Adelaide Confused Read Online Free Page A

developed
island, so isolating oneself was impossible. But I was about as
removed as you could get, living on a twisted back road with
outdated homes, often abandoned or just downright trashy. Oak trees
and bushes that smelled sweet, like honeysuckle, encroached on the
road, bugs sang, a dog barked... it was nice.
    The house was a tiny square
of white wood siding set away from the street. A tin roof and red
brick chimney added to its charm. I occupied the only bedroom, a
loft that filled the sloping second story. Downstairs was simple as
well. The front half of the house was the living space, the back
half a kitchen overlooking the yard.
    I spent the few free hours
I had before work puttering around, doing a few chores. I made a
grocery list. I took a stack of dirty laundry to the kitchen where
I had an upright washer and dryer stowed beneath the stairs. But it
wasn’t until I was wiping down the kitchen counters that I noticed
something was off.
    I was whistling, whistling
while I worked. That was not my typical behavior so I surveyed
myself and noticed a faint pip, some sort of happy excitement. It
wasn’t like the excitement I usually felt, which was a naturally
strong emotion. It was so light and clean I’d almost missed
it.
    I walked to the front of
the house. The feeling didn’t grow, but as I jogged up the stairs
it fizzled out. I was myself again. Confused, I went back
downstairs, wandering around the house while trying to gauge this
strangely familiar, yet odd, feeling.
    I didn’t know how or why I
experienced what other people felt, but I was fairly certain there
wasn’t a convenient scientific explanation waiting for me. What
I did know
was that it was a lot like having a conversation. Most of the time
people walked around feeling indifferent, a sort of commonplace.
That was like silence—my sanity. Sometimes they would feel twinges,
small emotions which were like a whisper that I had to be standing
very close to catch. The opposite, the strong emotions people
usually felt when they laughed or cried were like a shout. I could
pick those up from far away.
    I only had one neighbor
that lived close enough to give off emotions I might pick up, and
they’d have to be pretty strong at that. But I suspected he was
emotionally retarded (lucky for me) because I’d never felt a thing.
Not even once.
    So I was half convinced the
excitement was my own. But logically I didn’t have a reason to be
merry; this was when I’d typically assume it wasn’t mine. But then
whose was it? I’d moved into this house shortly after coming to the
island at eighteen, and I’d lived here the six years since. Never
once in all that time did I feel something not my own. The house
was a haven, or it had been until that moment.
    I looked out the front
windows hoping to see a child skipping down the street. Nope,
nothing, no one, quiet. I wandered to the kitchen, pushing aside
the lacy curtains to look out. Regretfully there was no trespasser,
no snooping salesman.
    I squinted, trying to catch
a glimpse of my neighbor’s property. Our houses sat back to back,
the yards meeting with a sagging chain-link fence that the
shrubbery had nearly swallowed.
    Emotionally everyone was
different, though I had noticed trends. In general, women were more
emotional than men. But like I said, everyone was different, some
more emotional than others. My neighbor was the least feeling man
I’d ever met—as in, no feelings.
    Admittedly, I didn’t know
him well. It was possible that I would start feeling his emotions
if we spent time together, though the possibility that I might not
was more intriguing.
    I opened the kitchen door
and stepped out into the overgrown and unkempt yard.
    His name was Lucas Finch.
The only other thing I knew about him was that he was a mechanic
and owned a body shop in Brunswick. When I’d first moved in he’d
offered to cut my grass. I’d declined, but had since regretted the
decision as I lacked a green thumb... and a