Prescient

Chapter 1

Kicking my shoes off and unstrapping my bra at the same time is one of the very few skills I have and it's the first thing I do when I get home from work. My place of employment is the only place I bother to even put a bra on for and only because the customers don't want to see a person's personal parts poking through or freely bouncing around in her shirt – or so my boss said one day when she had to have the awkward conversation with me.

A barely touched bottle of bourbon sits on my kitchen bench and is calling my name so I make a beeline for it, abandoning my shoes and bra on the floor where they fell. I check the fridge for softdrink to soften the bite of the liquor, and it appears I am all out. That's okay though. I'll just pour a little water in it and it'll be ready.

A loud knock at my door interrupts me mid gulp and I scowl to myself. I'm not a fan of people at the best of times, but least of all those who come within my personal space. I know it's only the nosy old lady from next door anyway, so I ignore it. She's always banging on my door and trying to catch me coming and going to chat. Always the same thing, too.

"How are you, missy? Is everything okay? You can ask me for anything if you ever need anything. It's only neighbourly of me to do so you know."

She doesn't even know me and she can tell I'm a train wreck; a strange person. It's not hard to figure that out.

I'm more than just that though. I'm fussy, difficult, unsociable, and I know I'm not a particularly good person. But I'm real. What you see is what you get, and I don't have to pretend to be someone else to please other people.

I'm the wolf, not the sheep.

I don't have much going for me in the looks department, either. Just a plain face with a flat little nose, slightly pointed ears, and ordinary slime-green eyes that no one ever stared lovingly into. I've got curves and bulges, and the odd mole here and there in random spots. I've got stretch marks and scars. Like the big one that goes from my hip to my ribs, where a catfight in high school resulted in me getting carved up my right side by a god-damned pen of all things.

I got my own back on her in that fight. I'm fairly certain she still can't see properly out of her eye fifteen years later. But, it was her fault after all.

She was the one who wanted to fight with pens.

I also get paranoid a lot. About all kinds of things. Like, I'm sure most people don't like me—I'm positive they don't. I'm certain once they are freed from subjecting themselves to being in my presence the fake smiles disappear and they talk to their friends about what a train wreck I am.

How strange.

How pathetic.

Good for them too. I don't care if people like me or not. So what if these are the things they say about me—they're mostly right anyway, and besides, I have no desire to make friends in any sense. With my condition, I'm better off alone.

Eventually, the knocking on my door stops and I get to enjoy my sweet, brown heaven juice in peace. I know it's only just enough to get me through the night but I'm scraping the bottom of my wallet right now and if I dare open it up I might release all the bloody moths lurking in there. Payday isn't until tomorrow either and the bottle shop won't give you a tab. I know because I've asked. I'd just have to ride the night out with what I have and go pick up more tomorrow. I can do that. I might have a slight drinking problem but I'm not an alcoholic.

I suppose I am, and I have a lot of problems. Annoying, pathetic idiosyncrasies that make me unbearable to be around. Unlovable. Although, it's no wonder I'm the way I am, on account of my condition coupled with the fact that I grew up an only child having parents who didn't even like me, let alone love me.

Well, I did have a sister once. Allison. For thirteen short months, I wasn't an only child. But then there was a horrible accident and it was no one's fault, but at the same time, maybe a bit my mother's.

I blamed her for it anyway.

I know my father blamed her. He never said it outright or even insinuated it – at least not in front of me – and I may have only been a five-year-old kid at the time, but I could tell he thought she was at fault.

No one talked about what happened. I still don't now—not that I ever have anyone around who I feel the need to share deep, dark, emotionally laden secrets with.

I did see a child psychiatrist after it happened. Regular appointments, once a week for about a year. After all, I was there. I saw it happen and seeing something that brutal messes with a child.

I remember one day overhearing my parents talking.

"Doctor Conwell says Starla may end up forgetting it," my mother said. "But only if she's not reminded about it. She's so young after all."

But I never forgot.

I don't recall a lot about my life from before Allison, although I remember everything thereafter. I recall, even at such a young age, knowing my mother hated me. She resented my existence. She'd lost a beautiful daughter who may have grown up to be perfectly normal and now they were left with only me. Me and my problem.

When I was twelve, Mum couldn't take it anymore. She swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, washed them down with a bottle of vodka, and ended her role in suffering the burden that was her little Starla Lee Mires. Dad sure as hell didn't want me either. My parents couldn't cope with me together, let alone him by himself; therefore I ended up being his sister's burden—my Aunty Dora, took me in.

It wasn't long before she'd had enough of me as well. She never said so, but I knew. I was such a handful though. Take my condition and heap on top of it a big, stinking pile of your typical teenage shit—and then some. Drinking. Stealing. Fighting. Boys.

I wouldn't have blamed her if she kicked me out, but I didn't give her the chance. Without so much as leaving a note, I left of my own accord when I was fifteen and I doubt neither she nor my father ever looked for me. I haven't spoken to either one of them since.

Now it's just me and my condition.

My... gift? I'm not sure I can call it that, although some people would. Naive idiots who don't have to deal with it themselves.

Is it a curse?

Maybe it's a bit of both, but either way, I hate it. I wish I never had this problem. If I didn't, my parents would have loved me. Things would have been different; I would have been different. However, things aren't different and this is how I am. How I will always be.

Gifted.

Cursed.

Prescient.

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