There are those who think it's a natural phenomenon. They believe something about my brain is different, but in a natural way. Simply a matter of the neurons of my brain being wired differently, or an extra lump of cells somewhere, that allows me to perceive things on a higher/lower level than others.
Then there are the mystics. Some of them say I've been blessed by God, others say I'm demon possessed, then still others say vague powers of the universe have given me this perception. Vague powers include intelligent life forms from other planets. While they would classify themselves with the scientists, I group the alien nuts with the mystics.
Last but not least, there are those who think it's all a load of crap. Sometimes I honestly wonder how they could think it. To me it seemed ludicrous to deny the evidence. But I have had people tell me things they believe irrefutable because of the evidence, and I fight the urge to politely ask them which insane asylum they escaped from.
Me personally? I think God is a jerk who likes to torture me.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The bus was late, and it was raining. I sat fuming on the bench, thinking to myself that I had the worst luck ever.
"You look wet."
I looked up at the voice. It belonged to a man whom I hadn't notice walk up. He wasn't too particularly tall, five foot nine. He was dressed in loafers, slacks, a button down and a pea coat. His decent looking face was half covered by a hat. I felt like tearing his umbrella from his hand and hitting him over the head with it.
I responded in typical me fashion.
"No shit Sherlock."
The man sat down beside me, covering me with his umbrella. "Would you like to share?"
"I'm already soaked, but sure, if you want."
"My name is Isaac," the man said holding out his hand for me shake.
"Sarah," I said, not taking the man's hand.
Isaac waited for an almost embarrassing long time for me to take his hand. When he finally realized I wasn't going to take it, he slowly let it drop. His hand brushed up against my own, which was folding in my lap.
I gasped. "So soon."
Isaac looked at me. "What was that?"
I forced a fake smile on my face. "Nothing. Just commenting on the wonderful weather we're having."
Isaac's lips twitched, as if he wasn't sure if he should frown or smile.
"It's not just you," I said looking the man in the eye. "I'm like this with everyone."
Isaac smiled. "What a relief," he said dryly.
"I'm not sure what type of man you wer...are, but what I know of you, you wer...are very good," I said in a rush. I stared at my lap, my cheeks growing hot as I felt the man's eyes bore into me.
"So, you're like this with everyone, huh?" Isaac said after a long while.
"Pretty much," I said with a sigh. After a few moments of silence I spoke again. "If you knew someone was going to get hurt, and you knew how and when, but you knew if you tried to save them nothing would change, would you still try to save them?"
"That's a rather hard question," Isaac said shifting his weight uncomfortably. "It would depend on the person who was in trouble, how I knew what was going to happen to them, et cetera, et cetera."
"I'll use right now as an example."
Isaac opened his mouth as if to protest, but I continued right on talking.
"You know how and when someone is going to die just by touching them. Let's pretend that when our hands brushed against each other, you saw I was going to die because I slipped while getting onto the bus. Would you try to save me?"
Isaac shook his head. "I suppose I might try. But couldn't I just not let you go on the bus?"
"It doesn't work like that," I said hurriedly as I saw the bus come into view. "You have tried to stop so many deaths you lost count, but your visions were always right on how and when they died."
Isaac got up, obviously unnerved by the sudden desperate tone in my voice.
"And you keep hoping," I continued nonetheless, "that they next one will be the one who's future you change."
Isaac had completely turned his back to me. The bus slowly pulled up, and the doors slowly opened. Each second was agony.
"Don't go," I said, trying not to choke on the sob stuck in my throat, "please don't go."
Isaac ignored me. As he stepped onto the bus, he fumbled to shut his umbrella. Messing with the umbrella made him loose his balance on the wet step. He fell, his head smacking against the sidewalk.
People from inside the bus rushed out to try to help the man. They were checking his pulse, trying to revive him. Others called 911 on their cell phones.
But they were all too late. Even me, who had known of his death before it had happened, had been too late.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
My mother knew something was different about me when I was little. Whenever her or my dad touched me, I cried. Mostly with Mom though. It wasn't until my first winter that she realized I didn't mind contact as long as it wasn't skin to skin. She always wore gloves and long sleeves while handling me. So did Daddy.
They kept it a secret, said I had allergies. Only two other people knew about my "odd" behavior. Dr. Jacobs and Rev. Cohen.
Dr. Jacobs was basically a shrink. he said I needed to be carefully watched over. Young children who show aversion to touch were typically psychopathic killers. Mum and Daddy stopped going to Dr. Jacobs after that.
Rev. Cohen encouraged my parents at first. Every Tuesday evening he had a special prayer meeting just with them. Several times he had my parents leave the room so he could "pray" for God to heal me better. When Mum and Daddy found out he used these times to exorcize me they left that church.
I was two and a half when Mum finally asked me why I hated being touched so much.
"I see you dying," I had said. "A baby comes out of your body and you die."
Mum never fully believed me, and Daddy didn't believe me until Mum died giving birth to my little brother. Still, he wasn't sure of my abilities.
I remember the first time I touched my little brother.
My hands reached for him eagerly.
"No, Sarah," Daddy had said holding my baby brother out of my reach, "you can't hold Isaac."
"Please," I begged. "I love him Daddy. I'll be his Mommy."
My father could not say no. His lips turned into a hard line and his eyes filled with tears. "Be careful," he instructed as he handed Isaac to me.
Neither of us were thinking. I was four, and my father was depressed and stressed. I touched Isaac on the face with my bare hand. I suddenly started to cry.
Two months later Isaac died of SIDS.
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