Day 107 - Secret Words

 Secret Words

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

My father used to whisper little secrets; just for me. It made me feel special, like I was his favorite. He had chosen to share with me and only me.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when I asked him why he was always telling me such private and intimate things. He had no idea what I was talking about, even after I explained further. He grew scared. I wondered if I were insane. But when I heard more secrets from him, I realized he had never been telling me anything, rather I had been picking his thoughts.

It made my remaining teenager years challenging. We rarely were in the same room and he found excuses to work longer and longer hours. We never spoke of it again, but I suppose it could have been worse. He could have killed me as I heard him think about more than once. He never laid a hand on me, which looking back I guess I should be more respectful of. I have no idea how I would handle such constant invasion. I can only imagine the torture I put him through. I’ll never know if he told anyone else about it. It’s far too late for such questions.

Things got better after I moved out. I couldn’t hear him nearly much. The older we both got, the more distance between us, additional time apart, the voices grew quieter. He was still uneasy when he’d see me. I hate that for him. I hate that he had to view me so differently, that our relationship was ruined. He never got to know me, and I knew far more than I should have about him. It wasn’t fair.

I often wonder why him. Perhaps I was the world’s worst actual psychic – maybe the only real psychic on the planet, but with a range limited to one. The most impressive power reduced to the worst party trick. If I could have been better, if I had control, I don’t know what I would have done. But at least I wouldn’t have hurt him.

I get gut feelings about people sometimes. I’m a pretty good judge of character. I wonder if it’s the same thing. I wonder if I was a little stronger, a little more focused if I could do the same with them than I did with him. But I don’t want that. I don’t need those secrets. I don’t want the voices. I couldn’t stand the look of fear in other people’s eyes.

I keep to myself. I don’t talk much. It seems better that way. I hate what I might do to others, but truthfully, I’m more afraid of what could be done to me if I met the wrong person who didn’t have the same restraint.

I mediate now and try to clear my thoughts. If there is someone else out there, I don’t want them hearing me and trying to find me. One of us is enough. And God forbid they be better at it. I can’t imagine the nightmare of someone knowing me but me being unable to discern a thing. It was hell for my father. I imagine it might be maddening for me as well. And madness doesn’t end well. Sadly, he knew that all too well.