[ WP ] You possess an ability to turn off one or more of your senses to heighten the others . Today is the day you make a mistake .

I had the best meal of my life in a McDonald's at the age of ten. My father had finished work early, which was an occasion so rare in my mind it was cause for celebration- surely on par with Christmas, birthdays and the last day of school before summer. He came home to me and my older brother, Jack, sitting anxiously on the front porch of our little house, and before we even saw him come round the corner we heard the squeak of his shoes behind the bushes and sprinted as fast as we could to hug him. I never passed up an opportunity to hug my father. I missed my mother badly and still cried at night sometimes even though I did n't remember her very well, except for her eyes and her hair and her smell. I gave my father all the hugs I would have given her. Jack cried too, when he thought I was asleep, and once I found him pulling a piece of glass he had found outside across his arm. He quickly dropped it when I saw him and told me he was just toughening himself up for the army, and not to tell our father because he would n't understand and would be angry. I did n't tell; he was my big brother, after all. Jack was thirteen then, and those days when he ran into my father he knocked him back a little. I scrambled up the sheer face of his old suit, using whatever I could for purchase until I was cradled happily in his arms. Even though he was getting old and we were too heavy for him he still smiled and kissed us and I thought he must be the strongest man in the world. 
 
 Jack made sure I finished all my chores in advance and we were both dressed and ready to spend the afternoon with my father. When he had come in and had a drink of water like he always did he announced we were going to McDonalds that night. I was disappointed because I did n't like Mcdonald's very much, and was looking forward to spending time at home with him. But I did n't let him see I was disappointed because I knew he wanted us to be pleased with his surprise and I did n't want to hurt him. I buried my face in his neck, feeling the bristles scratch my cheeks, and told him how excited I was for the treat. 
 
 In those days I rode my bike everywhere. I was almost too big for it; the paint had flaked off so the brownish rust was more visible than the red it had once been. My friends teased me for riding it. It was a birthday present from my parents when my mother was still here, so I did n't care. After we put on our shoes I grabbed the bike from the side of the house ( I never locked it up like my friends did with theirs, no one would want to steal it ) and wheeled it round the front. I brought a jumper in case it was cold coming home, and draped it over the handlebars. We went down the road together. 
 
 Jack talked with my father the whole way. I wanted to talk too but Jack was louder than me and cut me off, so after a few attempts I decided to do tricks for my father to see. I dropped back a little, letting them move ahead, and then pedalled hard, gaining speed. Their backs came closer, and then I was past them, and I was going faster all the time. My father shouted something to me, and as I turned back to look at him the bike stopped still beneath me and I was jerked into the air like a fish on a line. The world turned upside down and everything went dark for a while. 
 
 The first thing I saw when I came to was my father's face, creased with worry. After a few moments I remembered what had happened. I'm sorry, I told him. I did n't mean to frighten you. I was just doing a trick. His features softened and he hugged me. Over his shoulder I saw Jack standing by my bike, his worry mingled annoyance that I had interrupted his story. The bike did n't look any more battered than it usually did, but I saw my jumper tangled and torn in the front wheel. It must have slipped down from the handlebars and stopped the wheel, throwing me over the front. 
 
 My father was asking me if I was alright; I told him I was. He helped me to my feet and was looking at my head. After he was satisfied he took my hand and asked Jack to wheel my bike, and we decided to keep going to McDonalds. There was a burnt taste in my mouth. I was looking forward to some cola to take it away. 
 
 Jack left my bike outside and we went and sat down at a table after my father swept the food from the seats. He had inspected the wheel and told me the bike was fine, but my favourite jumper would be ruined. Seeing I was sad he took his old leather jacket off, draped it round my shoulders and ruffled my hair. It sank down past my knees and my hands were lost in the sleeves, but it was the best consolation he could have given me, and I beamed until the food came. While my brother stuffed as many fries as he could fit into his mouth, I picked up my cheeseburger and closed my eyes, imagining that I was my dad in his leather jacket. I wondered what being a grown up was like, and I wondered if I would like it. My eyes still closed, I took a bite. 
 
 It felt as if a firecracker had gone off in my mouth. Flavours ricocheted around my mouth; saliva gushed forth; my tongue was burning in ecstasy. I could taste every single ingredient that had gone into the burger; the meat, the cheese, even the roll itself was the most succulent, the most delectable, the most exquisite I had ever tasted. I gulped down my mouthful and, eyes wide, took another bite. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 Another; still nothing. Another again. I was beginning to think I had imagined it before a thought occurred to me. I closed my eyes and took another bite. 
 
 Over the course of the weeks and months that followed, I worked out the extent of my newfound ability. I did n't know what had caused it at the time; now I believe it must have been the accident on my bike in the road. What I DID know was that if I closed my eyes, my other senses would sharpen exponentially. I would not only taste better, but hear things from far away; smell the whole gamut of aromas that permeated every place I found myself, and be able to distinguish one from another. What's more, I learned to'turn off' one of my senses through force of will- to become deafer, or blinder, or sacrifice my sense of smell- in order to strengthen the others. In the years after that period of trial and error I pursued a career as a food critic. I stunned the culinary world with my abilities, to pinpoint every ingredient that had gone into a dish, and exactly how to improve it. Restaurants hired me to improve their recipes; I was a guest on talk shows; I wrote a book. Never did I tell anyone of my secret. Not my father, and not Jack. 
 
 As my life seemed only to improve year after year, Jack's seemed to spiral ever downwards. Where I was seemingly inundated with sharper perceptions of reality, his were apparently dulled. He began to experiment with drugs soon after my father died. I was embarrassed to continually bail him out of jail. Why was he such a burden? Did he not know that I had my own problems, that I could n't take responsibility for his as well? He phoned me day and night; sometimes he told me he would commit suicide. After the first few times he told me that I found myself unaffected by his words. I knew he never would, but I gave him the attention he wanted. He was my big brother, after all. 
 
 One afternoon, I found myself in front of my television. It was the first episode of my new TV show, and I had planned to watch it alone at home. I was excited; I had been on television, but this was my very own program, the result of months of late nights and headaches and tears of frustration. I sat forward, nervous, keeping all the senses level, counting down the minutes until opening credits. 
 
 The phone rang. 
 
 I ignored it. It rang again. After the third time I went back to my kitchen and picked it up. The television was visible, but far away, and I could n't make out was was happening properly. I asked who it was, knowing the answer; my brother told me. This was it, he said; he could n't go on any longer. He needed to talk to me, I was the only one who could help him. Did n't I remember how he used to take care of me? Did n't I remember all the times he helped me with my homework and beat up George Ellison when he stole my shoes and put plasters on my hands when I fell off my bike? He was in a bad way now, and he needed me. 
 
 I had heard it before. If I had heeded him once, I did not then. I stayed on the line, but turned down my hearing a little to increase my visual capabilities. The opening credits of my show leaped out at me immediately and my heart skipped a beat. Jack was still talking on the phone- he was crying now. After a quick debate in my head, I dulled my hearing even more. He would n't mind- I would stay on the line and talk to him after the show was finished. It was only half an hour. He would probably talk the whole half hour anyway. He would n't even notice I was n't listening. 
 
 By that point Jack was a dull buzz in the background; I could n't distinguish any words from that buzz. The television was a sharp as real life. I turned on subtitles with the remote and reached for a beer from the kitchen counter, grinning to myself. I grinned a lot during that half an hour, and I only stopped when it was over and my senses went back to normal and I realised the line was dead. Seventeen minutes later I found out my brother was, too. 
 
 Numbness gave way to pain. I carried my pain inside me like a torch, wanting it all for myself, wanting to feel it stronger than anything else. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears and a peg on my nose but it did not make the pain any more excruciating like I so desired, like I so deserved. Grief engulfed me and I was lost in it. I let it wash over my heart in waves, and did not want for it to be any other way. I discovered after a while that I had lost my abilities, like one might discover it was raining by glancing out the window. It did not matter. I was inconsolable. He was my big brother, after all.
