The Touched

Two lonely psychics struggle with their abilities and their own tragedies.

The Touched

by

Andrew Gordinier

He refused to wear black.

The other Touched seemed to wear nothing but black. As if it were a silent agreement of depression and rebellion, a foolish display and way to separate themselves even further from the rest of the world. He understood the need to feel that separation and sense of identification with other Touched, but there was already enough that bound them together and there was no sense in yelling about it. Then again of course he was in the minority among the Touched because of these feelings and ideas.

Instead of wearing black, John wore a lot of soft grays and deep reds; only his shoes and boots were black. It made getting suits difficult sometimes but in the end he found it a challenge instead of a frustration. Either way the end result always made him feel dignified and did make an impression on most of his clients. They always seemed to recommend him with comments like "very professional, yet approachable" and "efficient, but not machine like". Comments that hinted at the fact that he had a .87 rating but was still human enough to deal with everyday people.

That was what he loved to do though. Deal with people. A trait uncommon among many of the Touched, especially the more powerfully rated like himself. There were even small colonies that had been set up in remote areas in the mountains and on small islands where only the Touched were allowed. Some of these people were rated lower than John but still just couldn't close out all the voices well enough to stay sane so they had founded these colonies as a last ditch effort. There were even rumors that some of these colonies wouldn't let you in unless you over a .50 rating or could provide some essential service. These people were breaths away from being extremists though and John was always careful to stay clear of them and their corporate ventures, they tended to make people nervous and nervous clients didn't recommend you to other people. And for John word of mouth and a good reputation were his lifeblood.

John mused about these things as he rode the elevator down to street level. The few people that had gotten on refused to stand too close to him or look at the bar code tattooed over his right eye. They all saw it, knew what it meant, and it scared them. To them it meant he had been "Positively Tested for Extraordinary Psychic Abilities" or that he was PTEPA as the government and the media referred to the Touched. There were a lot of derogatory terms that got thrown around that were for the most part ignored, but only John and others like himself had taken to calling themselves the Touched. As in touched by God, but people did not usually understand the irony. Touched by God and marked by God as different and set apart, almost cursed. John's Grandmother used to smile at him when he was younger and say; "God just held you a bit too close for a bit too long, darling." John often missed her wisdom and compassion.

The doors of the elevator opened and John stepped into the lobby of the skyscraper, fallowed at a respectable distance by everyone else.

Out on the street people avoided walking next to John for long or even standing too close to him as he waited to cross a street. Sometimes people just knew who was Touched and who wasn't, a fact that had been the subject of a lot of studies and conjecture all of which had produced nothing useful other than more prejudice. There had been one study though that had made some interesting points, it had found that 75% of PTEPA individuals who lived in cities suffered from severe or chronic depression. A fact that seemed to have surprised everyone but the Touched, who were well aware of the social isolation that many of them lived in and that drove many to commit suicide before they were thirty. John had seen it many times all too closely. Even as he walked down the street towards the train station he was painfully aware of his isolation from the majority of humanity. The silent distance in the elevators, people that wouldn't look at him directly when he bought a newspaper, and the discreet stares and whispers. He had tried to live with these things and reconcile himself with it as a city dweller, but in the end he couldn't and had moved as far out into the countryside as he could and still maintain his contacts. It was easier to deal with small numbers of people, they could get to know you and it was less obvious when people were avoiding you.

So he took the train downtown two or three times a week and did the rest of his work over the Internet and by phone. For his larger clients he sometimes traveled as far as New York or Seattle, but that was rare and stressful for him and if it had not been for the fact that they paid him well he would avoid such trips all together.

"Well if it isn't Mr. John Brighton." The familiar voice was a welcome intrusion to John's thoughts.

"Ivan, good to see you. How's the world treating you?" John and Ivan shook hands.

"Can't complain, I still got both hands and a good set of wheels." Ivan slapped the arm of his wheelchair affectionately. "How about you? You still parting crowds like they were the Red Sea?" John laughed at the old joke.

"You taking requests today?"

"Only for ma'best customers."

"You know the tune then."

Ivan grinned as he hit the first few cords on his guitar, pausing to adjust one of the strings, then he launched into the song with enthusiasm. Soon both Ivan and John were singing the old doors tune loud enough to drown out the noise of passing traffic.

"People are strange, when you're a stranger. Streets are uneven when you're down…" It must have been an odd sight to people walking past, a gruff looking homeless man in a wheelchair and one of the Touched in a suit singing and laughing.

"I'm going to miss singing with ya' John."

"Why's that?"

"I got a bus ticket from my sister in Florida. She sent it with a letter saying she couldn't stand to think about her older brother suffering through another Chicago winter on the streets."

"It's going be strange without you here. When do leave?"

"Next Friday. She says that when I get there I can stay in the spare bedroom till I get on ma' wheels."

"I'm going to miss you but I do wish you the best of luck, Ivan." John offered his hand to Ivan again, palming a hundred dollar bill to his old friend. As they shook hands John heard Ivan's mind loudly whispering; "God bless."

"You take care, Brighton."

"You too, Ivan." There was nothing more to say as they parted, it had all been said over the years they had known each other. John found himself musing that true friends have little to say at goodbyes because everything is expressed before hand, there are no questions left lingering.

John arrived at the train station early enough to buy a bottle of water and a sandwich before boarding his train. There wouldn't be too many people on the ride out of the city tonight, it was late and the evening rush was already well over. So there were still a few empty seats scattered about when the girl sat down next to him. Something that usually didn't happen unless the train was crowded and there were no seats left anywhere else. John looked over at her and unintentionally made eye contact with her. That explained everything.

She had a bar code.

PTEPA bar codes are given to people as children after they undergo a standardized test designed to detect and measure psychic strength. The fact that it is done to children is often argued about and there are more than a few out cries about it being unethical. However the government insists that the best time to test is during childhood because it is easier and more accurate, what they don't say is that children are too young and unsophisticated to be able to trick testers with any success. Once labeled as PETPA the child is tattooed with a bar code that contains the individual's birthday, psychic strength, and Government ID number. So it's an easy thing to learn about the Touched quickly.

She looked younger than eighteen, but then again her birthday was only a few days past. She also was just barely powerful enough to have earned a bar code, at .29 she would not be capable of much. John felt bad for her; she must pay all the prices of being Touched and could barely use her talents.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Her voice was soft and pleasant, but there was a touch of anger and sadness under the surface.

"Not at all. I'm John."

"I'm Rachel." She looked away and announced the end of the conversation by pulling an abused looking paperback book out of her large bag. At which point John couldn't help but notice that there was a lot clothes jammed into the bag along with some packaged food and make up. Before looking away John noticed that she was wearing the expected all black and seemed to not have showered for several days, while her dark hair was not yet matted it showed definite signs of neglect.

Once the train started into grumbling motion John ate his sandwich and drank his water as he watched Chicago fade away by degrees and slowly turn into the suburbs. He tried not to think about the girl sitting next to him. Though he had questions about her, he doubted that she would answer, she gave off the air of one who wants to be left alone not because they're unhappy but because they feel safer that way. John didn't have to be Touched to see that written on her face.

With his sandwich gone John pulled his PDA out of his coat pocket and started figuring out how much he could charge for his day's efforts. While working in cooperate security was not what he found interesting it did let him charge a great deal of money to people who did not mind paying it. While screening employees minds during the hiring process was frowned on and a breath away from becoming illegal, there however seemed to be nothing wrong with searching the minds of those about to be charged with fraud or misuse of company funds. While the testimonies about such examinations were not yet accepted by the courts, people faced with a mental search often confessed their guilt before it even started, today they hadn't and John had been forced to go into the "gentleman's" mind. What John had found there was worse than usual. While most people were of a generally decent nature, this man had been vile. He had stolen the money, simply to steal it, for the fun and challenge of it alone. He also had thought that he would be able to block John out by thinking about his sexual exploits, perhaps simply by the vileness of his preferred deeds. If this had been done for amusement or as an actual effort John had not bothered to check, however it did cause him to raise the price of his services for the day.

As he worked John slowly became aware of the girl next to him snoring. He dismissed it, all things considered she was most likely on the run from her parents or boyfriend and had not slept in some time. He continued to work till he noticed a baby further up the car starting to cry, then another child that was perhaps five or six started crying at the back end of the car. John opened his mind and let his defenses drop, not something that he usually did in public because the din of thoughts and feelings made it difficult to think. However there was only one voice to hear and only one feeling, the girl's terror in her nightmare. She was not strong but the images and feelings she was broadcasting were.

- Wake up -

She stirred only slightly.

- Wake up! -

Her eyes fluttered and opened.

"Huh?" Rachel's eyes searched her environment and John heard her mind wonder where she was and what had happened.

- You feel asleep and had a nightmare. - John used his most gentle frame of mind to voice the information. Rachel turned to face him with a glare that belied her youth and ruined her beauty.

- Stay out of my skull! - There was no hiding the anger and embarrassment in her mind.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to pry. You had a nightmare though and you were starting to scare everyone."

"I don't f*****g care! Next time stay out of my skull." Rachel again signaled the end of the conversation by reaching into her bag, this time to pull out a set of headphones. John let it drop.

John spent the rest of the train ride wondering if he would be happy when Rachel got off at her stop and then wondering why there was even a question of it. It was a practice of emotional circular logic that kept John so preoccupied that he was surprised to find that they had arrived at the last stop and she was still sitting next to him. Most of the other passengers had left in ones and twos at the other stops so the car was empty for the most part, that was how John spotted Mike.

John noted that for a change he was not wearing his leather jacket with it's steel spikes and airbrushed flames he was dressed like any other high school kid. Expensive running shoes, blue jeans, and a concert t-shirt for a band that had recently become popular, and a tight crew cut finished up the polished image. An image that John knew from experience was a lie. Mike was a Purist, a new breed based off an old theme of hate, an unofficial organization that could claim to be little better than a street gang. Their driving force and primary message was people's fears and hatreds of the Touched, more often than not suggesting violence against the Touched and a number of other minorities as the best solution. It was only this universal hate that seemed to hold the group from gaining popular support among people, not the fact that they focused on the Touched.

Mike and other members of his local gang had tried to push John around on more than a few occasions. John had ignored it for the most part but eventually things had reached a boiling point and John had been forced to settle things the hard way. Today Mike was alone though and John doubted there would be trouble without the prompting of his fellow Puritans.

Once off the train everyone scattered and went their ways through the parking lot. Some went to waiting cars and families others headed for the bus stop. John walked past rows of parked cars towards his reliable old car. It was only chance that he spotted the black van with a stylized flame bolt painted across it's side. As he walked John let his mind wander through the van, it was empty. He cast out further searching for a mind that he dreaded to find but felt certain was near. He found it waiting near the train platform, Rick Bee. John swore under his breath and wondered when he had gotten out of jail. Where most youths joined the Puritans out of some misguided sense that they needed to belong and make a change, Ricky Bee had joined because he enjoyed violence, and he didn't care what the message was so long as he could cause harm. John unlocked his car and sat in the drivers seat fallowing the movements of Ricky and a few other Puritans. There were four of them and they were there to surprise Mike with Ricky's early return. Mike had a surprise of his own and was relating to the others about "that b***h" on the train that had shared her nightmare with everyone. John felt a sinking feeling and went searching for Rachel's mind; he found her in the train station not more than thirty feet from Ricky. She was buying a cola.

-You are in danger. There are Puritans just outside the door; one of them was on the train. - John did his best to keep down his sense of urgency.

-I told you to stay out of my skull! - Her anger was worse than before.

-I'm trying to tell you that you're in danger. -

-Go away. -

-Look. . . -

-Go away! -

John withdrew and went back to watching the Puritans. Most of their talk was idle gossip but there was an undercurrent to Ricky's mind that kept rolling around the thought of doing harm to some non-specific girl or woman. Ricky wasn't about to be picky after being locked up for the better part of a year. Where the accountant had been simplistic and perverse earlier in the day, Ricky's thoughts were masterworks of creativity and evil. John wondered, not for the first time, how one so young could be so depraved as to harbor the fantasies that Ricky did. Fantasies that came a step closer to reality when Mike spotted Rachel walking out of the train station and pointed her out to Ricky.

He wanted to warn her, but John knew that Rachel wouldn't listen. Calling the police would only make things worse, how do you explain to a cop that you were just taking a casual look around someone's mind and you saw that they were planning to commit a crime? No that would only make things worse. Leaving Rachel to her fate was not an option so John had to get involved. He swore as he put his car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

By keeping track of where Ricky and his three friends were at, John was able to fallow them on another street and get ahead of them easily. That allowed him time to stop and probe Ricky's mind gently to learn what his plans were, if John wasn't careful his probing might be felt and there was no telling what Ricky would do then. It was a chance he had to take though and it paid off, John was able to figure out where and how they were going to jump Rachel. He was going to have to hurry if he wanted to be there in time.

Every town has dark corners where no one looks; this is even true for towns as small and seemingly friendly as the one John had chosen to live in. Strangers never know they are wandering off the beaten track, and they seldom know the way back. Such was the case with Rachel, she had wandered to far away from downtown on a road that looked like it went someplace but failed to keep that promise. This road was a common joke to locals because it dead-ended at the edge of a forest preserve; they always referred to it as "going nowhere fast."

John parked his car nearby, as close as he dared, and left the doors unlocked. Grateful for the soft and quite soles of his boots he ran quickly through the half-light of a full moon. The tire iron feeling solid but inadequate in his hand, but it was the 2nd best he could do. There was no time for doubts and regrets though, there was hardly time for thought, and he was too busy running and keeping track of the evening's grim events. If he didn't hurry he was going too be late, John quickened his pace.

He arrived just as things were starting to go very badly for Rachel.

She had tried to fight them and done a good job of it, one of the Puritans had a bloody nose and was nursing it as he got off the ground. They had hold of her now though and no matter how much fury and rage she used in her attacks they were in vain against the two holding her arms. Ricky was stepping up to her and starting to raise his fists, even if she had not resisted he had planned on beating her into submission, her resistance simply amused him. It was cut short though by John.

The blow had been meant to knock Ricky out cold, but John was not used to fighting and had misjudged the angle so it simply stunned Ricky. The other Puritans were caught off guard as well but that didn't last long. Mike let go of Rachel and rushed John, only to be caught short by the tire iron that this time landed soundly. Mike feel to ground unconscious, John briefly feared he might be dead. Fear though is a luxury of time and things were moving to fast to allow it to last long for John.

The guy with the bloody nose tried to grab the tire Iron away from John's grip but it left him open. John had been hoping to save the can of mace for Ricky, but it sent the Puritan to the ground so quickly and screaming so loudly that it was a surprise to every one. John had a new found respect for the small cans he saw on people's key chains.

Ricky caught John off guard and knocked him to the ground, almost throwing the tire iron from his grip. There was a moment of struggling and desperate wrestling as Ricky struggled to pin John, which he eventually did.

"You son of a b***h! I'm going rip yer head off!"

"I warned you once Ricky."

-Now, I'm done playing around. -

John pushed into Ricky's mind. It was not his usual gentle or polite searching; this was full out invasion of everything that Ricky was. John skipped past memories of crimes, parties, drugs, and went deep back for every childhood pain and fear. The time Ricky had thought his mother abandon him in the mall, when he had watched his dog get hit by a car, the time his grandfather beat him so hard he couldn't sit for three days, his mother walking out on his father, the childhood fear of things under the bed and in the closet were all unlocked by John and let loose in Ricky's mind.

Ricky whimpered and fell off of John, who scrambled to his feet as fast he could.

"You f**k! You f*****g freak! What did you f*****g do to me?"

Rather than respond to Ricky's curses John simply hit him with what was left of the mace and watched in satisfaction as he ran howling into the forest preserve. Rachel had somehow overpowered the last Puritan left to hold her and was kicking him where he lay on the ground and yelling at him.

"We have to go now." John grabbed her by the arm and started pulling her away.

"My bag." Rachel broke away and pulled her bag from weeds it had fallen in by the edge of the road. She paused to kick one of the fallen Puritans before returning to John. They ran back to John's car and were soon safely across town at John's apartment.

"So you're all right?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Other than some bruises, I'm all right."

"I guess I should have listened to you." Rachel looked out the window at the dark street below.

"There's no sense in second guessing the past." John sat down in his favorite reading chair and started taking his shoes off. "It's late, the couch over there is comfortable, and if you want to stay and get some sleep you can. I'm not a great cook but I do know how to make pancakes and you're more than welcome to join me."

Rachel only nodded. John stood up, said goodnight and went to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Rachel looked around the apartment. It was big and airy with large windows. There were touches that she doubted John had added; they didn't seem like the kind of things a guy would buy. While looking at a bookshelf that dominated a wall in the living room she spotted a picture frame, it was tucked into a corner on one of the top shelves and was hard to spot. It was a much younger looking John, perhaps about 23, with a very beautiful blond woman. They were smiling and holding each other, Rachel could see that the picture had been taken in the apartment by the large windows in the background. She was unsurprised to see that the woman was Touched. She put the picture back on the shelf and lay down on the couch where she could see it. She wondered where the woman was.

The next morning Rachel woke up to the sound of John in the kitchen making breakfast. She got up and groggily walked towards the kitchen table.

"Morning." John was cheerful but moving slow.

"Hey." Rachel's voice was still heavy with sleep.

"Juice or coffee?"

"Juice."

John set a large class of orange juice on the table in front of Rachel. A few moments passed. The smell of cooking sausages and brewing coffee worked with the bright but not unbearable morning light to give things a dream like quality. By the time the silence broke they were both sitting at the small kitchen table looking at empty plates.

"So why are you running?"

"Who says I'm running?" Rachel poured herself more orange juice.

"Everything about you."

"Home was bad."

"It can be sometimes. You going someplace or just going?"

"Just going."

"Despite what you may think because of last night, this town isn't so bad. You've already meet most of the Puritans; most people around here don't tolerate them too well. This place is more or less stuck in the 1950's mindset of America, but it's not so bad."

"You don't know me, I won't be happy here."

"Why? Because you want to be outcast from everything your whole life?" John had not said it harshly but still regretted it; his frustration with the general angst of the Touch had colored his view of her, now it was too late to take it back and he knew it.

"I didn't ask for this!"

"No. Neither did I."

"What is with you anyways? You don't f*****g know anything about me!"

"You're Touched and running from something."

"No s**t! And that tells you my life story?"

"No just that you've suffered."

"What do you know about suffering?" Rachel paused for the briefest of moments before starting again, when she did her voice turned hard as if to hide the hurt it conveyed. "I was raped. My father in law liked little girls, so he started raping me when I was thirteen. Do you know what kind of hell that was? While he was raping me I couldn't help but hear his mind… hear how much he f*****g loved making me hurt. So when my mother stopped coming home he told me he was going to start pimping me out to his friends. That's when I f**k'n stabbed him because I was sick of his s**t. So I got no home, no family, a head full of other people's feelings that I don't want and a f*****g world that I can't stand." As soon as she was done Rachel stormed out of the kitchen. John fallowed after her, talking in the most reasonable voice he could manage.

"I know suffering." He could see Rachel was going to leave so he stood in front of the door. "My wife died during childbirth. She was Touched. When things started going wrong the nurses dragged me out of the room, but I could still feel my wife. She was calling to me till the very last. Asking me to come hold her hand because she was scared, she knew she was dying. She only wanted me there to hold her hand and the nurses wouldn't let me." John leaned against the door. He had not talked about Lisa's death to anyone. "Then a week later our daughter died from complications and an infection." John stepped away from the door and sat heavily in his reading chair. "I know about suffering, all the Touched do. We let it beat us though, we let ourselves be pushed aside and feared because we know too much about suffering and can’t even handle our own."

Rachel stood with her back to John for some time before moving to the door, where she paused with her hand on the doorknob.

"Why don't you wear black?"

"I suffer everyday but I refuse to shout it to the world. I'd rather shout that I might have hope tomorrow and I've not given up on any of us yet. No matter how much I want to."

Rachel left when he was finished.

And John realized again just how lonely he really was.

The spring air was chill and the rain even colder. John was thankful for his umbrella as he walked to the train station. The long walk through downtown seemed empty without Ivan around, but John was happy for him and hoped that he had found something in Florida. Still it was lonely without him. John had befriended a few people since Ivan had left, however they didn't sing or play guitar.

John was late for his train so he didn't have time to stop for his usual bottle of water and sandwich. His stomach grumbled as he boarded the train and started looking for an empty seat. He was still searching when the train left the station and was about to give up when some one called his name.

"John?" He turned to see Rachel sitting by herself. Her dark curly hair hung damp and unruly about her pale face.

"Rachel, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Need a place to sit?" She moved her bag to the floor by her feet.

"Thank you." John seated without ceremony.

"It's good to see you again."

"I had wondered what happened to you after you left."

"I ended up getting a job waiting tables and staying at this shelter run by some church. I just got an apartment."

"So you stayed in town?"

"Yeah, I didn't mean to. It just sort 'a happened." Rachel's smiled lowered a notch. "You look really tired."

"I am." John ran a hand through his hair. "Ever since they passed that law allowing psychic evidence in court I've been swamped with work. The moneys good, but I hardly have time to spend it."

"That's cool though, it keeps you busy."

"That it does."

"Hey, John. I'm sorry about the way I left."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. You really helped me and I was a b***h. Let me pay you back."

"Pay me back?"

"I'll fix you dinner tonight if you'll let me."

"Seems fair enough." Looking closer at Rachel, John had to smile because she wasn’t wearing black.

Authors Note:

Thank you for giving my story a try, this is one of my early works and experimental in many ways. If you like what you see follow me on facebook and explore some of my other works.

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.gordinier.3