Empathy Girl Must Die

You’d think they’d promote me like Beyoncé. But they’d rather I be dead ‘n’ gone.

No, man. Don’t go! Please stay. I don’t get much company and never anyone my age.

Nah. I won’t hurtcha. That’s for sure. Look at these little arms. Li’l chicken wings. That’s what my brother calls ‘em.

I know you think you know why I’m here - but do you really know why I’m here? I mean really?

A WITCH? You’ve seriously got to be kidding me. Good lord! That’s really what they say? Dang! That’s cold!

Well, when they’re talking to me, they say I have a gift. G-I-F-T. But you ain’t heard that, I bet?

Hey, I just noticed. Your English is sharp! Aren’t you Italian like everybody else around here?

Oh. I see. That’s cool. I never met anyone from there. So, what’s your name?

Paolo, huh? Paolo! That’s cool. I’m Daisy. Daisy Johnson. Nice to make your acquaintance.

Ok, so you want to know why all this is this, right?! Man, let me take it from the top for the 10,000^th time. I’ll be quick cause they ain’t gonna let you stay long, and I don’t want you to get in no trouble.

So, I was born in Commerce. Commerce, Texas. It’s a little town, kinda close to Dallas. My people have lived there, well, for as long as I know. Anyway, when I was 6, we had this crazy storm in Commerce. I don’t remember much about it, really, but I do remember it was a wild … like outta the Wizard of Oz wild … you know that big storm at the beginning when everything’s all black and white.

Well, after the storm, folks started noticing that I was a little, well, different. I sorta had a gift. I first used it on daddy when he was real mad at momma. He calmed down right quick. I never plan to use the gift. It just sort of happens. But everyone knew about it. My cousins kept pushing that Jimmy Bledsoe in front of me whenever he was being ornery. I got so sick of making that boy treat people better. I don’t know why he couldn’t learn.

Oh, no. My gift don’t hurt nobody. Nobody at all. I just have a gift for making them see the pain they’ve caused others. Most people do the right thing after that. Don’t ask me how I do it. I have no idea. Ask that storm, I guess.

Ok. So, there I was a sophomore in high school. I played the flute in the Tigers marching band. That’s our team name. I know they don’t do high school teams over here. Anyway, somehow my school gets this invitation to perform at some big event in Rome … Expo something something. But we have to pay our way over here. Man, did we wash the cars and sell cookies. Eventually a local car dealer gave us a big donation.

We all packed up and headed to Europe. I even got a passport. First one in my family ever. We all flew over here. Man, did we party! That was fun! Anyway, we were all lined up ready to perform at this Expo something something. We were next to some kids from Belgium, and another group from Korea. We were supposed to be in Rome but we were actually in Vatican City I came to find out.

Ok. So, I’m sure you remember hearing about what happened next, but they cut out my part completely. We could see the Expo folks, some politicians, and the Pope waving their hands way off in the distance as the first band passed by. Like outta nowhere, this truck comes around a corner, and runs right over maybe 10 people.

These scary guys jump out. They’ve got machine guns, knives and bombs. They’re shootin’ everybody. I see Jimmy Rodriguez our drum major cut in two. I mean cut in two. We’d been in school forever. I must have known that boy since he was 10. I saw Karen Schmidt fall next. Remember I said that a local car dealer gave a big donation so we could come over here. Well, that was her daddy. There were others, too.

People were dying all around us. Kids from my school. Belgians. Koreans. Old folks from the crowd. Babies. No group left out.

That’s when my gift flashed on. It hadn’t flashed on like that before. Hadn’t ever flashed, actually. But it flashed. Man, did it flash.

Those evil men just stopped in their tracks. Some of them dropped their guns. I heard them crying. Crying with shame. One of them shot himself. But I didn’t make him do that. It must have just been his reaction to feeling the pain he had caused. I guess he couldn’t handle it. I can see why.

About then these security guards showed up. Someone told me they’re called the Swiss Guards. Well, they started shootin’ and all those guys died.

But my gift was kinda in overdrive. Those Swiss Guards dropped their guns, too, and started crying. Everyone I could see was crying. About something.

I’ve seen a video of me standing there, holdin’ my little flute all still, band cap knocked to the side, crying Swiss Guards, bodies and blood everywhere, and everyone else either lying on the ground or running away crying. They never showed that video on the news.

I just wanted to sneak back to Commerce and pull the covers way over my head, but everybody knew I had done something. Those Swiss Guards looked at me. My bandmates cried out my name. Those dang Belgians and Koreans were screaming stuff, too, and pointin’ at me. Everyone was lookin’ at me.

Next thing I knew, I was taken to some police headquarters for questioning. But I had fixed everything and made it all better, so why ask questions?

But my gift was still in overdrive. I couldn’t turn it off. No matter how hard I tried.

Seems funny now, but most folks I met just started crying and then hugged someone or got on the phone to a loved one. I don’t really know Italian, but I think I now know the words for love, please, and forgive me. I heard those words so many times that afternoon. But I got no idea what they all wanted forgiveness for. I guess everybody’s done something to somebody else.

Well, I guess it don’t come as no shock. If you’re in a Vatican police station, and you seem to have a crazy special power, someone’s eventually gonna call a preacher. It is the Vatican after all.

We ain’t Catholic back home. Got no problem with them. I just don’t know what all their fancy outfits mean. I think I was visited by a priest first, then a cardinal, then a bishop. But maybe I have that order wrong. I don’t know. All I know is that just a couple of hours after it happened, they were taking me to see the Pope.

Funny. But those Swiss Guards were loaded for bear. I’m not sure what they thought a skinny little 16-year-old gal from Commerce, Texas in a messy band uniform was going to do to the Pope. They even took my flute away. At the time nothin’ seemed funny. But it was damned funny if you think about it.

The Pope was nice. He was real nice. I can see how he got the job. But it was weird. He kept asking me – but not straight out – if I was an angel or something. I stole way too much candy from Mr. Ralph’s fillin’ station to be much of an angel, and I told him so. He let out a big belly laugh, and then he got serious again.

He asked me to use my gift on him. I asked him if he was sure he really wanted that. I heard a click somewhere way back of my ear. My daddy has a powerful huntin’ rifle, and I know I was a wink away from having my brains splattered all over the Pope’s carpet. It was a pretty carpet, too.

He told me he was sure. So, I did what I could with my gift. He stirred for a second in his chair. Then he started crying. I told him I was sorry. He said that he was the one who was sorry and that nothin’ was my fault. In fact, he thanked me. I still have no idea what made him cry. Then he thanked me for what I did during the attack. He said I was very brave. That was the first time anyone thanked me. Actually, I think it was the only time.

The next thing he said scared the shit out of me. Oops. Sorry. He is the Pope. Anyway, I got a serious, serious chill up my spine when he asked me the next question.

He asked me if I knew that I wasn’t safe.

Safe? You mean from all those crazy guys? But they’re all dead.

Oh no, he said. From every government in the world, especially yours, I think.

We had just finished reading Miss Evers’ Boys in school, and I kinda had an idea what he meant. Now, I was scared. Really scared. What did I ever do to anybody?

“Would you like to be in the protective custody of the Holy See, Miss Johnson?”

Some red-suited dudes behind him raised their voices, but he waved them away, saying, “We have a duty, brothers.”

I didn’t quite know what I was agreeing to, but I could tell he knew lots of things that I didn’t know. And I was beginning to understand that my gift was a big, big problem. I'm sorry. I guess.

So, that’s when it all started. The Americans demanded that I come back. (I’m not sure they wanted all of me back. Certain parts only would do just fine, I bet.) I heard that a bunch of governments wanted me killed. Put to sleep like a rabid dog. Then other religious leaders started complaining, too. They wanted me dead or they wanted to own a piece of me. The Pope eventually allowed them to send representatives.

Most of them are weird. I mean weird. No. Cold. Well, they don’t seem like preachers. They seem more like scientists. Mad scientists. But I like the Buddhist guy. He’s funny and he makes me think, and Father Benedict is kind.

Superhero? You’re funny, Paolo.

A superhero name? Seriously?

Ok, to be clear, I’m no Catholic hero either. Some professor in Germany at some priest school wrote a big article about how I undermined free will, made a mockery of salvation, and might as well have come from the devil as from Commerce, Texas.

I guess that professor guy never saw his friends gettin’ killed before. I’m sorry, I guess, that I have one of Jesus’ gifts, but I didn’t steal it from him. Blame that storm.

So, my life seems to depend on some big debate among a bunch of smart dudes who I’ve never met and who don’t know me -- at all. Well, except for one little thing about me.

Eventually, they put me here. I didn’t realize the Pope had so many nice houses. Oh, sorry, villas. Of course, I can’t leave. But those tutors they’ve given me are really good. I had no idea how bad my old school was. Man, I got A’s and B’s at my old school, but when they started tutoring me here, I had to go back two grades. I know folks back home want good schools. I don’t understand why they don’t get ‘em.

Hey, Paolo, I just thought of a superhero name for you. I’ve been taking a Latin class with Father Benedict. So, I’m learning something really new. I’ve also seen some documents that I think are talkin’ about me, and I think they call me something like et dederit compassio veraque. Not sure if I said that right.

So, you want a superhero name? Call me “VeraQ”. That’s way more bling than Daisy Johnson!

Oh, you get it now, right? I make folks feel the pain they’ve caused other people, which makes most of them want to stop causing that pain. Somehow this gift threatens the world. Or at least the folks who run it. Weird, right?

I didn’t get it at first. But now I do. Well, kinda. Much as anyone could, I guess. If I busted ass and sent dudes up yonder, I’d be a superstar. I’d be 00J. Johnson. Daisy Johnson. But I don’t hurt nobody. I make the desire to hurt stop – and that makes me a big threat. Ain’t that sad?

I sure they’ll eventually get around to plantin’ me in the garden or looking the other way while some dude slips a pill in my juice. That old Pope won’t live forever, and I’m not sure he calls the shots for everything anyway. I gotta get out of here, man. So, Paulo, wanna help me bust out?