Untouchable

A glass falls. It starts with an instinctual clenching of the fists. A popping of the knuckles. A slight twitch in the neck and flickering of the eyes. Weird how the eyes seem to be last. I suppose eye sight can't keep up with the rest of the reflexes. The glass tumbles through the air like a balloon travelling on its final remnants of helium. If only you could just let your arm fly out and stop it. But instead you watch it dance its spiralling path to the floor and explode into a thousand glittering shards.

And this happens at least on average of one hundred times a day. Your instincts and reflexes roaring at you to leap out and save countless dinnerware, hot cups of coffee, and ice cream scoops. It's only after a few broken bones, rhumetoid arthritis contorting your body, and a thousand hours of meditation tapes that you are able to stifle those impulses with just a flexing of all your muscles in unison and a grinding of the teeth. After a year or so you forget to watch these seemingly endless moments of personal disaster.

You remain low-key and withdrawn. Living entire lifetimes in your head as life crawls by. Your subtle tremors help you keep your distance physically from the people around you. You shirk from a girl's touch. Under a bully's shove you throw yourself backwards, a mere inch from his touch. No punch has ever been thrown that you didn't know was coming.

After years of dulling your senses the snap back into hyperspeed creates an instant migraine that feels like your brains were blown out the back of your head. The fist that is six inches from your face and closing, despite the fact that you're travelling backwards as fast as you can possibly move, is incomprehensible. You didn't even see it coming. So much for being untouchable.