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| Pink Belles, Tattered Skies by Rene Magritte |
During the light of day the Empath rages among us, he stalks the streets, he hears our thoughts, he feels what we feel (a woman sits at the wheel of her car weeping, a bag from a fast food restaurant untouched on the seat beside her, while her young daughter sits alone on the back seat, silently, mechanically eating French fries, and even through the glass the Empath feels each of one her tears pinging like a sharp stone against the tissue of his brain or a haunted man dressed in rags, pushing a grocery cart, screams suddenly, a piercing, wordless shriek and the Empath runs, but it is too late, and the scream spreads through his entire body, following the pathways of his nerves in shattering waves) while deep in the dark night, the Empath dreams of his planet, a soft pink globe light years away, and a white room, a long table, bright lights, and soothing voices whispering, “It is all right now, we have repaired the damage, you will still be able to listen, but you will no longer have to hear” but when the sun rises again and the Empath awakes, the memory of his planet dissipates into a mere wisp of cosmic dust for he has forgotten its position, the cries of the lost souls have drowned out its name, and he fears he is stranded here forever.
by Nina Zolotow
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