The Curse of Knowing

I already knew the barista would intentionally mispronounce my name, hoping I would correct it and spark a conversation. As the only customer this late right before closing time, all his thoughts were directed at me and about me. I tried to drown them out, tune them out, block them out, like my Bunica taught me. But some thoughts are harder to block than others.

“Coffee for Rose”, the barista called, knowing I clearly said Rosella. I silently picked it up and turned away, inhaling the aroma of hazelnut and chocolate, desperately trying to block out whatever thoughts came next now that I had foiled his little game. I nearly made it to the exit when a new customer came in, the strength of his HATRED slammed into my brain and I staggered, colliding with a table.

“Coffee, black, extra large” the man said loudly, not bothering to approach the counter. He sank into a chair, staring at his hands. Still unsteady, gripping the table for support, I winced in pain from the assault of his hatred hammering into my thoughts. It was not directed at me. This man wanted to murder somebody. This light blue suit wearing too much aftershave thinning hair slightly overweight almost middle aged man, wanted to murder somebody.

Letting go of the table, I forced myself out the door. Once outside, the distance and physical barriers blocked the thoughts, and I recovered. But the object of his hatred had already been pounded into my brain. That angry man wanted to murder a child, so the child's mother would have more free time to spend with the man. I was angry at him, wanted to go back and shout at him, tell him what a despicable and selfish person he was. But instead I walked away.

“This is not a gift, it’s a curse” my Bunica always said. “Don’t get involved. Never act on what you learn. And never ever listen to the voices in your head” I tried to forget the thoughts I had picked up from the murderous man as I walked back to my apartment. Tried to wish away the feelings of hatred and murder. Not for the first time I wished my Bunica was still with me, giving me advice about this curse, how to overcome the anger at what other people think. She was the only person I ever talked to about these cursed intrusive thoughts, but she had passed a few months back.

I couldn’t ask my parents, I don’t even remember them. My Bunica said she could hear their voices in her head, even though they were passed as well. That she still occasionally talked to them in her thoughts. Sometimes she told me the story. “Your mother, she didn’t inherit the curse from me, so we thought our family was rid of it. But when you were little, you showed signs you knew what other people were thinking, even before you could talk. There was trouble. Bad trouble. Someone tried to kill you, tried to rid the world of this curse. That is when your parents died, so you could stay alive.” I always knew there was more to the story by how she said “someone”. But she never elaborated, and her thoughts never entered my head unbidden, unlike the thoughts of everyone else around me.

She raised me, as best as she could. Guiding me through a world where I always knew exactly what the other kids thought, exactly what the teachers thought of a Romany girl and her Grandmother (My Bunica), exactly how my bosses and coworkers thought, all while trying to ignore those thoughts, and never acting on them.

I reached my apartment and realized I didn’t have my coffee, I must have dropped it when I stumbled at the cafe. The barista would have to clean it up, fitting punishment for that idiotic plan of mispronouncing my name.

--

Three days later I was outside my apartment in the early afternoon. I normally avoid daytime activities, reducing the number of people and thoughts I encounter, but some activities require business hours. A stream of babbling minds slid by as I walked the sidewalk, when I felt another stab of murderous hatred. Across the street was the man. He was with a long haired yoga pants painted nails that must be a fake tan woman, and accompanied by an elementary age child fiddling with a juice box. The woman was bent over attending to the child, and the man was rapidly alternating between jealousy, murder, rage, and lust. Still planning a murder, so the woman would no longer waste any more time on this useless child and have more time for him.

“Don’t get involved”, I thought. “Don’t get involved, don’t get involved, don’t get involved” I tried thinking it in my Bunicas eastern european accent “Don’t get involved. It’s a curse not a gift, never act on what you learn. And never ever listen to the voices in your head.”

But the only voice in my head was my own. I couldn’t recall her voice in my head, like she recalled my parents voices in hers.

I went on my way, sailing down the stream of thoughts, the collective minds of the walkers drowning each other out. For the most part. But I could not forget the man and what I knew.

Later, back in my apartment for bed, I could see the child's face in my mind. So innocent, unaware of the doom standing near him. And the mother, fussing about, she was just an ordinary person trying to make her way, not realizing what a monster she had chosen as a partner. I had not heard any thoughts from them as I stood across the street, the man's hatred was too strong, drowning out everything else.

Oh, I have heard all the morbid thoughts, those brief flashes of death and destruction. I encounter those often enough.. This man was different, this was focused deliberate hatred. I had no doubt he meant to follow through. I finally went to sleep, trying to force the memory of the man's hatred from my mind, reciting the words of wisdom My Bunica had left with me. “Don’t get involved, don’t get involved, don’t get involved.”

--

It was Tuesday, just before closing. Hazelnut and chocolate in a warm cuppa to feed my addiction. This barista only cared about closing out the till and going home. A welcome and comforting thought. As I stepped out into the city, I could hear her behind me, rushing over to lock the door. A car approached, and I felt the hatred long before I saw the driver. The man was here. I retained a grip on my cup this time, and rode the wave of his anger. He did not hate me, he did not even notice me. The man got out of his car just in time to see the barista flip the sign to closed. Briefly his anger flashed a little brighter, but the curse words he used were nothing I haven’t heard before, out loud or in my head. He slammed back into his car, and I leaned back against the building, looking away. Had he paid attention he would have seen me, but I was nothing, a stranger sipping coffee, a mere spec far beneath the focus of his rage.

Suddenly he calmed. I had been bracing so hard against the hatred I stumbled when it lifted. I glanced up to see if he had noticed me, but he was driving away, one word left lingering in my brain.

“Tomorrow”

—

I sat alone in the darkness of my apartment, a photo of my Bunica clenched to my chest.

“Bunica I need you. A child is going to die tomorrow.”

The tears were coming freely.

“How did you do it, all those years, never getting involved?”

I stared into the photo, but no words came, there was no more wisdom to be had. My Bunica could no longer help me. I felt now, more than any time since she passed, truly alone.

“Why Bunica, Why!” I cried, shaking the photo. I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t want this. I don’t want to know about children being murdered!” I was angry. And I could feel an echo of anger inside. Remnants from the man were still there, resonating through my brain, and my anger was stirring it up. Yet it didn’t feel wrong. Surely my Bunica would have said something different about this situation. “Don’t get involved” is fine when your co-worker thinks mean things about your haircut. But a child's murder, surely that requires different advice.

I railed again against my curse. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this. Intrusive thoughts every hour of every day pounding into my brain like TVs on full blast in every room on every street on every stranger's head that all on different channels can never ever be turned off. But if I am stuck with it, I can at least do something useful. I can stop a child from being murdered. I found myself pacing the room, the photo of Bunica discarded on the sofa. “Tomorrow” he had thought. That didn’t leave much time. But the fire of anger drove me forward. I had a plan.

I knew many things about many people. I knew the old lady upstairs was an illegal immigrant. I knew the fat man on the first floor loves cats but is allergic. I knew the couple in 2C were unhappy in marriage and having gay affairs on the side. I knew where the building manager kept the keys to all of the apartments.

I knew my quiet and nervous neighbor had a gun. It was the only thing he thought about for weeks after he bought it. It scared him, that cold hard heavy killing weight with the inhuman smelling oil, so he left it in the safe. The safe I knew the combination for, because he had trouble remembering things, so he spent hours reciting the combination, burning it into his brain and mine.

The next morning, it didn’t take much to know when the building manager wasn’t looking and get the keys. And only a little longer to know when my neighbor wasn’t home and get his gun.

I went back to the cafe. The flirty barista was there. I played along with him, it was simple to pick up on his thoughts and find a way to stay in the cafe for hours, waiting for the man.

I was prepared for his anger this time. I accepted it, I welcomed it. When before his emotions were a sledgehammer beating me down, now they were a drum, calling me to action.

I followed the man when he left the cafe. His wrathful walk brought us to the rear entrance of an apartment building, near where I had seen him on the street. His hatred was still strong, murder was still strong. He had fear, but only of being caught. There was no guilt, and no sense of wrongness for his actions. I knew, in a way that only somebody with my curse that is not a gift could know, that nobody was watching us.

With weighty steel and inhuman oil and the noise of premeditated vengeance, I acted. The man died, and a child lived. Because I got involved.

I expected his hatred to die with him, but it was still in my head as I walked home, I could feel it pulsing like a heartbeat, as if it were coming from a singular spot in the back of my brain. The pulsing gradually diminished, but the spot it came from solidified. As the heartbeat ceased, the spot coalesced into the shape of a man, with a dark stain of blood on his back.

“You murdered me” he shouted, the voice ringing through my head.

“You were going to murder that child” I internally shouted back.

His anger withdrew from my thoughts, retreating back into its manshape, and my emotions returned to my own. But the man remained.

“So, how long do you think I’ll be in here?” the man asked, his voice clear and unavoidable, filling my mind.

Once again I wished my Bunica was still with me, giving advice about this curse. About what to do when you hear a voice inside your head.