by Elle Casey
“She’s like you: drop-dead gorgeous. Long blonde hair. Hourglass figure. She’s busting out of her top like Clark Kent ripping open his shirt. One guy whistles and everybody goes nuts. We’re all looking. Guys are calling out. Hey baby, whatcha doin’? You wanna sit on my what? My face? Guys are laughing their asses off, and then she lets us have it. WHAM!
“Honestly, I don’t know that she knew what she was doing, but in that moment, we all felt it. Smacked me in the head like a hurricane. Nothing was said, but we all knew. We had thought it was fun. It wasn’t. It was humiliating. Degrading. An ambush. I felt dirty. Nothing could wash me clean. This verbal assault on her was horrible, horrifying, but we were the ones that had done it. I felt like I was naked in front of her. I was ashamed.
“Thing is, she didn’t know she’d done that. She didn’t know she was a Tell. Her head dropped and she rushed past the construction site not looking at anything other than the cracks in the pavement.
“No one said anything about that afternoon, but the wolf whistles stopped. A couple of guys transferred in from Manhattan a week later. Some other hot chick walked by and one of these new guys yells, show us your tits! The carpenter next to him turns to him and says, Grow up! The new guy was like, That was funny, right? Nope. Nobody thought it was cool anymore.”
A voice spoke into Lisa’s earpiece.
“Lisa, what is wrong with you? Take charge of the interview. Lead him. Get him talking about the bill before Congress.”
“Ah,” she began, still reeling mentally from what she’d heard and trying to peer past the blinding lights at the dark silhouette sitting opposite her. “What is your position on the Telepathy Act?”
Subject X stiffened in his chair.
“The oppression of minorities is the natural, predictable outcome of majority rule. Tells are just the latest minority in a long line of fearful, ignorance-based prejudice.”
Lisa was confused. This didn’t sound like Subject X at all. It was his voice, but the mannerisms of speech were entirely different.
“Slaves, women, blacks, Hispanics, gays—you’d think the aging white Anglo-Saxon Protestant men that run this country would have figured it out by now. Same pattern, same template, same stupidity applied to some other minority. They say that how you treat those most vulnerable and powerless in society either validates or condemns your morals. It should be clear by now that this country is morally bankrupt.”
“Ah,” Lisa began, turning her head slightly to one side, surprised by the transformation she’d witnessed. “Congress has women.”
“They’re part of the aristocracy, the ruling patriarchy.”
The change in speech patterns took Lisa aback. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn Subject X had switched seats with someone else.
Lisa’s producer whispered in her earpiece, “You’ve got him on the ropes. This is good. He’s hemorrhaging hate. The audience will love this.”
Lisa ignored her producer and spoke from the heart.
“If the bill passes, telepaths will be required to reveal themselves or be subject to internment on detection. Does that worry you?”
“Why the hell do you think I called you here?” X replied. “Of course it worries me, but call it what it is. They’re not proposing ‘internment,’ they’re proposing imprisonment. They’re going to throw us in prison indefinitely and without trial. What do you think of that? Do you think that’s justice?”
In her ear, soft words were spoken with venom.
“Go for the jugular. Bleed him dry.”
Lisa wanted the producer to stop goading her. This wasn’t a game. This was a man’s life. Coming into this interview, Lisa had steeled herself to be a mercenary, but she hadn’t expected to meet such a complex individual. On some level, she felt she could relate to X. She tilted her head slightly, and reaching up, she discreetly removed the earpiece from beneath her hair and dropped it on the concrete floor.
“No,” she replied, wondering who was interviewing whom. “No, I don’t think it’s just, but I understand the fear these people have. Not every Tell is going to behave like you. Some of them are bound to abuse their power and take advantage of others.”
“What?” X replied with anger. “Like a white man born into privilege using his natural smile and good looks to get ahead? Don’t you get it? Culture is stacked against us. Doesn’t matter if you’re black, Hispanic, female or gay, you will never earn as much as a white man.”
Lisa felt adrenaline pumping through her veins. “For someone that’s sensitive to racial issues, you seem to have an undue concern for those of us with fairer skin.”
As those words slipped from her lips, Lisa realized she’d identified with Anglo-Saxon men, and yet she knew the truth of what X was saying. She’d gotten her start as a reporter because she was cheap. Salaries in the news profession were a fiercely guarded secret, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what the anchormen were being paid when they drove Audis.
“It’s not the color that’s important,” X replied. “It’s that white is on top. And that’s the real issue here. Who’s on top? The Telepathy Act is a feeble effort to maintain the status quo, to retain power.”
This was good, she thought. She could work with this.
“You want us to understand telepaths,” she said, wanting to recover her momentum within the interview. “But you have to understand our concerns.”
“Your concerns? Do you know what happened at that restaurant? They thought I’d stabbed that doctor. Fucking cops kicked me so hard they cracked my ribs. That Green Beret, he knew, he pulled one of the cops away as I lay there in the gutter with my back up against a fucking car wheel taking kicks to the chest. And what did he get for his troubles? He got busted as well. I spent four days in the hole until the doc tracked me down. He knew. He said he didn’t want to press charges. He explained that I’d saved his life. Do you think they believed him?”
Lisa swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Hell no,” X continued. “And do you know why? Because all they see is this wafer-thin sheet of skin. They see the color. Damn, I wish they were telepaths. I wish they could see beyond these dark eyes. But no. If you’ve got blue eyes, blond hair, a pretty smile, and nice makeup, you get a helping hand from society. If you’ve got torn jeans and a grease-stained shirt, you get a punch in the guts.”
Lisa squirmed in her seat, feeling uncomfortable at having been drawn into his narrative with the comment about her appearance.
“But that’s Norms for you. And I have to understand your concerns? Fuck off! Your concerns are nothing more than blind prejudice.”
Although she couldn’t see his face, Lisa could see X leaning forward with his head in his hands. He was crying. The variety of emotions coming through in the interview surprised her. Anger, anguish, fear, frustration, defensiveness, despair—he moved so quickly from one to the next.
“We’re scared,” she said, and by we, she meant her and the TV crew around her, and beyond them, the general population of America watching in the comfort of their homes.
X sat upright, facing her. His voice was deep. The pacing of his speech slowed. He sniffed, and she could see him wiping the tears from his eyes as he spoke.
“So Doc. He’s nice. He’s still got a bandage around his throat and he talks with a voice like Barry White when he springs me from jail. He tells me I did a good job saving his life, but that he’s on antibiotics for a mild chest infection. I laugh and tell him it’s the only time anyone’s thanked me for knifing them. He looks worried, and I smile, saying, just kidding—I’ve never stabbed anyone. I shouldn’t have to say that, but Norms, right? They never see beyond the skin, even after they’ve had a glimpse behind the veil.
“Anyway, Doc takes me home for dinner to his apartment overlooking Central Park. Place is stunning. Marble floors. Baby grand piano in the dining room. I ask who plays. Damn thing plays itself. I say, no way. Doc shows me. He controls it from his iPad and sets it to play something b
y Beethoven—something about a moonlight song. The keys go down as each note plays. It’s a haunting piece, played by a ghost.
“His wife is nice, but the kids, they look like they’ve seen a zombie or something. I guess the doc doesn’t bring too many homies around.
“Dinner is delicious. We have a glass of wine. Don’t taste much different from what Jules likes, but I bet the price tag is different. Afterwards, he and I stand on the balcony looking out over Central Park and he asks, are you reading my mind? No, it doesn’t work like that, I tell him. It’s not a light switch you can turn on or off.
“He tells me it must be pretty cool, as no one can lie to me, but he doesn’t know. People lie to themselves all the time. I knew this one guy, popped a clerk in a 7-11. Guilty as Lucifer himself. But in his mind, he’s innocent. In his mind, he’s the victim. He was provoked. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to kill the clerk. He was just trying to scare him. If only the clerk had handed over the money. It’s all bullshit, but he believes it. That’s the thing about the mind. It’s not like a library. It’s like an art gallery, and there’s some pretty weird Picasso shit going on in there.”
Lisa couldn’t help but smile.
“So what about you?” X asked. “What do you think?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Ah,” Lisa began. “Reporting is about gathering facts. My opinions don’t count.”
“Sure they do,” X replied. “All the people in their homes, they look up to you, they want to know what you think. That’s why we called you here. Not just to hear from me. To hear from you.”
“I think you’re fascinating. I came here expecting to meet a criminal, but I’ve found a hero.”
“Ha,” X cried. “Now you’re making me blush.”
Lisa couldn’t help herself; she had to ask. “If the act is passed, will you register?”
“No.”
“And when they come for you?”
“They’ll never find me,” X replied.
“How can you be so sure?” Lisa asked.
Through the high-set basement windows, she could see the flicker of distant police lights competing with the coming dawn. Flashes of light painted the dark alley behind the hotel in flickers of blue and red. There were voices yelling. Boots pounded down the stairs leading to the door behind X.
Subject X seemed calm. He said, “Turn on the lights,” as several police officers began pounding on the steel door behind him.
Lisa turned and looked at her cameraman. For a moment, he lowered the camera and stared back at her, bewildered as the wheels of a police squad car crunched on the loose gravel outside the basement window. The officers continued pounding on the door, demanding to be let in.
“Go on,” X said. “Do it! I’m not afraid of nothing.”
Lisa stood up and reached for the light switch. Her finger rested on the aging plastic, and she felt as though she was betraying him, selling him out like Judas, but she had to know. She had to see his face.
The banging on the door took on a distinct change of tone. Someone was using a battering ram, striking methodically at the hinges. The base of the door popped off the frame.
Lisa flicked the switch. The neon lights overhead flickered, stuttering as they pushed back the darkness.
There, sitting opposite her, was an elderly white man dressed in a business suit. His blood red tie had been immaculately set in place high against his starched white collar. His thin grey hair was neatly combed. Wrinkles lined his face. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Congressman Withers,” Lisa whispered, recognizing the Speaker of the House. Taped to his chest was a message, written in black felt marker:
Reject the Telepathy Act.
#DontTell
A Word from Peter Cawdron
I hope you’ve enjoyed #DontTell.
Telepathy has been given considerable focus over the years, with everything from comics/movies like X-Men to comedies such as What Women Want, making it challenging to come up with a unique angle. I enjoyed exploring the possibility that telepathy could be more about pathos/empathy, and wondered if it could usher in a new class within society, and so I explored some of the fears and concerns faced by minorities today.
You can find more of my writing on Amazon. Feel free to drop by and say hi on Facebook or Twitter, and be sure to leave a review online.
Thank you for supporting independent science fiction.
The Elm Tree
by E.E. Giorgi
One
The stretcher shot through the hospital’s pneumatic doors.
“Sixteen-year-old female,” one of the paramedics announced, bolting out of the ambulance. “Wrapped a noose around her neck and jumped from a tree. No pulse, no BP.”
God, she’s practically dead, thought Dr. Celine Bent, jogging beside the gurney. She pointed to Room Two, where the rest of the code team waited by the machines, ready to start a well-rehearsed race against time. The girl was promptly shifted to the table, her clothes stripped off, and the Ambu bag replaced by a mechanical ventilator.
Celine took her place by the table and began chest compressions. “Has she been started on an epi drip?” she asked.
“Right as she coded,” one of the EMTs replied, wheeling away the stretcher. “She’s been down for twenty minutes now.”
Sixteen, she thought, pressing the girl’s sternum with the heels of her hands. Black, tangled curls framed a triangular face, the dusky hue of death slowly draining away its glow. Below the jaw line, angry strips of skin revealed where the bindings had tightened and strangled her.
They compressed, then shocked, then compressed again. The air was charged, the silence broken only by the lilt of the ventilator and the beep of the machines.
“Celine. We’re at thirty-five minutes,” the code supervisor said.
Celine’s arms were starting to ache. Minutes crept by.
“Ten minutes into asystole,” the code supervisor said.
Celine looked at her team. The cart nurse shook his head.
The respiratory therapist heaved a deep breath and bit her lip. “Did she leave a note?” she asked.
“The EMTs didn’t mention,” somebody at the back of the room replied.
They’re giving up, Celine thought. She’s only sixteen.
You don’t give up on a sixteen-year-old.
“Thoracotomy tray,” Celine said.
The charge nurse flinched. By the ventilator, the therapist swiveled on her stool, her frown voiced by wheels squeaking on the linoleum floor. “Celine, are you sure—”
“I said, thoracotomy tray,” Celine insisted.
The tray was brought in, scalpel and spreaders clattering against stainless steel. Two nurses rolled the girl on one side and draped her.
“O negative?”
“Just came in.”
Celine’s eyes strayed back to the charge nurse. “Prepare a clamp and a suctioning catheter. I’ll need a large incision to get in.”
She’s only sixteen, she thought again, brushing her gloved finger along the ribcage, counting, two, three, four, five. Fifth rib. She faltered, the tension in the room palpable. In any other hospital, only a cardiologist would’ve dared the procedure, not an emergency doctor. Too young to let go. Hell, thoracotomies had been part of her training.
She rested the scalpel below the left nipple. Now. The incision came smoothly, the skin easily unzipping in the wake of the blade. She inhaled, then went back with a deeper stroke, penetrating the layer of muscle this time. The smell of blood filled her nostrils, the pads below the incision quickly turning crimson. A pink half moon of lung emerged between the ribs.
“Spreaders.”
Gentle, she thought, cracking open the ribcage—yet the procedure was far from gentle. She was breaching a sacred place, tackling the thin line between life and death. A temple that should never see the light. She forced her hands inside, her fingers prodding the softness of the tissues. Careful, now. This heart is y
oung, with so many beats yet to deliver.
Come back to me, Celine pleaded, delicately compressing the heart between the flats of her fingers. Press, release, press, release, she thought, as if rehearsing a memorized prayer.
Lulled by the litany, she closed her eyes and gave in to the rhythm—press, release, press, release—until a grainy fog blanketed her eyes and the smell of burning candles filled her nostrils. She saw a hand, strong, fierce in its quest, resting on the girl’s milky skin, intruding its way into her ripeness. Celine’s pulse quickened, fear gripping her.
Not my fear. The girl’s.
Celine’s hands froze. Her eyes sprang open.
The candles were gone, replaced by the ICU smells of blood and antiseptic.
“Still in asystole,” a nurse said, a note of dismay in her voice.
Celine inhaled. “Let me try one more time.”
The minute her hands started moving again, the fog came back. The wavering of candlelight, the scent of aromatic wax. A slow chant making its way to her ears.
When she realized what was happening, it was already too late. She tried to fight it back but found herself unable to, her hands drawn inside the chest of a young girl, and her mind escaping, as if sucked out of her body, whisked to different shores. Press, release, press, release, her own voice desperately clinging to the routine, finding it harder and harder to follow…
Candles burning and incense, the clinking of metal in the background, the sound of steps resonating in a wide hall. A chant, or maybe a lament, a litany of hummed notes repeated over and over. Celine shivered and staggered back. Darkness draped her eyes. Where am I? She heard heavy breathing and the erratic thumps of a heart under strain—was it her own heart or was it somebody else’s?
“Run!” a young voice hollered. And so she did, the frenzy of her lungs hissing in her ears. She ran through wide, wooden doors and out into the night, the chant trailing off behind her. “Run!” the voice pleaded. Chilled air whipped her face, her wheezing condensing in halos. Pain shot up from her lower abdomen; tears burned her cheeks.
