My hot hand touches his forearm and I feel the skin sear underneath, a surge running through both of us. He yanks back, but it’s too late. He’s been touched. He’s felt it. He believes me.
Francisco is gasping as his aura fades from my vision. Now I can see that his hair is cropped short and there’s a ring piercing his dark eyebrow. He’s staring at me, his eyes glassy and trancelike, tears running down his cheeks. I see the fading mark of a handprint on his arm.
“What are you?” he asks, out of breath. “What the hell are you?”
His words hurt me, not like the hurt in my head, which is killing me right now. Not like the deep bruising I can feel in my legs as I stand here, half dazed. His words are exactly what I ask myself every night before I fall asleep. What am I?
I swallow hard. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’m no one.”
I wait in the shadows of the alley until the cops arrive. It’s only a matter of minutes, but in that time, Francisco calls his grandmother to confess and then calls his girlfriend, who is waiting for him back at their apartment. And now he’s ready.
Three squad cars blare through the streets and stop in a zigzag around Francisco’s car. My shirt is buttoned up, hidingit, and I realize that I’ve forgotten my new jacket at Harlin’s. Which is just as well. It would have gotten filthy.
I watch as Francisco raises his arms above his head. No one seems to notice me among the flashing lights. I hear the cops radioing back to the dispatchers, saying they’ve caught the perp. I’m relieved. The shoot-out was avoided.
Francisco is bent over the hood of his car as he’s handcuffed and the officer is reading him his rights. Then a chubby, short officer with his gun casually at his side leans toward Francisco.
“Surprised the hell out of me, son. Thought you’d be running all night. What made you stop here?”
I tense, hoping Francisco doesn’t tell them about me. I don’t want to have to explain this—the unexplainable. What would I tell the cops? I’m a freak that’s compelled to help people against my will? That I’ve tried to stop but it hurts too much? I can’t explain what I don’t know. I start to back away when I see Francisco blink, looking confused. Finally, he just mumbles, “I don’t remember.”
With that, I exhale, completely relieved. I start walking and as I’m about to turn onto Powell Street, I see something out of the corner of my eye. When I look, she’s there, just on the other side of the street. The woman from the bus stop.
Her blond hair is a stark contrast against her black leather trench coat and boots. Cops are moving around but no one speaks to her. She’s just watching me. I’m drawn to her, but I don’t move. I’m feeling a little nauseated. When I think this, she smiles. Then she reaches behind her shoulder and pulls her hood up over her head, shading her eyes. She turns on her heels and walks away, the clacking of them on the pavement echoing through the street.
And then it begins to rain.
