Part 1

Editorial comment

The information presented in this book is a compilation of court documents, obtained by judicial order during legal processes, as well as interviews of the participants who would give them. The intent of this book is to reveal to the public the kind of details that would quell rumors and fake news surrounding Bobby Wilson and the controversy that currently whirls around him. The government has gone to extreme lengths to attempt to subvert his legal rights, and the public is always ready to convict in absentia any person whose name and photograph is flashed on the screen. It is also for reasons of privacy that the editor’s name appears on this book in place of the author’s name. The author, as referred to numerous times in the book, has been given an altered name to protect her identity. In fact, all the names have been changed, except that of Bobby Wilson.

There are redactions throughout this volume. Those are the result of what the government won in the case that followed Mr. Wilson’s arrest and (unlawful) imprisonment. It was the government’s position that the information being redacted was of national security importance, and therefore needed to be kept secret, to prevent foreign agents from gathering intelligence. The defense determined it wasn’t worth continued adversarial efforts to fight over a few words. It is the editor’s opinion that, since a number of their classified documents were ordered by the court to become de-classified, it seemed reasonable to throw the government lawyers a bone. These redactions are annoying, but do not affect the quality or import of the story this book unfolds.

Because of the unusual manner in which information was compiled, the way in which it will be presented is unusual, as well. Information will be presented in parts, rather than chapters, so that it can be revealed in print in much the same way it was revealed in court and later interviews. This is how the story of Bobby Wilson and his incredible talent/powers/abilities came into public view after having been hidden away for eleven years after they were first discovered.

///CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET///

THIS DOCUMENT MAY NOT BE COPIED OR DISSEMINATED TO ANY ENTITY WITHOUT DIRECT AUTHORIZATION OF THE SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY

Exhibit three: Excerpts from Journal of John Doe, AKA Robert Michael Wilson, read into the transcript of trial, 13th Circuit Court of Appeals of the United States of America, in the case of the Government vs. John Doe:

Tuesday:

Hi. I’m Bobby Wilson, and Sister Olivia says I have to start a journal. This is me, starting my journal. I don’t really know how to write a journal. She explained to me about her diary, or the diary she had when she was a girl my age. I guess she doesn’t have it anymore. She didn’t say what happened to it, but what good is it to write everything down if you don’t keep the book it’s in?

Anyway, Sister Olivia says there’s no right or wrong way to do this, so I’m just going to write stuff down. She says she has to read it, to make sure that everything I told her is in it. Everything I tell her is in it. She said other people will read it some day, but she didn’t say why. I think I know why. It’s because I’m different. I can do stuff.

I guess I should start with Sister Olivia. She’s my teacher, now. I’ve had lots of them before this. I’ve lived at the convent for as long as I can remember. I remember my dad, but not very well. He wore glasses, and had a beard that only covered his chin and was pointed. And he loved cottage cheese. I remember that. There were always tubs of cottage cheese in the fridge, and I could open one and eat out of it any time I wanted to. I remember where he worked, and the pretty lady there I liked. But that’s about it, as far as my father goes.

I’m seventeen, now, so it’s been eleven years since my dad died. All I know is there was some kind of accident and the pretty lady took care of me until I came to the convent. I remember her better than my dad, except I can’t remember her name. She held me and cried when she said my dad couldn’t come see me anymore. And she brought me to the convent at [redacted]. I’ve lived here ever since. I go to school here and everything. I asked once why I can’t just go to the public school in town, like everybody else, but Mother Superior Mary says my dad stipulated I had to be schooled in this very convent, if something happened to him. She says she doesn’t know why he picked this one. Nobody else I ever talked to knows, either.

The convent is in [redacted], which seems like a nice place to me, though Sister Olivia says it’s a podunk town, halfway to bum-tick, nowhere. I always see her mind smile when she says that.

I guess that brings us to why I’m supposed to be writing a journal to begin with.

I’m seventeen, but Sister Olivia says my emotional, educational age is a lot younger. That’s one of the purposes of this journal, to help me figure things out that I should already know, but don’t.

The biggest reason for all this, though, is that I have what Sister Olivia is calling “The seventh sense.” She made that up, but it seems like a good enough name to me. I thought everybody had it until Sister Olivia found out I had it. It’s hard to describe, and Sister Olivia and I have talked about it a lot, which is why she said I should start writing it all down. She thinks that some day a bunch of scientists will want to study me. I think that’s silly, but she seems convinced. I also see her brain frown when she talks about that, like she’s worried.

So instead of trying to define the seventh sense, I’ll just tell you the stuff it does. That’s why Sister Olivia wants me to write a journal. To try to explain what I can do.

It started when I was little, right after I came to the convent. I remember there was a dog, chasing a rabbit, and I could feel that the rabbit was terrified and the dog was elated. I didn’t know those words, back then, but I felt those things inside me. The rabbit ducked through some hedges and the dog couldn’t follow. At that point, I felt the rabbit change from terrified to relieved, and the dog changed from elated to frustrated. Again, these are terms I learned later on, which describe what I was feeling in those animals’ brains. The funny thing was that, within a minute at most, what I felt in both animals’ brains was ... nothing. They were just animals again, and not sending out any signals at all.

I didn’t say anything to anybody about this. That’s because I thought everybody could hear animals’ brains like that.

I found, as the years passed, that every once in a while I could “hear” what was going on in other brains. Sometimes it was like the rabbit and the dog, but usually it was with people. Especially if somebody was really mad, I could hear them being angry in their brain. But that was just sometimes. If I could see them, I could see what color their brain was, and I knew what some of the colors meant. Sister Olivia says it sounds creepy, but it was kind of like I could see through their skull and see a mass of color. Again, I didn’t think too much about it because I thought everybody could see/feel/hear it like I did.

By the time I was ten or eleven I discovered something else I could do, and this time I knew it was unusual. I could make little things move around just by thinking about it. The first time was when I had just laid down on my pallet to read and left my cup of water on the table beside the door to my cell. I was disgusted that I’d have to get back up and go get it and I sort of “reached for it” in my mind and the cup tipped over.

Nobody was more shocked than I was, let me tell you. I mean there was nobody else there, but if there had been, I would have been more shocked than them. I say more shocked, because they wouldn’t have known who did it.

But I knew it was me, so I got up and set the cup upright again and went back to my pallet and laid back down. I tried to reach for it in my mind again, but nothing happened. At first I was freaked out, because I knew I had knocked that cup over, but I couldn’t do it again. Then I got mad and the cup wobbled, and that freaked me out.

I was smart enough to figure out that the first time, I’d been disgusted, and the second time I’d been angry. So it had something to do with emotion. That was why I couldn’t “just do it.” I could do things while I was feeling some strong emotion, but not when everything was ‘normal’.

Wednesday:

Sister Olivia read what I wrote yesterday and says I have to explain things better. For example, she says regular people don’t sleep on pallets or live in cells, and that when people read this in the future, they won’t understand. So she says I have to explain more. Or maybe better.

Before my father died, he wrote a will. In his will he said that if I was a minor when he died, I had to be raised and educated at the St. [redacted] convent specifically, and nowhere else. I guess he had life insurance and it was to go to the church if I was a minor, to pay for my upbringing. Why he picked St. [redacted] convent wasn’t explained. This convent, however, was not designed for raising children, so I had to live in the same conditions as the sisters lived. Each Sister had her own room, or “cell” and because trials and tribulations are good for the soul, they don’t have a lot of frills ... like what Sister Olivia says are beds with soft mattresses and things like that.

So I live like a nun. Big whoop. Since I have no idea how other people live, I guess I’m not missing much. Though a soft mattress does sound kind of interesting.

So if I use what Sister Olivia calls “institutional language” just think about nuns in a convent and I guess it will make more sense.

Speaking of “institutional,” while the convent wasn’t designed to raise kids, it was designed for them to live at temporarily. St. [redacted] convent operates a shelter for homeless and abused women. If a woman is hiding from a man, she and any children she’s also hiding from the man can come to the shelter and stay in safety until a more permanent solution can be found. That usually only takes a month or so at the most. St. [redacted] is networked in with similar operations in other towns and other states, so a woman can be offered a lot more options than she thought she would have when she came there.

While children are here, they go to “school” so they don’t get behind in their studies. Those are the same classes I’m in. The difference is that, while all those kids met “Bobby, who is living here temporarily,” and then went on to live somewhere else, “Bobby, who was living there temporarily,” kept living there temporarily. That’s because my father’s will stipulated that I had to be in the care of St. [redacted] until I was eighteen, and then had to stay there three and a half more years before I could be given the key to a safety deposit box in the People’s State Bank of [redacted] on my twenty-first birthday.

I just found out about the safety deposit box. Sister Olivia just told me. Nobody knows what’s in it, or at least nobody is willing to admit they know. It’s all very hush-hush. So is the fact that Sister Olivia is assigned to me all the time, now and is my only teacher. Mother Superior Mary has been told everything that Sister Olivia found out about me. Sister Olivia says that the big argument now is whether to bring a priest in on things or not. On one side of the argument, my father’s will specifies that my care and education will come specifically from the St. [redacted] convent, which does not have a priest on staff. The convent is associated with St. [redacted] church, of course, where there are two priests, but of course, neither of them is under the mother superior, so they’re not technically convent staff. The other side of the argument says that demonic forces may be at work, in which case only a priest can do what is necessary to protect everyone from me and save my soul. I don’t feel possessed, but Sister Olivia says nobody ever does.

Sister Olivia tells me she has convinced the Mother Superior that my soul is fine and that she can control me. Personally I think Mother Superior has assigned me to Sister Olivia because she’s not a nun, yet, and if it all goes bad, she can blame it on a novice. (Sorry, Sister, that’s just what I think.)

That’s silly, though. I’m not going to hurt anybody. Why would I ever want to hurt anybody?

Thursday:

I don’t know why this is being called my journal, if Sister Olivia is going to keep telling me what to write in it.

She says I shouldn’t mention her at all, but that’s too bad. She’s too important to the story to leave out of it. You’ll just have to deal with it, Sister.

I mentioned yesterday she’s actually a Novice, which means she’s not technically a nun, yet. She’s the first one of those I ever met and she explained that the novitiate is the period of training and preparation that a prospective nun goes through prior to taking vows of obedience. They do this in order to figure out if they’re being called by God to a life of such religious vows. It usually includes times of intense study, prayer, living in community, studying the vowed life, deepening one’s relationship with God, and deepening one’s self-awareness. It is a time of creating a new way of living in the world. I could write a book about nuns in general (and now the novitiate) because I’ve lived with them and watched them for the last eleven years.

If you ask a regular person, she’ll say she prays, but that God doesn’t answer her prayers. I hear women say that at the shelter all the time. A nun would tell you they aren’t really listening, and that sometimes God takes a while to get around to answering prayers. Some would tell you it takes time to recognize that he has answered them. So they spend time listening and waiting. Since they live in a convent, they have the time.

Sister Olivia used to be in the Army, and I guess she was a hot shot or something. I don’t know what they call them in the Army. I talked to some kids one time who were staying here and they told me about SEALs, who I guess found this big terrorist guy in Pakistan and killed him. They thought I was crazy because I’d never heard of this terrorist guy before, but Sister Olivia says that’s only because I have never gotten to watch TV or listen to the news. There is a TV in the shelter, but I’m not allowed to just sit and watch it. The sisters always said there was nothing on there I needed to see.

Anyway, I only know about Sister Olivia being in the Army because that’s how she found out what I can do. She came here a year ago and right away she felt different than the others. It’s hard to describe it because I’ve been aware of all this my whole life, and thought it was nothing special. I thought everybody could see what I see, and do what I do.

The other sisters were sad sometimes. That was normal. Everybody I ever met gets sad at one time or another. When I pay attention, two things happen. I “see things” and “feel things.” “Sad” looks like a particular color to me. It isn’t a color with any other name, like orange, or red or yellow. There’s nothing in the natural world that’s that color. It’s the same with anger and love and some other colors I haven’t figured out what they mean, yet. The emotions have their own special colors, or kinds of light or something. Anyway, the women who came to the shelter had colors mixed that I learned meant sadness and fear. I have a theory about a color I think might mean “hopeless” because a lot of them have that color when they get here, but then it goes away when they leave. It’s hard to tell, because the fear sometimes goes away, too. The sadness fades, but is never gone. Sadness stains the soul like tea stains a white undershirt.

Sister Olivia thinks that’s what I’m seeing - the soul. She asked me if it looks like the auras around Jesus and Mary in paintings at the convent, but it’s not like that. But she thinks I’m seeing people’s souls. I’m not so sure about that. I don’t think souls get angry or happy. At least not the kind of soul the nuns have taught me about since I got here.

Friday:

I probably shouldn’t write this, because Sister Olivia’s going to read it, but when she got here (to the convent) I was interested in her for another reason than because of the amount of sadness that stained her brain. She was also really pretty. I mean pretty like the women I see in some of the magazines lying around in the shelter.

Some of the kids I met said they had been to sex education class in school. I never had any kind of formal, sanctioned sex education. That didn’t mean I was ignorant about sex. Actually, I probably was (am?) ignorant about sex, but I never thought about that before this. I had gleaned little tidbits from kids who stayed in the shelter with their moms. Nuns have some kind of weird power that tells them you and some kid are talking about sex, because whenever I was talking to a boy about that, a nun showed up and asked us what we were doing. It’s like they have radar. I even asked Sister Olivia about it, but she says I’m imagining things. Anyway, I knew babies came from sex and that the chest area of a woman was used to feed babies. Some of the women who stayed in the shelter breastfed their babies. Of course I never actually saw them doing that, but I knew it happened because I was forbidden to “bother” a woman while she was doing it. I also knew that there was something between a woman’s legs that had to do with sex, something one boy had called a ‘pussy’, though that didn’t make any sense at all. The only pussies I knew anything about were the cats at the convent. The sisters called them “pussy, pussy, pussy” when they were offering them food.

I knew about erections, and what they meant. The erection fertilizes the woman somehow. I couldn’t imagine how that happened, but I knew, on a scholastic plane that was what it was for. Sister Deliah taught a class one day where she talked about how the frog mamma lays eggs, and the frog daddy squirts his sperm on them to fertilize them. The only thing my penis squirts is pee, but I was pretty sure you didn’t pee on a woman to make a baby. And I’ve found lots of frogs in the garden, but none of them ever had an erection. Anyway, I got educated by the nuns on erections. I was told they were bad and to talk to a priest about them. And when I saw Sister Olivia the first time, I got an erection. I still get them when I’m around her sometimes. And yes, Sister (since I know you’re reading this) I do tell the priest, during confession, about the ones I get because of you.

In my own defense, the first time I confessed and told the priest I’d gotten an erection, he said, “That’s all?” like he expected there to be more, somehow. A different priest asked me who I got them about, but then said, “Never mind. It’s not important.” My penance for those is usually to volunteer an hour in the shelter, which is something all the priests know I do anyway. So I’ve never really been “punished” for having an erection, even though some of the nuns have said I should be.

So I looked at Sister Olivia as often as I could, because she was just so pretty. I never spent any time with her, back then, other than to help her with some task or whatever. She did lots of the heavy work because she had more muscle than your average Sister. I saw her in a T shirt one time when she was working in the garden and was a little envious of how good a shape she was in. I tended toward the skinny, not-so-buff kind of build. Her T shirt was tight and her breasts were kind of sticking out. I figured Sister Olivia would have no problem feeding babies. She had pretty big breasts.

Her arms were muscular and she just looked healthy, or something. I didn’t know anything about her then, like how in the Army, she’d been on twenty-five mile hikes, carrying all this heavy equipment and stuff like that. All I knew about her was that she had been there about six months and hardly ever talked to anybody. Some of the sisters are like that. It’s not exactly a vow of silence. They just want to spend as much time thinking and reflecting as possible, so they avoid getting into discussions. Her face looked like Mother Mary’s, kind of hard, like she was slightly angry. She didn’t smile very much. Some sisters did, and I even heard some of them laugh out loud before, though that was frowned on for some reason.

The reason that particular day is special isn’t because I got an erection for her, but because her sadness color was almost overwhelming that day.

So I “hugged” her.

I’ll try to explain. Everybody knows what a regular hug is, so that’s the word I’m using. And everybody knows how good it feels to get a hug, whether you’re sad or not. But hugs are extra good when you are sad. There were lots of hugs going on in the shelter part of the convent. The nuns hugged the women, and the kids, and the moms hugged the kids and I could see immediately that it affected the colors of the brains. The sadness colors got lighter, and the happiness colors got a little brighter. And the longer a woman stayed in the shelter, the more affected she was by the hugs. I could feel the sadness get less, too.

Of course I couldn’t hug these women like the nuns did. I wanted to, and I even did a couple of times when I was little, but I got shooed away by a nun and told not to bother the woman.

So I found another way to “hug” someone who was sad. I reached to the colors, and made the sad color fade, while making the happy color get brighter. Sister Olivia calls it “painting” because of how I explained it to her, and I guess that’s as good an analogy as any, but I call this kind of interaction “Hugging.” I also hug people with my arms, but if I write about the mental kind I’ll put quotes around it so as to be clear.

And on that day, I gave Sister Olivia a really good “hug”. It was so good, in fact, that she “felt” it. I mean she stood up and looked around, and then reached one hand to her head. I didn’t think too much about that. I did this kind of thing all the time. It made people happier and less sad, and that made them more fun to be around. Nobody had ever told me they could feel it happening, though.

I could do other things, too. Like one time I was talking to a girl in the shelter. Her name was Cathy and she was pretty, too. Her mom had come to the shelter the night before and was all beat up. Cathy had a brother who was older than she was - she was about my age - and while I was talking to her he came over and told me to leave her alone. I said I wasn’t bothering her and he wanted to fight. A lot of the boys in the shelter want to fight for some reason, and I learned a long time ago what “aggression” looks like in a brain. What was harder was learning what color to “paint” it with. I got pushed around a lot, until I realized a lot of the older nuns had a color few other people had. It was instinct, one time, to use that color and it worked.

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The Seventh Sense

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