When I was around seven years old, a boy flew to my bedroom window. Wide-awake, I’d been taking comfort in the moon’s silvery illumination of my room, while considering alien life forms in far away galaxies. A tad deep for a child perhaps, but think less existential crisis and more ‘it's a shame for me.’
When I heard the boy’s knock at my window and saw him floating beyond it, I leapt from my bed to greet him. I had yet to see Salem’s Lot, so didn’t link imminent death to peculiar airborne boys. How did he fly to my window? I neither knew nor cared. Surrounded by the dead 24/7, a boy at my window, even at night, couldn't freak me out. In fact, so desperate was I for intimacy and connection, I let him in without a second thought.
“Hello.” I smiled, as yet unfazed by the gaps between my teeth. “Come inside, it’s cold out there.”
He attempted to smile, but the corners of his mouth struggled with the effort. Something about his tacky pallor suggested he might be unwell. With fluid-like, even alien movements, he climbed in. His hand shook when he reached out to me.
I backed off instinctively, always consumed by the dread of touch. Still, the boy continued to offer me his hand, and his serene beauty couldn’t mask his sorrow once his emotions wrapped around me like a cool cloud. His snowy skin glistened with a kind of frost, and regardless of potential pain, I felt compelled to offer comfort. Again, without a second thought, I reached to hold his hand, wincing when a flash of intense anxiety signalled the incipient agonies and images of psychometry—psychic touch being one of many oddities to blight my existence.
But when our fingers met, only a kind white light and pleasant tingle passed at the point of contact. No pain, and no visual histories stormed my mind.
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