this specific thing hasn’t happened to me (not a mind reader) but I’m currently taking care of a friend who’s had his power totally messed up. after some … trauma, he’s had a hard time accessing his ability in the same way. so it’s possible that your sister hitting her head threw something off with her ability and the way it interacts with yours?

thatsahumanperson

Except my sister isn’t Unusual. Unless her ability just hasn’t manifested yet, which … I suppose that’s possible. Hmm.

theneonthorn

keep us posted, dude. I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my friend so let me know if you find anything that works.

SEPTEMBER 3RD, 2016

No matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t get away. I’ve had nightmares like that before—where you run and run and run, you can feel your legs pumping away and still: nothing. It’s torture. It’s not even the thing chasing you—which, in this case, was a giant snake—that’s the truly scary part. It’s the feeling of not having control over your body. That dark dread that sits in the bottom of your stomach as you push your legs through invisible molasses, thinking that if you just shove a little harder, dig your heels in deeper, you’ll be able to get free of the weight around you and make a clean escape. But that never happens.

Last night I was running—running, running, running—but then it was like something clicked on. Or off. A sharp smell in the air, like lightning in the distance or an imminent snowfall. And then suddenly I was aware of where I was. Standing in an endless black expanse, impossibly lit, just enough so that I could see the giant snake with red eyes and horrible, growing fangs barreling toward me.

When I woke up, I saw there were scratches all up and down my legs. Like I was clawing at them to stop the ground from swallowing me whole.

LATER

Well jesus jumping christ, that could have gone a hell of a lot better.

I should back up. I decided, in all my infinite wisdom, to try and talk to my family about the narcolepsy and the bad, crazy vivid dreams and the fact that maybe they’re now turning into night terrors and, well, let’s just say I was right to be worried about them overreacting.

It all started at dinner.

“When’s your wrist supposed to be better?” Aaron asked, his nose wrinkling at his plate.

“Oh hush,” my mom chastised, sitting down at our small kitchen table, setting a plate of soggy green beans in the center.

“Six weeks,” I said. “Ish.”

“Ugh.” Aaron groaned. “But, I mean, you can still cook for us though, right? Like, you can figure out how to chop one-handed?”