ETA: Couple of terminology edits—thanks n/chuckxavier for the reminder.
theneonthorn
told ya. let us know what power she’s got—sounds like it’s gonna be a cool one.
thatsahumanperson
By the way, how’re things going with your friend? Is he better?
theneonthorn
his power isn’t back yet, but he seems to be doing okay. we’re having a good time trying to figure it out at least.
chuckxavier
I’ve got some advice in a sec, but first things first—remember we don’t use the A-word on this forum.
lokilover
Can I ask why not? With how open everyone is on this forum about stuff, I don’t see the big deal.
chuckxavier
This site is pretty searchable—Unusuals is a term that can apply to a lot of different things and doesn’t have the same official associations.
lokilover
I still don’t see the big deal. Half the people on this sub don’t believe that any of this is real.
chuckxavier
But it is real and there are people out there who know that and I would rather they didn’t track us all down and experiment on us.
franklinsteinsmonster
whaaaaaaa wait does that like actually happen?
iwannabelieve
ooh, hey, new person! welcome!
onmyown
Don’t listen to Chuck, he’s being overly cautious. We adhere so strictly to anonymity here because this is the internet and people get doxxed and harassed all the time. It’s no different from what every other group on here does.
onmyown
How has it been going with reading her thoughts? Have you still been hitting that wall?
thatsahumanperson
Honestly, I haven’t been trying that hard. Things kind of blew up in my house when she told us about the narcolepsy, so I’ve mostly been keeping to myself to avoid the family drama.
onmyown
Smart. Well, keep us posted. That sounded like a bit of a head-scratcher to begin with, and especially now with all this new info. FWIW, it’s totally possible for her to have an ability and a normal human ailment. I’ve got telekinesis and an autoimmune thing, so it happens. At least in my case, it ended up being kind of a blessing in disguise.
franklinsteinsmonster
the autoimmune thing?
onmyown
Nah, the telekinesis. My other thing sometimes makes it hard to move, so being able to get water from the couch is *chef’s kiss.*
franklinsteinsmonster
that. is. so. cool.
chuckxavier
Have you observed her at all as she’s been sleeping? It might be worth watching her and seeing what you notice. This sounds like it might be astral projection. If she’s especially limp when unconscious, if her eyes roll back in her head, and if she’s really difficult to wake up, that would be my guess.
thatsahumanperson
Dude, no way, I’m not gonna watch my sister sleep, that’s way too creepy.
chuckxavier
I don’t see how you expect to figure it out otherwise. Careful observation and study is the only way to be really certain of something.
thatsahumanperson
Yeah, I guess. I’ll look into the astral projection thing. Thanks.
LATER
I’m not even sure I can find the words. Or, even if I could, I’m not sure I can physically write them. I feel like something has crawled into my brain and made a home there. Like something is lingering just over my shoulder, breathing on my neck, but when I turn to look, it disappears just out of sight, back into the shadows.
I’m shaking, I can barely write. I’m just sitting on a bench in some square in … Cambridge? Maybe? I don’t know, nothing looks familiar, but I just had to get off the bus. I woke up screaming, flailing in the hard plastic seat of the bus, opening my eyes to see everyone around me staring at me like I was some kind of dangerous, wild thing.
I should start over. My thoughts are a mess. I was just on the bus. Writing in this journal. On my way from the restaurant to the doctor—my actual doctor—for a checkup and then: lights out.
I was at home in my bed. Feeling safe and warm and like nothing in the world could ever hurt me. No work, no kids in the house … just me, able to linger in between the dreamworld and real life for as long as I wanted.
A chill passed over me. There was a light scraping sound running along the hallway outside my bedroom. The floorboard in the doorway creaked and my entire body tensed in a false rigor mortis. Except I couldn’t open my eyes. I could feel someone—something moving closer, breathing, their heavy footfalls making my stomach drop in dread.
I tried to open my eyes, to move, but I was stuck. Wide awake but paralyzed. The bed sagged under a new weight as something moved above me, crowding me, hovering over me, pushing down onto me. I finally was able to open my eyes but seeing the figure close up did nothing to make them clearer. But I knew, I knew, that this was it. This was the end of me and I tried to surge up, run away, push my body into action, but large rough hands circled around my throat, squeezing squeezing squeezing—
And that was when I woke up screaming bloody murder. I even woke up the person in front of me who had been sleeping soundly and I must have scared her so much by yelling in her ear, because I could see tears on her face once my eyes adjusted to the waking world. I looked around me and saw wide, scared eyes staring at me, everyone trying to press themselves into the seats and walls of the bus to get as far away from me as physically possible. So I got up, shouted something at the driver, who opened the door to let me out, and now I’m here, sitting on a bench, trying to get my breath back.
I don’t know that I’ve ever had a dream like that before. It felt so real. Like I really was at home in bed, waking slowly from sleep, then waking very suddenly as something—someone—came into my room and began to suffocate me. I felt so helpless. I thought I was going to die. Then, when I woke up, I thought that maybe I had hurt someone. I’ve checked my arms and legs and neck for scratches, but everything seems to be normal. Whatever that means now.
I don’t think I have a handle on this anymore. Are my parents right? Is this an Atypical ability manifesting? There’s a pit in my stomach at the thought. What if I’m like my mom—a precognate—and I’ve somehow seen a vision of something that’s going to happen to me?
But … now that I’ve written it all out … I mean, kids in the house? What am I talking about? I’m not sure I was … me in the dream. Is that normal? Maybe that’s something I should ask my doctor about, when I do finally actually go to see her. Or maybe I can go to Readit like Aaron seems to do with every single problem he has and see if anyone on there has any ideas.
Also, our floorboards don’t creak. At least the ones in my bedroom don’t. Reading what I wrote and doing my best to remember that dream, I don’t think it was my bedroom. Which would make sense, if it wasn’t me to begin with. I already feel like half a person sometimes, or two people—making myself as palatable to my extraordinary family as I can, while trying to be true to the person I want to be … and now I’m not even me in my own dreams? How is that fair?
Oh. Also. I fell asleep before finishing my last entry in here. It hardly seems as important now, but …
Emily said yes.
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2016
I wish I could go back in time to seventeen-year-old Rose, who wanted her mom to pay more attention to her, who was jealous of all the focused love Aaron was getting after his mind reading started and tell her that she’s wrong, having all of Mom’s attention is actually a terrible thing and she should enjoy her peace while she can.
“Mom, really, I’m fine,” I said in my best soothing voice as I dried the dishes she’d strong-armed me into helping her with. I thought that having a wrist brace would get me out of household chores but, according to her, “Drying doesn’t get the brace wet, and you only really need to move one of your
arms.” So there I was.
“Are you still randomly losing consciousness?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you’re not fine.”
“What power do you think I have exactly?” I asked as she handed me another plate. “You know that narcolepsy is, like, a totally normal human ailment. I mean, sure, it’s rare, but it’s not … atypical.” I winced at my own dumb, unintentional pun.
“Rose, do you think I’m an idiot?” She turned off the faucet and turned to me, leaning her hip against the counter and crossing her arms across her chest.
“What?”
“I know that you falling asleep randomly is not all that’s going on.” She lifted one of her eyebrows in the “I know what you did and if you admit it now, your punishment won’t be as harsh” look that she’s spent our entire childhoods perfecting.
“What?” I asked again, except this time the hair on the back of my neck pricked in the way it always does whenever my mom either a) has a vision or b) has caught me out.
“The other night, you fell asleep on the couch and it’s clear you were dreaming. Vividly,” she added significantly.
“Okay…” I said, focusing on putting the dried plates back into the cabinet, rather than take the risk of continuing to make eye contact with a woman who is literally psychic.
“Most people don’t try to physically run away while they dream,” she said. “It was like you were a puppet who’d had their strings cut. Limp but fighting.”
“You don’t have to make it sound so creepy,” I muttered.
“It was creepy!” she said, not making me feel better about this situation at all. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I’d fallen asleep watching TV—it had felt like a natural dozing off more than dropping into a dream—and I’d had the same nightmare about being chased by a snake that I’ve been having.
“I’m just worried about you,” she said softly and that was when I realized I hadn’t said anything in a few minutes, lost in my own memories about the recurring nightmare.
“If it’s really going to make you feel better, I can go to the AM, get checked out.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said shortly, turning the sink back on and picking up the sponge.
And just like that, I’ve disappointed again. My intended olive branch was actually a hot poker. Despite the fact that everyone in my family had spent time at the Atypical Monitors, my mom has always had some strange grudge against them. I thought about arguing, about forcing her to explain exactly what was so bad about them, but that’s not what I do. Even when I don’t want to, I have to step back, to let the superhumans have their way, try and be a daughter my parents could be proud of.
I feel a little bit like my life is falling apart around me right now—not able to work, no school, no friends, worrying my family and unable to stay conscious for more than eight hours tops—so I’m trying to hold onto the fact that I have a date. Basically for the first time ever. I’ve hung out with girls before, kissed a few of them, but I’ve never done the whole “ask someone formally out on a date and then go on said date with the full understanding that you both are aware this is a romantic outing and the stakes are very high as a result” thing and I have no idea where to start.
(And no, I am NOT thinking about the fact that the only reason I asked a girl out was because MY MOTHER HAD A PSYCHIC VISION thankyouverymuch.)
Emily and I exchanged numbers right before I got onto the bus—no, don’t think about that bus ride, that dream, just focus on having a cute girl’s number programmed into your phone—and when I finally shook off that whole weird day, I realized that she had texted me to ask when I was free.
Already, I was failing at this. I had asked her out and she had to be the one to follow up with me!! Humiliating.
CLEARLY, I need help. So I turned to the one person I feel like I can trust on romantic matters: my dad.
Again: humiliating.
I guess, maybe, it would have been less embarrassing to ask Aaron but 1) I don’t want him to feel like he can lord anything over me and 2) he’s never had a relationship in his life and that’s with the benefit of being a mind reader, so how much can he really know? So I swallowed my pride.
“Hey, Dad?” I asked, coming into the living last night as he read on the couch.
“Yeah, Rose?”
My dad is the only person in my family who always, always calls me Rose. My mom throws out a ton of pet names for Aaron and me both—sweetie, honey, kid, pumpkin, hey you—and Aaron has been calling me Rosie since he was old enough to talk, but my dad only ever calls me Rose. It always makes me feel more grown-up, like we’re on the same level.
“What do you do on dates?” I did not feel grown-up when I blurted that question out. My dad hadn’t looked up from his book (one of those bland crime thriller political drama things with a strong-jawed white man in silhouette on the cover) when I came into the room but the moment I asked that, he put his bookmark in, set the book down on his lap, and looked up at me.
“Excuse me?” he asked, taking his reading glasses off. I could see the ghost of a smile on his face and decided to just push through before he could tease me too badly.
“I just mean…” I started, “like, when you ask someone out, and they say yes, what’s the next thing you’re supposed to do?”
His mouth twitched in amusement.
“I know what’s next, obviously,” I rushed to add. “You find a time and then you meet up and…”
I trailed off, hoping that he would forgo poking fun and head straight for the fatherly advice.
“Rose,” he said, in a tone of voice that I knew meant he wasn’t going to breeze past the good-natured ribbing portion of this conversation, “do you have a date?”
“Yes,” I said loftily, as if having a date was something that happened to me all the time.
“With whom?” he asked, matching my formal tone.
“A lovely young woman named Emily Rodriguez.” I sniffed haughtily.
“Well, that’s very exciting.” He was nodding his head, his toothless smile coiled so tightly like he feared opening his mouth would lead to a laugh breaking out. For a few seconds, we just stayed there, looking at each other and nodding solemnly, him seated on the couch and me standing above him, hyperaware of my stiff posture.
“Ugh, just tell me what to do!” I moaned finally, collapsing down on the couch next to him. At that, his smile did burst open, wide and bright, his head tipping back in a warm, hearty laugh.
“Stop, I’m serious.” I groaned, hitting his arm lightly as he laughed. But soon I was giggling too, never immune to the infectious nature of my dad’s joy.
“I’m really proud of you, Rose,” he said, smiling wide at me.
“Ew, why?” I asked, blushing furiously. Even though I knew, deep down, that he was proud of me—more accepting of jumping right into the workforce than my mom was—I hadn’t heard it so directly in a while.
“You put yourself out there! Asked someone out! That’s no easy thing and, from what I understand, your generation barely ever takes that step.” He punctuated each of his sentences with a flourish of his hand and I shook my head at how ridiculous he continues to be despite the fact that he is well into his sixties. Actually, I’m sure he’d hate that characterization. He’s sixty-two, which he’d say is the new fifty-five.
My parents waited a long time to have children. They got married pretty young, in their early twenties, but because they were both Atypical, they knew the risks of combining their DNA. Neither of them have had much trouble throughout the years with their abilities—my dad can just choose not to move things with his mind and my mom can keep her visions to herself. Which she usually does, actually, never wanting to influence me or Aaron too much, even when we would beg as children to have her tell us our fortunes. The various tips and aggressive pushes she’s given me recently are a bit out of the norm, like the path I’m on isn’t quite right and she’s trying to steer me b
ack on track.
Even though being Atypical hasn’t put too much of a wrench in either of their lives, I think they feared that, with their powers combined or whatever, they’d have a kid that could spit fire or fly or something.
And my parents’ worst fear came true: Aaron suffered because of something that was fundamental to his nature. The AM helped him learn to control his power, which helped the headaches he’d been experiencing, but they never went away completely. I know there are still sometimes when Aaron reads minds too much or not enough and gets a migraine that puts him out of commission for hours. But over the years, things have gotten back to normal. Or as normal as they ever were in the Atkinson household. Aaron started to bond with our parents over the weird intricacies of having an Atypical ability, while I graduated high school and stayed the same boring, human Rose I always had been. I find it hard to complain though, when I have a wonderful, healthy, loving family, who will stand by me and help me no matter what, even with their own disappointment. It’s why I try so hard not to rock the boat more than I do by existing, which is why I’m still KICKING MYSELF over telling them about the narcolepsy.
Which brings me to now. Trying to get back to the usual “Rose is normal and has normal problems” by asking my sixty-two-year-old contractor father, who likes basic white-man thriller books and thinks medium salsa is too spicy, for lesbian dating advice.
“My generation dates all the time,” I rebutted, poking his leg with my foot and leaning back onto the armrest of the couch. “In high school, it seemed like that’s all anyone did.”
“Not you,” he pointed out. He meant it totally innocently, but hearing it still stung a little bit, reminding me how I’ve always felt a little different from the people around me in the wrong ways.
“And people in your generation may date,” he continued, “but I’d be hard-pressed to find another teenager today who actually asked someone out in person.”
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