contrary.
It was like she had no walls around her mind. Other people’s thoughts were trampling through her head as if it were their own.
Mind reading. It was the only concept that would come to her, but as a definition it wasn’t quite right. “Reading” implied a deliberate act, a seeking out. This wasn’t deliberate. This was more along the lines of being crushed by stampeding wild animals.
Maybe she was crazy. Or else really, really stoned on Aunt Helga’s mystery drug. She preferred the second option. As an explanation, it was simpler, more reductive. Comforting, even.
Temporary.
So much noise. If she shut her eyes, hid in the gray fuzz, it helped, but the second she opened her eyes and caught sight of someone, their thoughts slammed into her mind, full force. The train squealed on a curve as it braked. Nina peeked to check the station sign—
. . . she’ll kill herself if I leave her, but I’ll kill her myself if I don’t . . .
It was the guy across from her. Her eyes had brushed over him to read the sign. Young, wispy dark goatee, John Lennon glasses, tattered jeans. Eyes red and puffy from smoking too much pot.
The frantic buzz of chronic desperation that emanated from him had snagged her mind.
Images flooded in. Peter. Bass player. His manic-depressive girlfriend, Jodie, was on a downswing. His belly hurt like a spear was stuck through it. So afraid of coming back from a gig, finding her in the bathroom, dead. Her empty eyes telling him that it was all his fault.
She jerked her gaze away, squeezed her eyes shut. I’m imagining this. I’m fried on Aunt Helga’s drug, my mind creating things that aren’t there. His name is probably Brad or James or Tom. Not Peter.
But sensible self-talk was irrelevant. She couldn’t ride the subway with her eyes squeezed shut. If she was tripping on some powerful hallucinogen, well, tough titties. She’d just figure out how to function normally in spite of it. Junkies did it all the time.
So. A plan. She’d compensate for the drug, with her own more-or-less solid map of reality as she remembered it from her old, unaltered days. Solid. That was her. Nina Christie, solid as a rock.
She focused on breathing, to calm the terror that bubbled and fizzed. She opened her eyes, face turned from Peter. Her gaze brushed over a petite black girl with intricately braided and beaded hair, staring down at her red peep-toe sandals. The look on the girl’s face sucked her into a slipstream of emotions: shame, fear, dread . . .
. . . keep the baby? How’m I supposed to feed a baby if Tyrone doesn’t want it? Ma’ll throw me out, she hates my guts already. . . .
Nina refused to flinch. Solid as a rock. Stay calm. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look at faces. Looking at faces triggered it.
At that moment, a heavy man with a suit and a combover sat down next to her. His massive body pressed against hers. The contact made the volume of his thoughts blare in her head.
. . . stuck-up prick. I’ll teach him to talk trash about me, that lying son of a bitch. Firing me in front of Pam and Miriam, fucking bastard . . .
I’ll burn his house with his whole fucking family inside—
Nina jerked to her feet. The guy’s eyes were half closed in his heavy face, lost in his revenge fantasy. Reveling in the image of burning his ex-boss in his bed, the man screaming while flames licked—
It hurt her head. She felt lacerated, stabbing lights blinding her. She wanted to vomit. To be alone, in the dark, in the fetal position. She stumbled down the subway car, trying not to touch anyone, look at anyone, shoving through a dense web of thoughts, feelings. Wispy trails clung to her, the strongest ones wrapping around her like cobwebs.
. . . just can’t face another round of chemo. . . .
. . . God, I wish he would call me. Why isn’t he calling me . . . ?
. . . where will I find money to buy Angie’s meds this time . . . ?
. . . rat bastard. Probably boning that man-stealing
It was like she had no walls around her mind. Other people’s thoughts were trampling through her head as if it were their own.
Mind reading. It was the only concept that would come to her, but as a definition it wasn’t quite right. “Reading” implied a deliberate act, a seeking out. This wasn’t deliberate. This was more along the lines of being crushed by stampeding wild animals.
Maybe she was crazy. Or else really, really stoned on Aunt Helga’s mystery drug. She preferred the second option. As an explanation, it was simpler, more reductive. Comforting, even.
Temporary.
So much noise. If she shut her eyes, hid in the gray fuzz, it helped, but the second she opened her eyes and caught sight of someone, their thoughts slammed into her mind, full force. The train squealed on a curve as it braked. Nina peeked to check the station sign—
. . . she’ll kill herself if I leave her, but I’ll kill her myself if I don’t . . .
It was the guy across from her. Her eyes had brushed over him to read the sign. Young, wispy dark goatee, John Lennon glasses, tattered jeans. Eyes red and puffy from smoking too much pot.
The frantic buzz of chronic desperation that emanated from him had snagged her mind.
Images flooded in. Peter. Bass player. His manic-depressive girlfriend, Jodie, was on a downswing. His belly hurt like a spear was stuck through it. So afraid of coming back from a gig, finding her in the bathroom, dead. Her empty eyes telling him that it was all his fault.
She jerked her gaze away, squeezed her eyes shut. I’m imagining this. I’m fried on Aunt Helga’s drug, my mind creating things that aren’t there. His name is probably Brad or James or Tom. Not Peter.
But sensible self-talk was irrelevant. She couldn’t ride the subway with her eyes squeezed shut. If she was tripping on some powerful hallucinogen, well, tough titties. She’d just figure out how to function normally in spite of it. Junkies did it all the time.
So. A plan. She’d compensate for the drug, with her own more-or-less solid map of reality as she remembered it from her old, unaltered days. Solid. That was her. Nina Christie, solid as a rock.
She focused on breathing, to calm the terror that bubbled and fizzed. She opened her eyes, face turned from Peter. Her gaze brushed over a petite black girl with intricately braided and beaded hair, staring down at her red peep-toe sandals. The look on the girl’s face sucked her into a slipstream of emotions: shame, fear, dread . . .
. . . keep the baby? How’m I supposed to feed a baby if Tyrone doesn’t want it? Ma’ll throw me out, she hates my guts already. . . .
Nina refused to flinch. Solid as a rock. Stay calm. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look at faces. Looking at faces triggered it.
At that moment, a heavy man with a suit and a combover sat down next to her. His massive body pressed against hers. The contact made the volume of his thoughts blare in her head.
. . . stuck-up prick. I’ll teach him to talk trash about me, that lying son of a bitch. Firing me in front of Pam and Miriam, fucking bastard . . .
I’ll burn his house with his whole fucking family inside—
Nina jerked to her feet. The guy’s eyes were half closed in his heavy face, lost in his revenge fantasy. Reveling in the image of burning his ex-boss in his bed, the man screaming while flames licked—
It hurt her head. She felt lacerated, stabbing lights blinding her. She wanted to vomit. To be alone, in the dark, in the fetal position. She stumbled down the subway car, trying not to touch anyone, look at anyone, shoving through a dense web of thoughts, feelings. Wispy trails clung to her, the strongest ones wrapping around her like cobwebs.
. . . just can’t face another round of chemo. . . .
. . . God, I wish he would call me. Why isn’t he calling me . . . ?
. . . where will I find money to buy Angie’s meds this time . . . ?
. . . rat bastard. Probably boning that man-stealing
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