Today I thought about death as I drove down the highway. With each passing pole and towering tree, the sinister whispers followed and echoed in my head.

“Hit me.”

“End it.”

The last time I heard those voices I’d been twenty and watching my father almost kill my mother. Then those voices whispered, “coward”, and “you’re weak” and the final nail in my mental coffin, “It’s all your fault.”

Stress flipped my switch, along with emotional anguish. My inner turmoil would make most people buckle. For as long as I can remember, I’ve internalized other peoples problems. They are compelled to tell me their darkest fears and secrets, and I absorb their pain and give them back hope.

I don’t tell anyone about my ability. The few I’ve tried to explain it to laughed me off and called me a liar, then accused me of trying to garner attention.

Like I wanted that kind of attention. Who wants to be known as a freak? Who wants people calling them names and labeling them as a sociopath or schizo? Certainly not me. I’m neither of those things. I’m just a girl who can sense others emotions and offer aid. I can filter darkness and replace it with light.

At least, I think so. I’m not really sure what the fuck I do, or who the fuck I am anymore.