Okay, I haven't said everything.
When I was young, something happened to me. My parents never told me what. But ever since then I've had a hyped-up version of retrocognitive psychometry. Not only do I see memories in inanimate objects, but through peoples' skin. If I touch bare skin in certain – okay, I take that back, most – circumstances, I'll see memories, things I'm not meant to see. Things that are private and only meant for the people who were there and saw it in that very moment. I see emotions on peoples' faces written in ink that only I can read and detect. I see thoughts in peoples' eyes silently spoken in a language that only I can understand. All sorts, not censored (I shudder at the thought). But not even my family know of my "talent", if you want to call it that. They put it down to a strange quirk. From what I know, I freeze up, respond to nothing and draw a blank face. Like a fit.
I stopped as the scene appeared before me. The scene normally blinks into view. With every black flash, the colours and details trickle down into view, like watery paint down paper. It was a confrontation in the evening. A small boy in a ragged hoodie trembled under a table. Ingrid was shooting him mean speech. He whimpered high and sad, not unlike a dog. He clutched a floppy soft toy, stuffing splitting the already thin seams.
Finally he crawled out and with a pout said bluntly, "You're mean."
With that, he stalks away, leaving a trail of stuffing in his wake.
I see her again. Tears in her eyes. Pulling out a vial, she catches a tear, as if that was just what she meant to do. But, the hurt and sorrow is true and the tear comes at a price.
I yank out, putting my hand above my head, far away from anything I can touch.
"What was that? Get out of my kitchen." Snaps the grimy guy. "I'm creating perfection - a masterpiece for my Master."
With a distasteful look over my shoulder at him, I walk out. I hate having powers.
