Psychic Training

The doorbell rings.

‘That is bizarre’ I mutter to myself as I cross the living room.
‘The doorbell does not work’.
I stop. I laugh at myself.
‘Yes, because that is the craziest thing that is happened today!’
I walk over to the bright red rectangular door, the only thing I recognise in my whole entire home, and I gaze through the peephole. No one was there. I step back and start to ponder my situation. As I stare at my closed door my mind begins to whir and I recall the events of the day.

I had woken up this morning with a jolt. I had had a strange dream, the kind that is followed by the feeling of falling down a never-ending black hole. My Grandmother always said the day you hit the bottom of the black hole is the day you will die, and after the day I had had I could not help but wish I had reached the bottom. I had sat up and rubbed my eyes, and I had shivered. It was another cold, fresh November morning, and I had made a mental note to remember my hat, scarf and gloves. I had wrapped myself up tighter in my duvet, and then I had taken a deep breath before making my way to the shower. I had climbed in, letting the warm drops of water surround my body in a liquid hug.

After a few minutes, I had quickly dried and dressed in my favourite knee-length navy dress which wrapped around me clutching my curves. I had combed through my hair and let it fall down my back as I did every morning – I was lucky, my waist length black hair dried in perfect curls naturally. I had stared at my face in the mirror, trying to decide what make-up to slap onto my pale skin. In the end I had chosen to line my eyes in purple to emphasise my dark green irises. I had painted my lips red and given myself one last look-over before grabbing my bag and keys and running out of the door.
‘I shall have breakfast on the way’ I thought.
Then, as I climbed into my red Citroen C4 I had glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ~
‘No!’ I had exclaimed out loud.
I was going to be late.
‘No breakfast for me then I guess’ I had sighed.
My boss, Joe, was most unhappy when I had arrived 10 minutes, but had soon forgiven me once I had handed him his morning Starbucks latte. Joe is the managing director of a large printing company named Carder House Inc., where I work as his personal assistant. Carder House is situated on the top two floors of a skyscraping building in the centre of Chicago. The view is magnificent and I smile as I think of how I had stood there this morning, next to Joe, watching the world. And then I think of Joe and sigh. With dark blonde hair, tanned skin, and hazel green eyes, he is my idea of a perfect man; even with the stubble he hadn’t been bothered to shave this morning.

I digress from my thoughts as I wander through to my living room. This morning, my walls had been cream, my floor pale and laminated, my furniture dark wood, and my sofas deep purple. This morning, my sofas had sat up against the walls, each facing my 32 inch LCD television, with a coffee table central on my chocolate coloured rug. Now though, my walls are covered in strips of three dimensional yellow wallpaper, my floor is covered in crimson carpet, my furniture is silver and all fabric matches my dress. Now, my sofas face each other, a television is non-existent, and a large record player stands in glory in the corner of the room. I step through to the kitchen and stand where my double fridge used to be. My sleek, black dining room table is gone and in its place stands a shiny beige coloured table with legs that come out further than the top. It’s pushed up against the wall and on it stands a massive rubber plant, not the glossy, thin, tall vase that usually holds a single artifical rose. My sideboards, usually silky and dark and stretching around the kitchen have shrunk, now covering only one wall in a grainy shade of blue. My once beige wooden flooring has been replaced by black and white squared tiling, like a chessboard. I sigh, confused and at a loss at what to do. I go through to my bedroom, the third room in my small Chicago flat.
‘Let me see what the bedroom looks like!’ I said aloud exasperated.
My once chic and modern bedroom is a shade of peach pink and very floral. As I walk across the room, I catch a glimpse of a mustard yellow bathroom suite and a brown tiled floor. I put my head in my hands and then sink onto the bed, I lay back and stare at the heavily artexed ceiling. I return to my thoughts to continue the day’s events, wondering what on earth could have happened.

Work had been quite a usual day, as standard as most could be. I had proof-read some articles for Joe to review which had taken me up until lunchtime.
‘Alicia’ Joe had called from his office.
I had pushed back my chair and stood up, hastily answering him – he asked me to fetch his lunch from the bakery across town.
‘No problem’ I had replied.
‘See you soon’.
I had then snatched my keys off my desk on my way downstairs to the buildings underground car park. I remembered I had placed myself into my C4. I sat up abruptly on the bed where I was; I froze. I did not remember anything else of the day. Suddenly I felt dizzy. I lay back and closed my eyes. I could hear voices buzzing around my ears, murmuring my name.
‘Alicia’, ‘Alicia!’
I feel my mind becoming more and more confused, my head becoming fuzzier and fuzzier. I open my eyes. The light is bright. I hear Joe shout.
‘Joe? In my apartment?’
I slowly become aware that I am not in my apartment; I am lying in a hospital bed.

As my eyes focus I stare up at Joe. I comprehend that it was a nurse he had shouted to, for she is checking my blood pressure.
‘What...what happened?’ I say in a croaky voice.
‘Where am I?!’
Panic starts rising and I try to sit up but I am too weak and I slump back onto the pillows. ‘You were in an accident’ explains Joe gently.
‘A delivery lorry lost control in the parking lot and smashed straight into your car. As soon as I found out, I hurried here! I have not left your side in the 24 hours you have been here’.
I am staring at this man in horror as he tells me this, but even in the state I am in I do not neglect to notice what a beautiful man he is. I realise I have forgotten to listen to the injuries he is listing. I tune back in to hear
‘…and I have called your parents. They are on their way here from London. I am so glad you are okay! I do not know what I would have done if I had lost you...’
He is holding my hand as he blabbers. I give him a weak smile and then the nurse turns to me and asks an extraordinary question.
‘Alicia, what did you dream about..?’
I stop and think, and then I explain how my home had changed!
‘Only, it didn’t feel like a dream’ I finished.
The nurse smiled.
‘We have been monitoring your brain activity throughout the last 24 hours. You have been quite a busy girl in your coma! It would seem you have been experiencing memories that do not belong to you’.
My jaw drops.
‘W-what?’ I stutter,
‘…you mean... I have seen someone else’s visions through my own eyes?’
‘Yes’, beamed the nurse, apparently chuffed with her unusual diagnosis.
‘You appear to have developed some psychic abilities...’