Once More With Feeling
by Carol Scheina
An empath wasn't Connor's first thought when he saw the woman. Instead, he noticed her hands as they slipped into his view, all stiff muscles and veins, like a Michelangelo carving, trembling as they reached for a drink. Looking up, he saw a young woman with straight slate hair and wide-socket eyes who looked at him with a need.
He must have been lacking, because she moved on without a word.
Connor knew she didn't belong at this crummy bar any more than he did, but he didn't say anything. What could he say? After all, if things had been different, he would have been coaxing melodies from his violin on some international tour that concluded with a standing ovation every night. Instead, he found himself with unexplained hearing loss at age thirty-two and a violin that failed to provide enchantment to his own ears.
He had sipped champagne from crystal glasses. Now he stared into his cloudy beer mug, noticing that the foam formed microscopic crevices like notes on a page. A slight jiggle sent them swirling in a fast, then slow, symphony before stilling into silence. He drank with a deep inhale and wondered if Beethoven saw notes in "his" beer.
For some reason, he looked back to her and saw her trying to wrap a drunken man's arm around her. Good lord, she's trying to pull him up now, Connor realized. Other people were starting to notice. Empaths were known to take drunks and druggies for Release, but to have one do it so brazenly was not something that happened every day.
"She's going to get picked up by Containment," a man two chairs down muttered.
Gulping the last of his beer, the unsung notes of the foam settled in his belly. Connor didn't know what made him stand up. Before he knew it, he was besides the woman, a fake smile on his mouth and his hearing aids on maximum volume.
"Hi," he said. "I think you were supposed to meet me tonight." His eyes implored her to play along.
The woman's eyes widened. She dropped the lifeless arm.
Connor put his arm around her and leaned his head in. "I know you're an empath. You're too obvious," he whispered.
Her eyes cracked with fear. "Please," she whispered. "Please, I don't mean any harm. It just gets to be too much. I have to Release it."
"Let's head back to my place," he said loudly. Then under his breath, "You can use me."
Her step slowed, and she looked at him, a why on her lips. He nodded: yes, he knew what Release meant.
For an empath, absorbed emotions built up inside until the person couldn't take any more. The resulting explosion of rage or sorrow was often too much for a body to take. But an empath could Release much of the emotion into another person with a blast of pent-up feelings. Yet even those numbed by drink and drugs were overwhelmed.
There was a reason most empaths ended up in Containment: either they went insane, or their Release drove others insane.
No wonder the empath hesitated. Why would Connor willingly volunteer for something like that? Connor chuckled, low and bitter. He knew she felt into the dead zone of his soul, where music used to fill him. Hearing aids gave him the notes of the violin again, but the sounds were strange and squealing, then faded to nothingness as he reached the higher pitches. He was a musician who couldn't hear properly. There was nothing left for him, so why not let her use him, keep her out of Containment, away from a life left locked up alone?
