She felt too strongly. Almost abnormally. Not just emotions, but physical pain too. Not the pain of burns and cuts, but of those things which never even happened. Every evening while pouring tea into cups, she imagined it scalding her feet and visibly flinched at the pain of it. Her university was notorious for its crows. Whenever she walked from her class to the cafeteria, she observed all the crows, imagined them clawing at her eyes and squeezed her eyes shut because the pain compelled her to. Working with a knife always had her protecting her feet because the pain of a knife landing its point into her foot was too much for her to bear. She was always careful with pencils, making a point of keeping their nibs down, because she had felt the pain of a pencil piercing her eye.
Combing her hair had her imagining it raking through the flesh of her scalp until she physically felt blood dripping down her neck. Even taking her temperature put her through pain. She was always cautious of how much pressure her lips applied on the thermometer, for fear of the burning that the mercury caused in her body.
One night, she dreamt of being shot. Three silver bullets entered neatly above her heart, and exited at the back. When she woke up, she could easily point out the spot where she had been shot. And she could explain the pain. Of each separate bullet.
She felt it all, yet she lived a very normal life. No one could know the fear this girl lived with. She had learned to suppress her pain, she had grown up with it. She was no longer even afraid of it. But it still hurt.
It was funny though, most of this pain seemed to focus on her eyes and feet. Eyes, she believed were windows to the soul. And feet, she was told, was where the soul exited. Maybe the pain wanted her soul.