled open the front cover, revealing my messy chicken scratch. Unfortunately, Jamison and I's handwriting was fairly similar. He was an expert at reading impossible writings. As his eyes laid upon the book, I could feel my mind racing. What if he hated it? What if he realized that I wasn't that good of a writer?
It took him about twenty minutes to read my writing, so in the meantime, I ran my fingers across the fibers of my feather pen. I could feel each strand between my fingernails, the thin white hairs smoothly grazing my thumb. Suddenly, his eyes went back onto me.
"It's good. I expected more vividity, but this'll do." He chuckled and handed the book back to me.