As I grew up, I developed another theory; maybe Death wanted someone to know her, to understand her job and how hard it could be. But then why did I have to suffer the same injuries as the dying? Death didn’t feel what they did. She just collected them from the land of the living and escorted them into their final rest. The most recent conclusion I’d come to was similar to Charlie’s. Death was just torturing me for the fun of it, seeing how long I could last before I tried to take my own life.
The big question was: would she let me stay dead? I wasn’t brave enough to find out. Charlie, Anthony, and Uncle Vic kept me tethered to life like a buoy in a storm. They needed me. I was their purpose, their calling, no matter how much that bothered me. If I wasn’t there, what would they do with themselves? Continue to hide from the world, but this time without a good reason? They could be so brave sometimes and yet so cowardly. It was infuriating.
Count Dooku’s takeoff made me wince and come back to myself. His talons had torn little holes in my tights. I watched as several beads of blood rose to the surface of my skin. Looking up, I witnessed the cuckoo bird settle down in that tree again, this time alone. The others weren’t keen to join him after his explosive takeoff. Or so it seemed.
What was my purpose then? Other than finding some way to keep those men from becoming complete hermits. I sighed and stood. Nope. That was pretty much it.
I wasn’t smart or passionate enough to invent something that would make life better for humanity, the environment, or the animal kingdom. I wasn’t capable of traveling or helping the less fortunate. No matter how much the idea appealed to me. My circle of influence wasn’t big enough, my experiences limited; what wisdom could I share and with whom?
I went through a phase my sophomore and junior years of high school where I was determined to have an online presence. I visited chat rooms for the young and terminally ill. I created a blog for my depressing poetry. I met guys on dating websites and even found friends through online role-playing games. But people were curious. It was only a matter of time before they wanted to meet face to face or talk about the mysterious condition that kept me so secluded or ask about my future goals. It became harder and harder to lie the longer I tried to keep those relationships going.
So I gave up. Accepted my fate. Chose to be content with my underground lair, my glass birdhouse, the only three men who truly understood me, and the chance to help my uncle solve murders. Now, the only time I went online was for school.
Charlie always said chatting with people on the computer made me moody anyway. I didn’t remember that but I could believe him easily enough. Listening to the cares and problems of normal people only made me want to be like them even more. And grieve the fact that I couldn’t.
Once outside the birdhouse, I locked up and stared at my reflection. I had such a sad, pathetic existence…
I slapped myself across the face. The sound startled some pigeons that had been roosting on the parapet. I was breathing hard now. My cheek had its own pulse. The girl in the glass had an angry red patch on hers. Tears swam in those purple eyes I hated so much. I pulled my shoulders back and blinked away the pain. I had to go back downstairs now. I had to think about something else. True love. Rainbows. Laughing babies. Cat memes.
The muscles in my face protested but I did manage to lift my lips a bit at the corners. I held them there as I walked to the roof access door. It started to sprinkle about halfway through the journey. My favorite swampers kept me from slipping over the slick, flat roof. If I’d cared about getting wet, I might’ve pulled on the hood of my jacket. But I didn’t. My hair became heavier and heavier as it absorbed the water. It was coming down hard when I walked over the threshold and bumped shoulders with someone.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” the stranger said, turning to face me. “I didn’t think anyone...would be…”
We locked eyes. His were so blue behind the thick framed hipster glasses, they looked almost gray. The low-fade haircut only served to confine his springy strawberry blond curls to the top of his head. His skin was covered in freckles. I became fixated on them immediately. There were so many little red dots, some in tight clusters, others in sparse bunches, but all over the place. They were like stars.
The stranger held his hand out, looking a bit dazed. “I’m Ralph McCarthy. The intern.”
He certainly looked like an intern. He wore a dress shirt and khaki pants, which were rolled up to expose his socks. They were bright red with yellow ducks.
“Jasmine Campbell,” I said, my creepy little smile still in place. “The psychic.”
Ralph made a funny sound, part laughter, part nervous gibberish as he shook my hand. Then he cleared his throat and stepped back, shoving both hands in his pockets. A closed umbrella hung from one wrist. “We don’t call you that, you know.”
I shrugged, walking away from him. “Sounds better than freak.”
“We don’t call you that either.”
“All right. Now I’m curious.” I turned on my heel. My swampers squeaked. “What do you call me?” Truth be told, I wasn’t nearly as curious about my secret nickname as I was about him. So far this was the longest conversation I’d had with anyone from the precinct aside from Vanessa Burkley.
“Jasmine,” he said with a kind smile.
