Some Faraway Place

by Lauren Shippen

  “What are you doing with your time anyway?” I asked.

  “I’ve got stuff,” he said, shrugging.

  “Oh yeah? What stuff?”

  I wasn’t being combative—I really did want to know. Aaron’s been jumping from job to job since taking a leave from college. Mind reading and a packed classroom don’t mix, I guess. He’s been taking online classes, but that doesn’t really fix the “doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life” problem. HE’S allowed to flounder and go a nontraditional route because HE’S Atypical.

  “I think I could be good at tech stuff,” he said.

  “Tech stuff?”

  “Yeah, like, computer science, IT, that kind of stuff.”

  “Where is this coming from?” I asked. Aaron spent a lot of his time on his computer, but it’s 2016, everyone spends a lot of time on their computer. I just assumed he was watching YouTube and, I don’t know, getting into podcasts like everybody else. I didn’t realize he actually liked computers.

  “I’ve just been learning coding and stuff,” he said and, shockingly, I saw some red rise in his cheeks. Aaron never gets embarrassed or shy or anything that remotely resembles seeming uncool, so watching him blush talking about something he cares about was sweet, sweet victory.

  “Where are you learning coding?” I scoffed, wondering how much shit I could give him for turning red and if the lecture I would get from my dad would be worth it. He hates when his kids fight.

  “Online,” he said, like it was obvious. “There’s tons of free classes.”

  “And this is something that you think you’d actually want to do? For, like, a living?”

  “I think I could be really good at it,” he said softly, like he was trying to convince himself that was true. I’ve never seen Aaron uncertain about anything and suddenly my impulse to tease him into the ground was dampened.

  “That’s…” I searched for the right word. Aaron and I don’t really … encourage each other? We’re not mean to one another, we just … Aaron and I exist in our separate corners of the world, sometimes waving at each other from our individual castles, but never going into one another’s kingdoms.

  “That’s … really cool, Aaron,” I said eventually, unable to come up with anything more profound. He smiled a tiny bit, but I think I disappointed him by not asking more. I wouldn’t have known what to ask.

  I never know what to ask.

  community/TheUnusuals post by n/thatsahumanperson

  Hey folks, I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted in this sub—I’ve actually been making a stab at real life stuff lately and it’s taking up a lot of my time. But, you know, I can still read minds, so that’s something I’m dealing with.

  A little update on that end: I’ve been better. I think last time I posted on here, I’d just made the breakthrough: the one a few of us have experienced when the thoughts start to separate themselves like trains on parallel tracks and you can choose which cars to get on. I’ve been doing well, I think, able to change the volume, the speed of the tracks. I’ve been feeling pretty proud of myself, if I’m honest, but then something … weird happened.

  I was talking to my sister—trying to have an actual conversation with her, focus on what she was saying, and nothing else—but she kept accusing me of listening in, which I absolutely wasn’t, so don’t get on my case, n/chuckxavier. I’ve been doing really well at not eavesdropping on people’s thoughts.

  I could still sense all the different tracks, but instead of her thoughts being a stream, a linear track like they usually are, they were all over the place. Shooting off in disparate streams, totally unconnected. So I tried to hold onto one but wasn’t able to get a foothold and follow any of them (and then she booted me out by thinking about a girl she likes, a tactic she’s discovered that is deeply annoying). Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. There have been people with confusing and scattered thoughts, of course, but never to this degree, especially not with her. She’s a really ordered person in her thinking and each train of thought always has a really distinct feel (which is what makes nope-ing out of there any time she’s thinking about anything remotely romantic very easy thank GOD), but other than a few clear tracks, it felt like some of the thoughts weren’t even … tangible? Like there was no train to grab onto.

  Has that ever happened to anyone before? Any telepaths experience a non-drug-induced block?

  tldr: Something has shifted in my sister’s head that’s making it hard to read her thoughts. She also got hurt recently and has been kind of squirrelly around us, telling us she had a Rollerblading accident but sidestepping giving any more details. She wasn’t seriously hurt at the time, or so I thought, but could she have a head injury? Is it something I should talk to my parents about (both “Unusuals”) or should I just let it go?

  iwannabelieve

  damn, dude, your posts are always my favorite—do you sell any of your original writing? I would totally buy a kindle book of yours. With all the mind reader fiction I’ve read, I never would have thought about when it doesn’t work.

  lokilover

  is anyone gonna kick this guy off this sub? he clearly isn’t one of us.

  iwannabelieve

  first of all, why do you assume I’m a guy? second of all, I’m still learning, just chill. not everyone is good at fully immersing themselves right away.

  onmyown

  n/iwannabelieve I think you might be looking for the community/scifirpg or community/fantasyrpg pages. This forum might not be right for you.

  lokilover

  where did you say you guys lived again? I might know a doc who specializes in *our kind of stuff* who could help out.

  chuckxavier

  No sharing of personal info! I know I can’t control what people do in PMs, but please, safety first. This is a forum for anonymous sharing and support, nothing more.

  theneonthorn

  this specific thing hasn’t happened to me (not a mind reader) but I’m currently taking care of a friend who’s had his power totally messed up. after some … trauma, he’s had a hard time accessing his ability in the same way. so it’s possible that your sister hitting her head threw something off with her ability and the way it interacts with yours?

  thatsahumanperson

  Except my sister isn’t Unusual. Unless her ability just hasn’t manifested yet, which … I suppose that’s possible. Hmm.

  theneonthorn

  keep us posted, dude. I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my friend so let me know if you find anything that works.

  SEPTEMBER 3RD, 2016

  No matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t get away. I’ve had nightmares like that before—where you run and run and run, you can feel your legs pumping away and still: nothing. It’s torture. It’s not even the thing chasing you—which, in this case, was a giant snake—that’s the truly scary part. It’s the feeling of not having control over your body. That dark dread that sits in the bottom of your stomach as you push your legs through invisible molasses, thinking that if you just shove a little harder, dig your heels in deeper, you’ll be able to get free of the weight around you and make a clean escape. But that never happens.

  Last night I was running—running, running, running—but then it was like something clicked on. Or off. A sharp smell in the air, like lightning in the distance or an imminent snowfall. And then suddenly I was aware of where I was. Standing in an endless black expanse, impossibly lit, just enough so that I could see the giant snake with red eyes and horrible, growing fangs barreling toward me.

  When I woke up, I saw there were scratches all up and down my legs. Like I was clawing at them to stop the ground from swallowing me whole.

  LATER

  Well jesus jumping christ, that could have gone a hell of a lot better.

  I should back up. I decided, in all my infinite wisdom, to try and talk to my family about the narcolepsy and the bad, crazy vivid dreams and the fact that maybe they’re now turning into night ter
rors and, well, let’s just say I was right to be worried about them overreacting.

  It all started at dinner.

  “When’s your wrist supposed to be better?” Aaron asked, his nose wrinkling at his plate.

  “Oh hush,” my mom chastised, sitting down at our small kitchen table, setting a plate of soggy green beans in the center.

  “Six weeks,” I said. “Ish.”

  “Ugh.” Aaron groaned. “But, I mean, you can still cook for us though, right? Like, you can figure out how to chop one-handed?”

  “I mean, I hope so,” I said. “I want to be able to go back to work.”

  “Our cooking isn’t that bad, Aaron,” my dad said, beans floating through the air to land on his plate. He caught me staring wistfully at the display of telekinesis and winked.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound encouraging, “I think you did a great job seasoning these.” I gestured to the green beans, which were well-seasoned, but horribly cooked. I don’t know why my parents insist on boiling things like they’re stuck in the fifties and haven’t discovered roasting or pan searing and—

  Never mind. This is off-topic.

  “What exactly are you going to do when we don’t live together anymore, Aaron?” I teased lightly. “Unless you were planning on taking your dorky little sister with you when you move out.”

  “I can pay the rent if you do all the cooking,” he said, tossing me a smarmy smile.

  “Is that your way of saying that you’re going to make money and I’m not?”

  “That’s my way of saying that computer scientists make a decent living.”

  “They do. But you’re not a computer scientist.”

  “Children,” my mother chastised just as Aaron was sticking out his tongue.

  I didn’t take his ribbing particularly seriously. Family dinner is my safe zone—in non-sprained-wrist times, it’s the thing I control, the thing I excel at. I feel less out of place, less like I have to hide, when I’m the one who controls the food, who’s responsible for everyone sitting down and relaxing. As we’ve gotten older, it hasn’t been a daily occurrence, but we always make time on Fridays for Shabbat. Having both grown up in fairly religious Jewish households, our parents still go to temple a few times a year, but stopped making us go once we’d had our bar and bat mitzvahs. None of us is particularly devout (and I know my mom has a particularly complicated relationship with her faith because of her visions, though she’s never talked to me about it), but we all agree that Shabbat dinner can’t be missed. I haven’t thought about my own faith in a long time, but the ritual of making a meal, sharing it with my family, and proving that I have value, is sacred to me.

  “Besides, you never know what career Rose might end up in,” my mom said, before turning to my dad.

  “Honey, Aaron is about to grab the salt and spill it everywhere, would you just pass it?” she said, exasperated, before turning back to me. “I should have listened to you about the chicken, Rose. I saw your comment about the beans and just assumed I’d gotten the whole meal right.”

  My dad floated the salt over to Aaron, who rolled his eyes before tossing it back into the air, my dad catching it with his telekinesis before it dropped onto the floor, both of them laughing.

  “Oh honestly, how are you still getting salt everywhere,” my mom said, as I tried to keep up with the whiplash of her taking a dig at my career and complimenting my cooking knowledge in a single breath, only pausing to predict her son’s behavior.

  “It’s like you always say, Mom.” Aaron laughed. “Your visions are never perfect.”

  I just wish my parents could remember that they approve of my cooking, even when I do it outside of their kitchen. I have a good, steady job that has opportunity for growth and all they think about is the late nights, the cutthroat competition, the drug use … my mom read Kitchen Confidential once and assumes that’s the life I’m getting into. She’s not wrong—I’m definitely nervous to play in the big leagues—but I wish she would trust me a little more. And it’s not like I expect Aaron to come rushing to my defense, but he isn’t exactly helping when he talks about how illustrious a computer science career is, even if he doesn’t mean it as a dig against me and even if it doesn’t sting as much in this setting.

  Except … my dad was telekinetically cutting up his chicken while eating green beans with his hands, as my mom talked about her day at work—how she was able to be in a patient’s room seconds before they would have fallen, saving them from a concussion. My dad smiled, and pride shone in Aaron’s eyes, like he could read how relieved and proud my mom was.

  I just wanted to be a part of that. That’s my brilliant explanation for what happened next.

  “Do we have a history of narcolepsy in our family?” I asked, because, remember, I’m an idiot.

  I was met with three sets of silverware scraping to a stop and three blank stares before my dad said: “I don’t think we do. Why are you asking?”

  I saw my mom’s eyes narrow in that knowing mom (and knowing psychic) way and Aaron cocked his head like something was clicking into place. OR like he was reading my thoughts, despite all his promises.

  “What’s wrong?” my mom asked.

  “I’ve been having some … sleeping problems,” I said vaguely.

  “A cup of chamomile and some melatonin usually does the trick for me,” my dad said, completely oblivious. I’m so grateful that my dad is just plain old telekinetic. I don’t know if my mom and Aaron were using their powers in that moment, but I think their abilities have just given them heightened perception across the board. Especially with my mom, I’ve never been able to get away with anything. I’m honestly surprised, and a little proud, that I’ve been able to keep what’s been going on with me a secret this whole time. And I’m really wishing that I had kept on that path instead of opening my big mouth.

  “Uh, no,” I said, “I’m not having a hard time getting to sleep, I’m…”

  I swallowed, my dad now joining the cadre of narrowed eyes. Suddenly, I felt like I was sitting in front of a council of judges—three Atypicals prepared to bestow their verdict on the puny, normal human.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

  “So … I’m pretty sure I have narcolepsy.”

  My mom’s fork clattered against her plate as she dropped it and brought her hands up, leaning her elbows on the table and collapsing her head forward into her hands.

  “I thought we’d gotten away with it,” she mumbled into her palms.

  “What?” Aaron and I both asked.

  “How long has this been going on, Rose?” my dad asked.

  “Um, I don’t know, a few weeks,” I said absentmindedly, still confused by what my mom had said.

  “A few weeks?” my mom exclaimed, bringing her head out of her hands to stare me down. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, trying not to let their reaction rile me up. “What did you think you’d gotten away with?”

  Then my parents shared the kind of look that only parents can share. The look that says a million things in a single second that only they understand.

  “You’ve been doing so well, Rose,” my dad said after a few tense moments.

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning,” my mom chimed in, “I know I give you a hard time about your choice of career, but it’s only because I love you. I don’t want to see you burnt out before you’re thirty.”

  “No, no, that’s not what this is.” I shook my head, feeling, for a moment, like I understood what was going on.

  (I did not.)

  “I promise you, I’m not falling asleep because of the restaurant. I don’t feel more tired during the day or anything, I’ve just … passed out a few times—”

  My dad groaned at that, a guttural sound of pain and concern I’d never heard from him before. The furrow in my mom’s brow got deeper and I was about to launch into more words of comfort—the sleep studies that I was thinking about do
ing, the fact that the doctor at urgent care didn’t seem overly worried, all the reading I had done online—when Aaron spoke up for the first time in a few minutes.

  “Oh,” he breathed. “I get what’s going on.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You guys think it’s finally happened,” he said, looking at our parents instead of at me, which was incredibly annoying.

  “Oh my god, will someone just please tell me why everyone has a look on their face like the dog died.”

  “We’ve never had a dog,” my dad said, pointlessly.

  “Dad!”

  “This sounds like the manifestation of your ability.” My mom sighed, sounding way more exasperated than I would have expected at her claiming that I all of a sudden have SUPERPOWERS.

  “Excuse me?” I said once I got my breath back.

  “Remember Aaron’s headaches?” my dad asked. “He had them for months before the voices started.”

  “Boy, out of the context of this family, that makes me sound real weird,” Aaron quipped.

  My spine was tingling and I was getting that dizzy feeling again, like maybe I was going to pass out, except it usually happened faster than this, so maybe I wasn’t about to have a narcoleptic fit, maybe I was just panicking.

  Here’s the thing: I don’t panic. I never panic. I didn’t panic when I graduated high school with no plan, I didn’t panic the first time Chef gave me a dressing-down in front of the whole kitchen staff for not cutting on a bias, I didn’t panic when a total stranger in a run-down urgent care told me that I probably have a lifelong disease that’s going to affect my every waking moment. Pun intended.

  But I was panicking at the kitchen table. At least, I think that’s what it was. My vision was blurry, my chest was tight, and it felt like there was cotton stuffed in my ears. Like I was underwater. But I was awake and upright, staying conscious against all odds, trying to focus on my mom’s voice as she told me that she had been thinking that the Atypical gene had skipped me, that they’d gotten lucky and wouldn’t have to worry about their only other child having a hard time in life, always struggling with being different. But her words weren’t making sense to me, nothing anyone was saying was making sense because I can’t be Atypical, I’m nineteen, it’s too late, and what would my ability even be? The power to sleep whenever and wherever I want?