"The Gathering" - Chapter 1

Jasper

The Sunday afternoon light stabbed my closed eyes relentlessly, compounding the roaring hangover banging in my head. Serves me right. When will I ever be able to say “No” to that fifth bottle of Jack Daniels? I considered turning over to continue my tenuous slumber but after several half-heated attempts at trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress, I gave up.

            
I stood up and stretched, yawning—no, whimpering as the rave party inside my skull let me know they’re not done yet. I pulled on my jeans and tottered like a newborn kitten towards the door.

            The smell of cooking grease and cheap coffee assaulted my nostrils as my bleary eyes slowly registered a feminine shape at the food-crusted dual-burner stove perched not too gracefully on the cinderblock counter.

            “You’ve run out of eggs,” Wanda said without turning around. I could imagine her full lips pursing in disapproval.

            I made a face, and was caught halfway between the miserably recovering drunk that I am and the sneering elder brother that I was attempting, when my younger sister pushed me—none too gently—out of the way as her well-manicured hands reached for a small earthenware jar behind me.

            “I didn’t ask you to make breakfast,” I slurred around the carton of milk I was about to tip towards my mouth.

            “And I didn’t ask you to call me at three in the morning because you need a sober driver to drive you home from Jack’s,” she retorted as she unsuccessfully tried to wrestle the milk carton from being tainted by my morning breath. Her smooth brow was marred by a small frown of disapproval. She never really warmed up to Jack, nor he to her. At times, her pointedly barbed comments make our occasional group outings more like a visit to the dentist.

            Then again, I suppose for a driven, high-flying career woman—made senior sales manager by the time she’s 26—an out of job DJ is not exactly a type she would like to be acquainted with.

            I snorted—it was the only reply I was left with and made my way to the sofa in front of the TV. My flat is small but cozy. One bedroom and bath. Small kitchen and dining area spills over into a small living room. Oh hell, the kitchen, dining and living spaces basically overlap each other. The only indication where one stops and the other begins is the trace crumbs of my last meal, or whichever book or magazine I happen to be reading. At my salary, that’s the best I could afford. I switched it on the TV, but there was nothing interesting on. I put the milk carton down on the floor and rested my head between my legs. The rave party seemed to be winding down a bit. I closed my eyes and grunted my thanks.

            “From the way you kept grunting, people might wonder if Miss Piggy a relation of ours,” Wanda said as she made her way towards the sofa. She was balancing both my plate and hers on one hand, and two plastic mugs in the other. She sat cross-legged in front of me and lightened her coffee with milk from the carton.

            I raised my eyebrows at that.

            “If you have something catching,” she countered my unspoken comment. “I would’ve died ages ago from your hand-me-downs.”

            There’s no reply I could come up to counter that.

            I took the plate offered and dug in to my breakfast of sausages and eggs. A brief silence ensued as we dedicated ourselves to masticating dead cows and unborn chicks.

            I was also thankful that the silence extended to her thoughts as well. She was the only person it seemed that I couldn’t read. Even when I was holding her hand—I found out while experimenting that physical contact made ‘readings’ easier, to the point I could hear their exact thoughts.

            I should be thankful for that I guess. A guy doesn’t need to have his overly popular sister running in his head. I’m abnormal enough without psychic incest added to the mix!

            “You should consider playing the stock market,” she said suddenly. Her eyes were turned appraisingly to me.

            “Uh-hunh,” I grunted. “And then I’ll end up twitching on the floor from the mental overload.”

            Her eyebrows quirked up. “What’s the maximum you could handle?”

            I sighed as I closed my eyes. Thinking of how to answer her. I opened them. “Let’s just say there was a very good reason for the bottles of whisky last night.”


            Indeed there was, I thought to myself. She doesn’t need to know that I go through work with my coffee spiked and a small cache of airline bottles in my cubicle desk. Anything to drown the sometimes chaotic din bouncing around in my head.

            Silence, as we both finished our meal. She took the empty plates to wash while I picked up the neatly folded blanket and pillows she had used last night to keep in my room. After a quick shower, I joined her back at the sofa where she was perched at the edge. I don’t blame her precarious seating. The sofa has never met a cleaning brush or even a vacuum cleaner. Even to myself, I admit to completely lacking in the ability to pick up after myself.

            And the sofa came with the apartment when I moved in two years ago.

            I grinned as I imagined her sleeping on it last night. She caught my eye and her eyes gave me that Screw you! look.

            She handed me an envelope as she stood up. I took it without a word. It’s become routine of her floating me a loan for the rent while I wait for my pay to come out.

            “I’ll see you next week?” she asked even as she knew the answer.

            I played along. “We’ll see.”

            She huffed as she bent down to slip her foot into her ankle-length boots. “You know,” she said with a slight grimace as she struggled with the lacings. She must have picked up the habit of taking off her shoes from observing me. I know this would make me seem weird but I have always padded around barefoot in my flat. “Shane would probably just ignore you half the time anyway. And Mum’s been asking when you’re visiting.”

            “Work,” I told her. As if that explained it all.

            How on earth does anyone explain away the askance looks and wary glances of a family that thinks you’re a freak of nature? And that’s their imagination at its best. At the worst, I’m the crazy son who once went around accusing the boy in his school of being a murderer.

            I should be thankful, I guess. When we were growing up, Wanda and I never really bonded. She idolized our brother Shane, while I was happy being the loner middle child with his head in his comics. After the entire debacle died—or at least, financially hushed—she was the only one who believed me. And she kept in touch with me while I finish my school years out-of-state. God bless my grandmother, she never tried to find out why I showed up one day, accepting my flimsy excuse that I wanted to finish school at the same place my Dad did.

I ignored that little twitch in my neck. Thinking about Dad always puts me in a bad mood. Popular psychology would say I have unresolved issues about his perceived abandonment.

            She stood up, boots laced and ready to leave. Shrugging into her cardigan, she smiled as she stepped towards the door. That smile alone told me that she was thinking of something.

            “You know,” she started as she paused with her hand at the doorknob. “One thing I’ve always wanted to ask but never did get around to it.”

            “Oh?”

            “Have you—” she paused, biting the next string of words before she took a deep breath and continued, “foundanyoneelselikeyou?”

            The silence was heavy as it slowly, torturously descended. She looked at me, waiting for the answer. I looked at her, the differing answers warring for release as I dared her to break the pregnant silence.

            “I wasn’t really looking,” I told her truthfully. “Even if I wanted, I wouldn’t know where to look.”

            She absorbed the answer, her dark eyes never leaving me as she weighed my words. I must have passed muster, because she shook her head and nodded her assent. “Point taken.” She levelled another look. “But you have considered the possibility that there might be others like you?”

            “Of course,” I bobbled my head as I swallowed my inward relief. “People like Yuri Geller, for one.”

            She rolled her eyes at me. She pulled the door open and exited, turning to toss her parting shot, “I’ll come by to pick you up next week!”

            I knew she had let me off far too easily earlier.

            “Yeah, yeah,” I snorted at her receding back and closed the door.

            I rested my head against the wood, not because the hangover was in danger of overtaking me but weariness. We’ve grown so close during the resulting years but I’ve never truly lied to her. Hidden the truth, yes. But never an outright commission of an untruth.

            Fear of the unknown kept me back, I’d like to believe. She believed me when I told her I’ve never looked for people with abilities similar mine. And that was the truth. Not counting the carnival varieties, I’ve never went snooping around searching for fellow psychics.

            That’s why I’ve never told her about Niki, Vincent and Eden.

            Because I never found them.

            They found me.