back under, but each one was fragmented. This was what could drive me insane.
Almost had at one point.
I struggled to find my mental footing, not easily accomplished thanks to
rusty skills, but like riding a bike, I found my balance and zeroed in on what I
needed.
A pale and worried Kelsey strode through my bedroom door. Her image
wavered, threatening to fade. I narrowed my concentration, determined not to lose her. The visuals steadied, firmed. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck, her jaw was clenched as she dropped her
hobo purse onto the bed, and then dragged her suitcase onto the mattress.
Considering how clear the images were, her emotions had to have been off the charts. My strange ability tended to be a complete mystery, but generally when I played Peeping Tom with the past, it was choppy and hazy. Painful experience taught me the more emotionally connected I was to a person or event,
the clearer the picture.
I watched Kelsey unpack. Then the image began to fade as an older one tried
to take center stage. My fingers tightened on the shirt in my lap as I struggled to
bring Kelsey’s image back. It took a few nerve stretching moments, but she reappeared. This time she was getting ready to hang up her shirt, when her head
lifted like a hound coming on point and turned to the door.
Old frustrations and resentments tried to tumble forth, but I shoved them
back. Wishing for a reliable soundtrack to the images in front of me would get me nowhere. It was hard enough to keep my attention centered on the right memory. Most times I was lucky to get a comprehensive scene. I seemed to be
eternally relegated to a watcher position, and not once had I been able to hear anything. That quirk hammered home early on the old axiom of ‘you can’t
change the past’.
As my concentration wavered, the image in front of me broke up like clouds
after a storm. Mental focus pounded into me by the U.S. Marines snapped into
place and once more, Kelsey reappeared. This time, she pulled something out of
her bag. When her hand reappeared, it was wrapped around a nine mil Sig Sauer
P226. A gun which should be tucked inside the gun safe at her condo. In Tempe.
Twisting slightly to stay with the scene, I couldn’t stop my muttered, “What the
hell, Kels?”
Kelsey hated guns, but loved me, hence her agreement to keep a small gun
safe at her condo for my occasional visits. Guns were my version of Teddy Bears. I didn’t like being without one, so Kelsey eventually gave in and let me
keep one or two at her place when I was out of town.
The marines had uncovered a natural shooting skill, one I kept up even after
my discharge. I taught Kelsey a few basics, and the lessons had obviously stuck,
because she kept the barrel aimed at the floor, and her finger to the side of the
trigger. She crept toward the bedroom door, the gun steady in her two-handed grip.
Fully caught in the past, I rose from the bed to follow the image of the gun-
toting Kelsey through the bedroom door. Her image disappeared into a swirl of
disjointed memories. I stumbled down the hall, desperate to recapture the scene,
my pulse racing. Based on Kelsey’s actions, someone was about to make an appearance.
Near the front entryway, I hit pay dirt. She stood with her back to the wall,
the gun extended in front of her as she sidled closer to the door. Her eyes widened, fear racing across her face, as her grip loosened. Her inattention lasted
maybe one or two seconds, but that’s all it took for her to lose any advantage.
Her fear had to be bone deep to leave such a sharp memory behind.
