The Osmotic

10 Dec

I have a rare, uncanny gift and no idea how I came to possess it.

Who can tell whether this power of mine is genetic? Neither of my parents can accomplish what I can. As an only child, it is uncertain whether a brother or sister might have also enjoyed the same ability. Did any of my ancestors carry anything similar? Research has given me no information on that score.

There is no period early in my life when I did not have access to the thoughts of others through their most personal belongings. Let me relate some of my childhood memories of my osmosis of thoughts and ideas through the physical property of others.

From my mother’s breast came a message of warmth and love. But from my father’s wool and cotton clothing I received an opposite communication: the coldness of jealousy and hatred. Why are you here, little one? How dare you separate my lover from me, taking away her time and attention.

This rejection of my existence struck my mind very early from his smoking pipe, which I attempted to take hold of as if it were a toy. Any object connected to him gave me vibrations of enmity and hostility.

Throughout my childhood, these contradictory signals from the two parents grew and expanded. Then, when I came to play and socialize with other boys in our neighborhood, the thoughts of my contemporaries were received by me through the objects they lived with. The toys that we used in games became the media through which I read their juvenile minds.

I came to take for granted my ownership of this psychic sensitivity of mine.

When primary school began for me, I was able to read the thoughts of classmates and teachers by taking their possessions into my osmotic hands. How or why this was possible I had no notion at all.

I became more adept in this art of mine with each passing year. My gift made me an able player of games and sports like chess, cards, and basketball. No one had any suspicion of what I was doing, since I was clever enough to conceal the evidence of its presence. The true goals and intentions of others were always known to me through touching the things that they themselves touched the most often.

Only when I reached the age of adulthood and become involved with young females did I collide with serious problems and stubborn difficulties in the use of my osmotic sensitivity.

My first sweetheart was a tall, willowy blonde with beautiful hazel eyes.

We went no further than exploratory necking until I picked up a warning of what she had in store for me in the back of her mind. I surprised the one I was falling in love with when I suddenly broke the tight embrace that I held her in as we sat parked in my sportscar on a lover’s lane.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked me in panic.

I was compelled to invent a spur-of-the-moment lie.

“My head is exploding and I fear that I may soon suffer a seizure, dear.”

“A seizure!” she gasped in surprise and terror.

My pretended illness saved me from any plan she might have had to make me into her future husband.

Several similar situations occurred over the next several years as I attended a great university and then finished a prestigious law school. As a professional attorney, my ability to uncover hidden thoughts through touching the objects in evidence or legal contracts and documents gave me enormous advantage over opponents at law. Other lawyers were defenseless against my osmotic power to absorb the thoughts of others.

By my thirties, I had become a star in my field, never suffering any losses in the cases I took on.

Our county prosecutor offered me the post of assistant district attorney with the promise that I would succeed to his office in a few years. What could I do but accept? The opportunities for me appeared unlimited.

Another series of courtroom victories followed, now from the state’s side.

We started a full campaign of indictments of our regional underworld, including the top syndicate chieftains. I was assigned to prosecute the head gangster in charge of mob executions and rub-outs. He was a grossly fat man with the nickname of the Eraser.

I was successful in obtaining a bill of indictment against him at the level of a grand jury. My next task became winning a murder conviction. I had evidence that he commanded a squad of tough, merciless assassins who wiped out unacceptable competition of the organized rackets. One of the proofs my staff acquired from the police was a truckload of machine guns used by the Eraser’s killers.

As I examined these weapons at central headquarters one evening, an osmotic sensation came as I touched the barrel of one of the big guns of the mob.

There was scheduled to be a mass shooting at the county jail. The specific targets were myself and my assistants. This action was meant to put a stop to the prosecution of the Eraser once all those involved in the case on our side were disposed of permanently.

My reaction to this was swift and emotional. I went to the jail and entered the cell in which the Eraser was being held. My purpose was a confrontation that would put an end to the criminal conspiracy against me.

The obese, dark-eyes gangster rose from his bunk and moved toward me in a menacing manner.

I stood my ground, compelling him to halt before a collision of the two of us occurred.

“What is it you want from me?” said the person called the Eraser.

“Do not trifle with me,” I warned as the prosecuting attorney, glaring without fear at the man with blood on his hands. “Information about your plan to wipe me out has come to me. Such an adventure, though now thwarted and impossible for you to carry out, will be added to the charges you must answer for. Attempted murder will be the new accusation brought up by me that I am certain you will be punished for.”

The heavy-set prisoner glared mercilessly into my own gray eyes, his face contorted into an ugly grimace of fury. The fat man’s breathing became slow and labored.

All of a sudden he raised his right arm, placing the hand on the wide lapel of my serge suit coat.

What is he doing? I asked myself. What is this mobster up to? He leaned forward into my face.

Is the Eraser about to do me harm here in his jail cell?

I was ready to call out for help to the guards, when the man about to go on trial began to whisper in a muffled voice.

“Do not move or say anything. I can read all of your thoughts through the coat that you are wearing. I am fully aware now of what your scheme contains. My warning to you is this: stop all your legal proceedings against me and my associates. Your prosecution is doomed to fail and will be useless.

“I have just now realized what you are and what you are capable of. Both of us possess this special gift and I am completely certain that my own powers are superior to yours. You see, I can tell what you are going to think in the future, as well as what is in your head at the present time.

“Yes, I can predict what thoughts are going to arise in your mind before you actually think them.”

My head swam and whirled as I absorbed what the Eraser was revealing to me.

The fat man in jail uniform went on.

“You are going to drop all charges against me and my men. I know that such moves will result in your being fired by the district attorney. But you will then return to private practice as my personal defense advocate. From then on, you shall be working for me, the Eraser.”

By that time, I was incapable of speech.

All I could do was give him a slight nod and back up to the door, where I called out to a distant guard to come and let me out of the private cell.

That night I had no sleep as I turned in bed, thinking over what had happened to me that day.

I accepted what appeared to be my unchangeable fate, so that today I operate as the osmotic lawyer who works for a top crime lord who has even greater, deeper gifts of the mind than I do.

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