I've always been able to hear them. Muffled whispers revealing private thoughts of the most depressed among us. "What's the point," one might say. "I'm ending it tonight," said another.

My mother said it ran in the family. That every hundred years or so, a child would be born with the ancient curse. No more than one could be alive at a time, and the chosen in the family had a duty to help the troubled souls.

I took my duty with the utmost of courage and sincerity, determined to make a difference in the world. After all, if I was the only one who could hear the thoughts of the broken, the weak, who else would be there to help them?

I grew into my position quickly and adapted well; mother even said at the young age of 16 I had saved more than anyone in recorded history. "A prodigy among us," my family began calling me. The pride swelled within me, encouraging my actions with a righteous vigor.

I'm relentless now, helping so many as much as I possibly can. I've assisted thousands over the decades I've been around, and I'm terribly effective.

For when I hear their thoughts, all I need to do is utter a few encouraging words in their darkest hour. A quiet whisper or two to sway their decision.

Things like, "what's stopping you?"