Prologue
Song: Anthem of the Angels by Breaking Benjamin

Like everything else, pain has a temperature. It's a heat, an energy, that emanates from the gut of someone. If you've ever seen a person through one of those heat sensors, then you know what I'm talking about. That's kinda what it looks like when I have the flashes, blotches of color. It's red in the middle, slowly spreading out, cooler around the edges, in blues and greens. The more red there is, the more I know they hurt. The type of pain matters too. For example, physical pain looks nothing like emotional pain. Emotional pain is darker, and is usually much more intense. It doesn't cool off as easily, or as quickly. Sometimes it's the only color there is.

I've always had the flashes, as did my mom, and her mom, and probably hers; it’s passed through mothers, and my mom didn’t have a daughter. As far as I know, I’m the only guy who’s ever had this ability, which only makes me feel more alone. I've spent most of my life trying to get rid of the flashes or ignore them; it's not a gift. It's a curse that eventually put my mother in a mental institution.

I don't know what separates those I can see from those who look just like everyone else, except for the fact that I dream about them first. I dream about their darkest secrets, their worst memories, then I actually see their pain, just for a few seconds when I'm close to them. A flash.

There are some people I don't want to know about, mostly the people I'm closest to. My best friends, my dad. It's not easy knowing someone's darkest secrets and being able to see how much they're hurting. Do you say something to them? Do you try to comfort them, confront them? Solve their problem? Or do you just pretend with them that everything is fine? Most people prefer to pretend. Most people look just like everyone else on the outside. It would be a lot easier if I could just believe they really are fine, but I don't have that option, just like I don't have the option of healing them.

I didn't want to know about her. I wanted to believe she was fine, as perfect as she looked, as innocent as her voice when she sang at the Friday night shows. I wanted to keep it surface, have a real relationship with her that wasn't dictated by her suffering. But it's not a choice. Once I see it, once I dream about their worst memories, I can never forget.

"Danny, you don't have to save me," she would murmur, the scent of her hair filling me up as she gently kissed my forehead.

Oh, but I had to try. I had to try.