[ PRIVATE. ]
ake sure it was safe, as if it ever really was in the city, even in this cathedral.
My hands through my hair, I began to feel a migraine pounding its way through my skull, so much that my eyes burned and it hurt to walk. I staggered in attempt to take a few steps only to lean to the wall and slide, down to the ground where I made my place on the carpet, slumped in the hallway.
What I did, what I said... I needed a moment to stop and let it all process. Sometimes when things come at you fast, it helps taking a break to assess them afterwards, except that nothing was coming to me then. Nada. All I could think about were the same things over and over again.
What are you? For some reason I couldn’t seem to get that through my head. I still can’t. Probably because never in my life had anyone ever asked me such a thing. Somehow, it hurt to think about it, especially considering who had been the one to say it.
In all my life, there had been only two people I ever met who could see the same things I do. One was a young British boy who was crushed to death by a truck moments after I met him. Then I thought about Anthony Perkins.
Three years ago, I ran into a man with the same gift as me, and with that same gift he was driven mad, driven to kill. It made me wonder, if things had turned out different, could I have become the same way? Is it possible that I could still be the same? The dead all want the one thing from us-our help. Maybe that’s why people like me are born.
But if that were the case, what was Perkins’ purpose? Is it really all that inconceivable to think that I, too, could be the same one day, if I’m not careful: Crazy like Perkins? Crazy like my mother? With enough blood on my hands, it’s almost too easy to consider that prospect.
I didn’t feel very sane right then. That night I almost killed someone I considered a friend. What next, Odd Thomas?
With that happy little thought, I got up, feeling like enough time had been spent thinking. In fact, I just felt sick to my stomach.
Advil in the morning.
My hands through my hair, I began to feel a migraine pounding its way through my skull, so much that my eyes burned and it hurt to walk. I staggered in attempt to take a few steps only to lean to the wall and slide, down to the ground where I made my place on the carpet, slumped in the hallway.
What I did, what I said... I needed a moment to stop and let it all process. Sometimes when things come at you fast, it helps taking a break to assess them afterwards, except that nothing was coming to me then. Nada. All I could think about were the same things over and over again.
What are you? For some reason I couldn’t seem to get that through my head. I still can’t. Probably because never in my life had anyone ever asked me such a thing. Somehow, it hurt to think about it, especially considering who had been the one to say it.
In all my life, there had been only two people I ever met who could see the same things I do. One was a young British boy who was crushed to death by a truck moments after I met him. Then I thought about Anthony Perkins.
Three years ago, I ran into a man with the same gift as me, and with that same gift he was driven mad, driven to kill. It made me wonder, if things had turned out different, could I have become the same way? Is it possible that I could still be the same? The dead all want the one thing from us-our help. Maybe that’s why people like me are born.
But if that were the case, what was Perkins’ purpose? Is it really all that inconceivable to think that I, too, could be the same one day, if I’m not careful: Crazy like Perkins? Crazy like my mother? With enough blood on my hands, it’s almost too easy to consider that prospect.
I didn’t feel very sane right then. That night I almost killed someone I considered a friend. What next, Odd Thomas?
With that happy little thought, I got up, feeling like enough time had been spent thinking. In fact, I just felt sick to my stomach.
Advil in the morning.