Your Eyes Give It All Away

It would be extremely difficult to explain to my parents. They wouldn't understand. No one understands. Everytime I try talking to someone about my talent it always sounds cheesy. When I finally get out what I wanted to say they either think I am lying for attention, or they believe me and are freaked out.
I am not interested in social contact. I hate talking to people because they always tell me to look at them when they are speaking to me. If only they knew that their eyes give it all away...maybe they would understand.


1. Chapter 1

My dark brown hair was in two braids. It was just an ordinary day at school. Kids were running through the halls, some screaming, and some laughing, others were just trying to get through High School. I, on the other hand, was walking at a fast pace through the halls and passing many of the groups making sure not to bump into anyone I know. I am not the social type, so usually the only people that might recognize me are the ones who hate me. Some may even have a good reason for hating me, others for fun.

  I love to figure people out. I love to find out their stories, their backgrounds, and then when I have answers to all of my questions, I move on to the next interesting person. So far this year I have not found myself a subject to study. I am not worried though, it has only been the first three days. The people who I study usually confuse me in some way. They puzzle me. Most of the time, it is just that their actions do not match up with logic.

For example, why would a kid send his eight year old brother on a dare across a busy street blindfolded?  And why would this same child repeatedly keep sending his brother on miserable and dangerous adventures? I eventually found out why by studying them both and using my multiple other tactics. Once I pieced everything together I finally understood the boy’s reasoning. It may not have been correct morally, but his reasons obviously were good enough for him.

The bus is packed with children my age, 16, and younger. As I pull out my homework, I try not to look at any of the children. I am afraid that I might look into their eyes and see something unpleasant. Instead of working on my homework, I stare out the window for a second and ponder what it would be like to be normal; to be able to look into someone’s eyes and see color, not memories. To be able to judge them by how they look, not what they feel, and to be able to ask the questions before they are answered. My parents do not know my talent. They just explain to others that I can read people well. I haven't told them that I can do more than just read people from the outside.

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