My eyes popped open to a pitch black room. For a few seconds, I lay where I was, sprawled on my back in my own bed. I wasn’t sure yet whether the voice I’d heard was real or whether I’d dreamed it. The room was unusually silent. My tiny studio apartment was normally filled with the sounds of the downtown street below. Not now, though, so I figured it must be late. Even the drunks had gone to sleep. Everything was still, quiet; I convinced myself I must have been dreaming. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard it again.
Groaning, I rolled onto my side. With one hand, I groped for my cellphone on the end table, knocking something off in the process. Whatever it was, I didn’t hear it break, so I shrugged it off. I’d figure it out later. My hand landed on the phone. I picked it up, pushing the button to light up the screen; it was only three-thirty in the morning. I groaned again. I really didn’t want to get out of bed but it had to be done; the voice wouldn’t go away on its own. I could ignore it, but that had never worked out. I refused to go through that again.
Grumbling, I clambered out of bed and snatched the jeans I’d shucked off only a couple of hours before. Being sort-of psychic can be a real pain in the ass. I never know when a voice is going to call to me. It could be like now, in the middle of the night. It could be while I’m at work, which means I have to have a flexible job. Or it could be during the middle of sex, which makes relationships difficult, especially since I don’t like to tell people about what I can do.
Having a psychic ability is also weird. It doesn’t always work and I have no idea of the full extent of it. Sometimes I can do something useful, like avert a crime or a death. Most times I just find dead bodies. I know it’s a turn off. Most people, I figure, don’t want to get with a guy who’s basically a cadaver dog.