“So, what’s it—” I stopped myself, trying to find the right words and also wondering if I wanted to ask the question in the first place, or if it would be showing my hand too much.
“What’s what…?” Aaron squinted his eyes at me.
“Stop reading my thoughts,” I snapped. He reeled back, blinking, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Rosie, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are, I know you, I know that face—”
“What face?”
“Your faraway-look face,” I said.
“You mean the face I have when I’m thinking?” he asked.
“Oh, maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize it,” I quipped.
“Hardy-har-har,” he said, deadpan. I poured the fluffy chocolate and egg white mixture into a soufflé dish.
“So … what’s what like?” he asked again as I put the dish in the oven. I didn’t answer right away, taking my time to position the soufflé dish just so in its water bath, checking that the tin foil around the edge was high enough to support the rise. I closed the oven door, straightened up, wiped my hands on my apron, but I didn’t turn to look at him, instead choosing to stare straight ahead at the counter, his folded figure on top of it just in the corner of my periphery.
“What’s the AM like?” My voice was quiet and I could feel my throat tighten around the words. I hated this. I hated not knowing something, I hated Aaron specifically knowing more about it than me, I hated having to ask him, having to show my cards, admit that I was vulnerable. I braced for impact, for him to poke fun at me, or roll his eyes. Be the Aaron I’ve known since I was thirteen, even though in this moment I desperately needed him to be the Aaron I knew when I was ten.
“It’s … kind of boring, to be honest,” Aaron said, surprising me by being neither. I looked at him then, saw the lines around his frown, his hunched shoulders, and could see, briefly, the person that Aaron the grown-up was going to be.
“Boring?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It’s just a big hospital. And, yeah, it’s a hospital filled with people who have magical powers, but other than that, it’s pretty standard.”
“Oh, yeah, other than that.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m serious, Rosie,” he said earnestly. “Whatever you’re imagining, I bet it’s not half as bad. I was even—”
“What?” I prodded, when he didn’t say more.
“I was gonna suggest you go even before all this,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
“What? Why?”
“I promise you, I’m not reading your thoughts regularly or anything,” he started and I tensed, “but I noticed that something was … off.”
“Off?”
“Your thoughts felt different. Dad’s thoughts do too though, like there’s a … fog around them…” Aaron trailed off, staring distantly at nothing, before shaking his head and continuing, “I started to think it was me. That’s why I didn’t end up saying anything.”
“Are you okay?” I asked, uncertain. We were in unusual territory here, skating dangerously close to sincere vulnerability.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, waving off my concern with a lazy hand. “I think I’m just out of practice. Though, seems like I was right about something going on with you.”
“Seems like,” I echoed, not knowing what to say to any of that. We sat in silence for a few moments before Aaron inhaled deeply and changed the subject back to the AM.
“You’re gonna get evaluated and head-shrunk and spend a lot of time waiting for doctors just like in the normal world. And then you’ll be back here before you know it.”
I’m not sure I believe it.
community/TheUnusuals post by n/thatsahumanperson
I think I should probably apologize for writing that last post, not giving any context or further information, and then not reading any of the comments or PMs that people sent me. Thanks to everyone who dropped into my in-box with advice and concern. It’s a weird comfort right now to know that there’s this whole community of people looking out for me. You guys really helped me through when I first started hearing voices and it’s looking like you’re going to help me through adjusting to my sister’s ability.
Yep, turns out my sister is an Unusual. A dreamdiver, as I alluded to. Meaning, she can go into people’s dreams. My dream, specifically, the other night. It was … freaky. Like, even more freaky than hearing people’s thoughts on the reg. There was this feeling, like there was another presence there. I don’t believe in ghosts, but it’s sort of what I imagine sensing a ghost would be like. Even before I saw her, there was something off about the dream. I don’t know. Maybe I’m putting that feeling on top of reality now that I know what I know.
When she did arrive though, all sharp-edged and clear-voiced, everything in the dream changed. Then we both woke up and rushed out into the hallway to confirm … yep, we’d both just been in the same dream.
I don’t really have a question this time, I guess. I more just wanted to update everyone on what was going on and say … thanks being here for me. She’s going to That Place tomorrow, so hopefully she’ll figure out how to control it pretty easily and we can skip over any embarrassing dream visits.
chuckxavier
Glad you figured it out and that your sister is getting checked out. I’ve heard of dreamdivers, but I think they’re pretty rare, so it’s good that she’s getting the help she needs.
onmyown
Ditto. I’ve heard of them, never met one, but I’ve heard that things can get pretty gnarly, so good that she’s getting ahead of it.
thatsahumanperson
Yeah, that’s what our parents said too—that dreamdivers are rare. But what do you mean “gnarly”? Is it dangerous?
onmyown
Not physically, I don’t think. Just some folks on this sub a few years back—before your time—talking about a friend of theirs who stopped spending a lot of time in the waking world. Guess the dreamworld is pretty sweet.
thatsahumanperson
Gotcha. Based on my sister’s reaction to having the ability, I don’t think her liking it too much is going to be a problem.
franklinsteinsmonster
COOOOOOOOOOOL.
lokilover
congrats, man. having a dreamdiver in the family is very, very cool. you should invite your sister to this sub—I’d love to get to know her.
thatsahumanperson
If I think she’d get something out of it, I’ll invite her, but she’s probably the least online person her age I’ve ever met. Also … not loving the vibe you’re sending out n/lokilover.
lokilover
meant no disrespect. I just think her power sounds incredible.
iwannabelieve
Can I ask, why no ghosts? I would think with the special powers thing, anything supernatural would be fair game. But are they against the rules of the world?
thatsahumanperson
I mean, yeah, they’re literally against the rules of the world as in like … the laws of physics? I get that a lot of us can do things that defy laws of the natural world, but death feels like one of those rules that no Unusual, no matter their ability, could break.
theneonthorn
almost ten years of this sub and I swear, this exact type of person never stops coming.
onmyown
OH my god, dude, for the last time, THIS IS NOT AN RP. I can’t tell if you’re just dense or an actual Unusual and just an epic troll. But FWIW, I actually do believe in ghosts. I haven’t seen any proof yet, but I think there’s still a lot about the world that we don’t understand.
iwannabelieve
hey, no offense meant from me. I’m just out here tryna have a good time.
onmyown
Yeah, well the rest of us are just trying to live our lives. This isn’t a game to us.
SEPTEMBER 23RD, 2016
I still can’t quite believe that I’m here. The AM. The belly of the beast. That sounds more dramatic
than I mean it—Aaron was right, it’s not actually that scary. Though walking in was pretty intimidating. There’s this huge, two- or three-story lobby—an atrium that slants down into the reception area, making it feel as if the sky is coming down on you the farther you go into the building. Like a visual cue saying: “Turn back, you’re going to be swallowed whole by this whale if you take another step.” But there I was, walking straight into the thing’s damn mouth. Just like the dream rules I’m beginning to get a tentative hold on: no turning back.
But actually, space-age-y entrance aside, it’s really just like a nice hospital. After going to the enormous circular front desk and talking to a super cute receptionist with an amazing ’fro and a cool name that I’m now forgetting (Maggie? something? why do pretty girls make my brain dumb?), I was led into a windowless room. Okay, that sounds really bad, but there was a little water feature in the corner and a cushy couch and soft lighting. It was kinda like being in a spa, tbqh.
And then that whole vibe was broken when a bespectacled sentient beanpole walked into the room.
“Hello, Ms. Atkinson. I’m Agent Green,” he said, closing the door behind him and coming to stand in front of me. I stood up, partly so I could actually see his face—he was tall-tall—and partly because it seemed like the thing to do. He smiled down at me, the expression creating friendly wrinkles in his face, even if it didn’t feel like the smile completely reached his eyes.
“Yes, I think we spoke on the phone, hello,” I said, sounding like a complete ninny. There was something about his stiff suit and practiced smile that made me feel like I had to be the most formal version of myself. He wasn’t at all what I had expected. The guy I’d given my preliminary interview to over the phone this morning—my mom hovering over my shoulder the whole time—sounded like he was trying to be the cool camp counselor. The guy who sat in front of me in that weird little spa room looked like he’d gotten his suit in the early 2000s and his haircut in the ’80s.
“Do you need anything, Ms. Atkinson?” he asked, his eyebrows scrunching down into what I think he thought was a compassionate expression, but just really came across as confused. “Water?” He gestured to a cooler on the other side of the room, half stepping in that direction like he was ready to get me a glass the moment I said yes.
“No, I’m fine,” I said through a dry mouth. It was starting to dawn on me that I was in a totally unknown place, with a totally unknown person, for a somewhat unknown period of time, and no way to contact the outside world. Cute reception girl had taken my phone, “protocol,” she said, and I hadn’t seen any landlines as I was walked through the halls. I’m just glad I was able to text Emily and tell her I was dealing with some family drama before going off the grid. GOD, I hope she’ll go out with me again once I’m out.
“And you can call me Rose,” I added.
“Wonderful.” He smiled again, tightly, but his voice was warm and the ice in my stomach started to thaw. I felt myself smiling back, just a little. “Then you can call me Owen. Why don’t we sit.”
Silently, I sat back down on the couch that felt like it had been sat in maybe three times. The fabric was soft but the cushions stiff and unyielding. Agent Green—Owen—sat down in the chair opposite and crossed his legs.
He opened a thin folder on his lap and looked down at it. “Now, I know you went through everything on the phone, but do you have any questions?”
“Um…” Did I have questions? I had a million questions—what would I be asked to do? Would they give me medicine to stop the dreaming? Would they teach me how to dream? Were there other dreamdivers here? “What happens first?”
“Well, once I’m done with all your intake forms, we’ll take you over to our medical wing, where you’ll get a quick physical, and then we’ll show you to your room, where you can get settled in before dinner. You won’t be doing much this weekend—just meeting our other patients, getting to know our counselors. Then on Monday you’ll start with some individual- and group-therapy sessions and then you’ll start doing workshops to help learn control.”
The mention of group therapy brought up an awful, stomach-rattling fear that I’d had the moment I’d woken up from sharing Aaron’s dream. I’d spent so much of today thinking about when Aaron went to the AM—how hard it had been when he first started hearing thoughts and how hard it still was after. He seems to have pretty good control of his ability now, and it’s like he’s forgotten how … downright awful he was when it started happening. I certainly didn’t want to go into some random stranger’s dream and make them feel self-conscious about their innermost thoughts. But Owen assured me I’d be given my own room for extra privacy.
My “own room” is a bit of a strong phrase. It feels like somewhere between a hostel and a crappy dorm room: bed, nightstand with a lamp, a tiny bathroom separated by a thin, sliding door. I was allowed to bring my own stuff—clothes, toiletries, books … but no phone or computer. I brought a few cookbooks I’d been wanting to read all the way through and my battered copy of Kitchen Confidential, but god I am going to be so bored here without a kitchen to cook in or reruns to watch mindlessly. I get to call my family every day, but apparently they like to limit “outside contact” in order to keep us focused on our growth, or whatever bullshit borderline-cult-ish thing Owen said.
They let me keep my journal at least. Owen was so excited when I asked him about it—saying “wonderful” for the hundredth time since I’d met him and asking to see it.
“Oh, I don’t want to read it,” he’d rushed to say when I looked at him funny. “I just think it’s wonderful that you’ve been keeping a dream journal. Our doctors here often ask dreamdivers to do just that, so you’re ahead of the curve!”
He gave me a genuine smile then, brighter than any of the tight, practiced smiles that he’d given me as we’d gone through a questionnaire asking everything from what my “upper reach limit” of dreamdiving was (wouldn’t even begin to know how to answer that given I barely understand the question in the first place) to what my body temperature is when I’m asleep and normally dreaming versus dreamdiving (literally … how would I know that?).
So I showed him this journal, already scuffed around the edges. His eyes lit up and for a brief, horrifying second, I thought he might actually clap.
“That’s wonderful, Rose,” he repeated. He looked so … proud of me, like I was already doing a great job. I get why they have that guy do the intake.
But now that I’m alone again, in this strange windowless cinder-block room, I’m starting to feel nervous again. Not fear-nerves—Aaron was right, this place is weird but it’s not that scary. Instead, I feel like it’s the first night of sleepaway camp and tomorrow I’m going to meet the rest of my cabin. Except, this time, the rest of my cabin are people who have supernatural abilities and I might accidentally pass out and go inside of their subconscious minds. So. You know. Not your usual summer camp.
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2016
The weird, alt-summer-camp feeling I had the first night was driven home today by my first group therapy session.
The entire weekend went by with little activity—as anticipated, I got a big wire cap put on my head, got a tiny bit poked and prodded, waited in an itchy hospital gown for an hour for a doctor to come take my temperature and leave, like that’s not something I could have done myself, and just generally slept. A lot. And, of course, I dreamed.
Dreaming feels different now. It feels like something clicked, like I’ve figured out the shape and dimensions of the dreamworld, even if I haven’t nailed down all the rules. Every dream I have now seems to be lucid. More often than not, I’m waking up in that blank void, a comfortable place now, and I just know. I know I’m dreaming. And I know I’m in my own head too. There’s a soft, warm edge around it. I don’t always know where the edge is, the doorway that has sometimes appeared in that space hasn’t materialized, but each time I’m in that emptiness I try to find it. With my hands reaching out and feeling for a seam, with my min
d trying to control what’s around me, with my eyes trying to perceive something that’s barely there. I haven’t cracked it yet, but I have the feeling that if I keep going back, eventually I’ll be able to find the seam and open the door.
I’m not entirely sure if I’ve dreamdived at all since being here. As Owen promised, they’ve kept me away from other patients. My room is on a long hallway full of doors that I’m assuming lead to other, similar rooms. I’ve heard barely a peep from either side and have yet to see anyone else when I venture down the hallway, so I think I have the whole place to myself, not just my own room. I wonder if they’ve shuffled everyone into one corner of the building so that I have this place to myself or if there just aren’t many inpatients at the moment. I should have asked Owen on Friday when he gave me the tour.
“There are two basic types of programs we run here,” he’d said, walking me past the cafeteria right off the main lobby. “We have inpatients, such as yourself”—he smiled at me when he said it, like we were in on a secret together—“and outpatients. You’ll eventually be an outpatient, coming here for annual checkups and to continue group therapy if you’d like.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “I think Aaron did that for a while. I don’t know why he stopped.”
“It’s not required. Of course,” he added, “some people find group therapy most fulfilling, others prefer the one-on-one approach. We have someone we can recommend if you’d like to continue your own therapy once we leave.”
“Is therapy really that important?” I asked skeptically. “I mean, it’s the annual physicals and stuff that really count, right?”
“Therapy is vital,” Owen said solemnly. “You have to keep your emotional and mental well-being maintained in the same way you do your physical body.”
“My brother doesn’t do therapy, and it seems like he’s got his ability pretty under control,” I said, having a hard time with the basic premise of either Aaron or me sitting still in a room and telling someone our feelings for an hour.
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