I never asked to be this way.
It’s kind of ironic really. I actually hate other people. Or maybe I hate them because of it. I can’t really remember, it’s become sort of a chicken-and-egg thing.
Of course, if you could see what I see, you’d hate everyone too. Every brush of a sleeve, every touch on the hand, every tiniest bit of human contact, and it’s all there before my eyes: the sadistic boss fucking his secretary in the boardroom at night, then verbally and physically abusing her; the loving mother going home and torturing her five-year-old son, cutting him with jagged pieces of glass; the innocent teenage girl seducing an old man in an alley, only to stab him to death just for the few measly twenties in his wallet.
The train is crowded and I hate it. It lurches as it pulls into the next station, and a man in a ball cap and dark sunglasses falls into me. There is a bright flash – that’s never happened before – and then I see it all again: her body tied down on the table, the fearsome array of tools on the tray, the blades slicing, her screaming.
The man looks me in the face and I see nothing through the dark glasses.
“I know what you did,” he says, “And I’m going to find you.”
He disappears into the throng of bodies and out onto the platform. I try to follow but cannot; the doors close with a hiss and the train pulls away.
I was so shaken it wasn’t until I got home that I noticed he’d taken my wallet.