In answer to the daily prompt Brain Power: Let’s assume we do, in fact, use only 10% of our brain. If you could unlock the remaining 90%, what would you do with it?
“Genius, phenomenal, amazing, extraordinary, miraculous, all words used to describe your talent Ms. Night.”
Those and so many other adjectives have been used to describe “her talent” over the years. She isn’t sure what it is. Sometimes, more often than not it drives her crazy.
Every sound multiplying, like the resounding ping of the man’s watch on the chair.
Every smell overwhelming, like the spicy and dark scent of her interlocutor.
Every taste exploding, like the sweet wine standing on the table next to her hand.
Every touch vibrating, like the pounding keys on the piano she sometimes plays.
Every colour glowing, like the jarring turquoise of his tie against his pink shirt.
That’s why she lives here; it’s a safe place where sounds are muffled, colours aren’t as aggressive, smells are suffocated. As far as tastes and touches go, there are only the cutting strings of her violin and the bland soup.
She nods. Even the sound of her voice is too strident for her ears; she hates when she has to talk to people. That man is no exception and he hasn’t respected the dress code. His clothes – violent shades of bright colours – are an attack on her retina.
“Where do you think this talent comes?”
She shrugs; she focuses on his voice. Unlike his clothes, it’s agreeable… silky and musky. A bedroom voice. That and the spicy dark scent he gives off, she can actually picture his entire body underneath the sharp clothes. She shakes her head; she has to stop. But her brain never stops. Always and always it runs… in circle or so far ahead she can’t always stop.
She snaps and meets his gaze; it’s a burning blue gaze. Very different from every person she’s seen here.
She does, the spicy air – as if the man’s scent was absorbed by it – like a knife in her lungs. She feels the air running through her pipes and the blood flying from her heart to her brain. Her hands clench. That’s why the music; it absorbs her entirely. As if music was more part of her being than anything else. It gives her meaning.
“Someone said I was using 100% of my brain.”
“I know what people say. What do you say?”
Is it really important? She looks at an instrument and she can play it. She picks up a book in any language and she can speak it. Everything feels like it moves at snail pace… because her brain never stops. The man doesn’t perspire; few people remain calm in her presence. They love her talent, how it makes them feel. She knows how to bring them to emotions they didn’t expect. But they don’t like what she is. Even the shrinks. But he’s calm. In fact… the spicy scent, it’s desire. She can taste it. Her lips soak up on it; they swell in recognition. He’s like her. She doesn’t know how she knows. She doesn’t care.
“You’re like me.”
“I’m more than you.”
What does that mean? He leans towards her, his muscles stretching the shirt. She wishes he wore something else. Other shrinks wear white when they meet her. He doesn’t appear to care.
“You were born, unknowing. You were pushed. I jumped.”
She doesn’t understand.
“Well. People here will tell you I fell. I was the light and you were the night. You and I, Leliel…”
The name explodes in her head. Thousands of tentacles reach out in her brain. She knows who he is. She stands as he mirrors her; there’s no mistaking the pain in her back but she doesn’t mind. It doesn’t hurt more than the strings on her fingers when she plays. He changes. So does she.