psychic is the name they gave me. witch soon followed, along with sorceress and prophetess. they made me the stuff of legend, painted pictures of me and spoke in hushed whispers. rumours twisted through the town, humming through oxygen and burning up silence.
she reads you like a book, they tell each other. i meet them by chance and it’s automatic, reflexive action. i know these people, have little to do with them in daily life, but i know them nonetheless. i know them by the lines in their forehead, the way they drum their fingers and shift restlessly when they think no-one is looking.
it’s uncanny, they whisper. (it’s not difficult.)
you, on the other hand – you are an open book. every emotion you have is there for all to see, every thought plays itself in body language. you’re not as unfathomable as you seem to think you are.
she looks through you. sees through your facade, underneath, knows all your secrets, they hiss in alarm. people do this a lot, panic at the thought that i might just be a mind-reader masquerading as a baker. they never seem to consider the habit of observation i picked up and never quite outgrew. watching comes naturally, understanding and analyzing secondary habits.
i stand aside from everyone else, quietly watching. people forget themselves, and me, and then talk at length. (it’s easy to pick new things up all the time)
psychic, they murmur among themselves.
well. it’s an illusion, anyway.