Growing up, my father was a recluse, and I never wondered why. He never left his study and often didn’t want to be bothered. On my fifteenth birthday, he pulled me into his hideaway and slammed the door behind him. I was afraid, so he was too.
He sat down on top of his desk and told me to sit in his chair. Then he started his lecture, “Everyone has their own weight to bear in this world. Your sister wants to be a talented musician, so she must bear the weight of practicing. Your uncle Shane got caught stealing, so he bears the weight of jail time. But some people bear weights that they don’t bring upon themselves. You and I are among those people.”
He was being vague, and I was getting frustrated. I could tell he was getting frustrated too. He took a breath and started again, “Look, Charlie. You know about genetics, right?” I nodded. “Well, I have a gene that my father passed down to me that makes me feel what other people feel. I look at them and feel their emotions. I feel their joy. I feel their pain. If I see a paper cut, I feel it exactly the same way, but when I look down at my hand, there’s nothing there.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.
“The gene is passed down from father to son, and soon, you’ll feel things that you shouldn’t feel too.”
Later that night, my mother sliced her hand cutting my birthday cake. I watched the knife slide across her thumb, blood seeping out. Then slowly, it started. I felt the cold metal edge of the blade dig into my thumb the same way it did to my mother. When she put the cut in her mouth to keep the air away, I could taste the blood myself. I felt the searing pain in my thumb, but when I looked down at my hand, there was nothing to show for it.
Then I remembered something my mother told me about my father’s father when he passed away. She said that the doctors had no idea why he died. He was walking to his car when a truck rammed into an SUV, over a hundred feet away. She said the doctors were convinced that he died when he saw the accident, like some kind of sympathy pain.
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Credits
He sat down on top of his desk and told me to sit in his chair. Then he started his lecture, “Everyone has their own weight to bear in this world. Your sister wants to be a talented musician, so she must bear the weight of practicing. Your uncle Shane got caught stealing, so he bears the weight of jail time. But some people bear weights that they don’t bring upon themselves. You and I are among those people.”
He was being vague, and I was getting frustrated. I could tell he was getting frustrated too. He took a breath and started again, “Look, Charlie. You know about genetics, right?” I nodded. “Well, I have a gene that my father passed down to me that makes me feel what other people feel. I look at them and feel their emotions. I feel their joy. I feel their pain. If I see a paper cut, I feel it exactly the same way, but when I look down at my hand, there’s nothing there.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.
“The gene is passed down from father to son, and soon, you’ll feel things that you shouldn’t feel too.”
Later that night, my mother sliced her hand cutting my birthday cake. I watched the knife slide across her thumb, blood seeping out. Then slowly, it started. I felt the cold metal edge of the blade dig into my thumb the same way it did to my mother. When she put the cut in her mouth to keep the air away, I could taste the blood myself. I felt the searing pain in my thumb, but when I looked down at my hand, there was nothing to show for it.
Then I remembered something my mother told me about my father’s father when he passed away. She said that the doctors had no idea why he died. He was walking to his car when a truck rammed into an SUV, over a hundred feet away. She said the doctors were convinced that he died when he saw the accident, like some kind of sympathy pain.
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Credits
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