She Who Heals
Yes, yes, this is another Heroes original character fic. This one, though, takes place in Atlanta, which should add a neat little flair to the story as a whole. Why? It's my hometown and it's not represented in TV nearly as much as it should be. Well, y'all know the deal: only original characters belong to me, etc. (Maybe a Heroes character or two might show up. Who knows?) Oh, and all the places/people/shows/etc. mentioned here are actual things in Atlanta or pop culture as a whole, so I don't own any of those, either. Whenever someone speaks in another language, because I have no grasp of any language other than English and would have to use Babel Fish, which doesn't give good results, I'll just put it in this.
01: Birth
My alarm clock's green luminescent numbers clicked over to 6:30 AM and the radio switched on to my favorite station, 92.9 Dave FM, in the middle of a Depeche Mode song. I reluctantly threw off my comforter, blue with a cloud pattern, and rolled over so I could get out of my bed and stagger over to my closet. Right as I reached over to turn on my lights, my door opened and my big sister Charlotte poked her head inside. I squinted at the sudden change of light and correctly identified Char's flame-red shock of hair.
"Char?" I asked groggily.
"G'nurgig sahshayne," Charlotte slurred. What the hell did she just say?
"Pardon?" I asked, frowning slightly. Charlotte shrugged and cleared her throat.
"Good morning, sunshine," she said, her speech still sounding odd.
"Char, what's up with how you're talkin'?" I asked. Instead of verbally answering me, Charlotte stuck her tongue out at me, revealing a brand-new silver barbell right smack-dab in the middle of her tongue, surrounded by a red band of irritation.
"Ta-da!" she slurred at me.
"Oh God!" I howled, covering my eyes. Charlotte laughed heartily.
"That look on your face!" Charlotte said through her laughter. "So priceless. Yeah, Big Red pierced it last night. You like? I couldn't feel any pain, probably because of that vodka I had beforehand…" She stumbled out of my doorway, probably headed back to her room. Why was she awake at 6:30? She usually didn't emerge from bed until Jerry Springer was on.
Man, I hate tongue piercings.
Charlotte is the queen of piercings, however. Do you remember that scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent is waiting to buy some heroin and talks to the woman who has, like, 17 piercings? I think Char has 18. She has three sets in her earlobes, one in each cartilage, one in her right eyebrow, one in her nose, and one in her navel. Now, with the tongue, she has…12. Okay, so maybe I over-exaggerated a little. Char has very high pain tolerance. She also has five intricate, multi-colored tattoos that took many hours and many dollars to complete.
I pulled a T-shirt advertising my old elementary school over my head and shook out my short brown hair before shimmying into one of my favorite pairs of soft blue jeans. As I walked over to my vanity mirror, I slipped into my favorite sneakers and changed the date on my perpetual calendar. I'm so glad it's Friday. I carefully applied a layer of foundation, powder, and very black mascara—my classic school look—and put on the ring I got for my 16th birthday from my dad.
My mom and dad aren't married anymore and haven't been since I was about 12. Now, I just live with my mom and Char in a pretty nice house near my school, Druid Hills. Dad's not too far away, though: he's in Lawrenceville. But that's neither here nor there.
I sat down to read the AJC (that's the Atlanta Journal-Constitution) for a while before I glanced at the clock and realized I needed to pick Angelina up for school. So, I snatched up all my stuff like a crazy woman and hightailed it to my little Honda Civic, bidding a good day to my mom and Char while I ran. Thankfully, Angelina lives nearby and I have a spot in the student parking lot.
"Buon giorno, Phoebe," Angelina said as she eased herself into my well-worn passenger seat. She laughed and threw her long brown hair back from the collar of her hooded jacket.
"Hey to you too, Angie," I replied. "What's with the Italian?"
"I don't know!" Angelina said. "Lately, I've just been speaking different languages. Yesterday, I went off on Bobby for being in my room, but when I was done, he had a confused look on his face. Turned out that I was yelling at him in French the entire time!"
"You don't speak French," I pointed out.
"I know! It's so weird. I wish that I still had Spanish, though. Now, I could probably get a 100!" Angie can make anything funny.
"Wish I spoke French," I muttered as I pulled to a stop in the right turn lane for Haygood Drive.
"Yeah, then you could talk to Dylan," Angie said in sing-song as I felt my cheeks grow hot. Dylan is, quite possibly, the most charming guy in the senior class. He's involved in nearly everything, from student government to the soccer team, and is liked by pretty much everyone in the class of 2007, but I like-like him, if you know what I mean.
"Shut up," I commanded, flicking my turn signal on.
"You shut up," Angie replied in French.
"Dammit! Stop with the French!" I demanded as I made the turn onto Haygood, quickly turning into the little student parking lot, which is far too small to accommodate all the students who want to park. I know many people who are relegated to parking on the nearby residential streets and walking over. I was just lucky enough to get a spot. I pulled into my spot—bordered by a minivan on one side and a Jeep on the other—and gathered my things up again.
"Look, there's Dylan now!" Angie chirped, pointing to Dylan as he got out of his cherry red 350Z. "I'll go tell him that you like him."
"I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good!" I cried, but Angie opened the door and started running over to Dylan's car. She didn't exit the car quite right, though, and her right foot hooked onto the seat belt. She tripped, falling and landing on her hands with a terrible smack noise.
"Owwww! Owowowowowow! Oh, I think I broke my ankle!" Angie wailed, holding her right ankle forlornly, which spattered blood from her scratched-up hands onto her socks.
"Angie! Are you okay? Do you want me to call 911?" I asked, dashing over to Angie's side and touching her shoulder. Oddly, when I touched her shoulder, I felt a slight tingle in my hand. Angie's grip on her ankle loosened and she looked confused.
"Yeah, I am okay. It doesn't even hurt anymore," she told me.
"Really?" I asked, frowning in confusion.
"Really." Angie let go of her ankle and looked at her hands, which were now as pristine as they were before she tripped. "What the…?" She trailed off and glanced back up at me, as if I would know why this was happening.
"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Um, the bell's going to ring soon, so let's go," I added sheepishly, slinging my backpack over my shoulders. Angie paused for a moment before nodding and together, we set off towards the steep flight of stairs connecting the student parking lot to the actual campus. On the way, we passed by Dylan. I glanced over at—okay, stared at—him before ascending the stairs. But what's not to love? He has natural blond hair, hypnotizing blue/green (it changes depending on the angle of the light) eyes, and a strong athletic build (as opposed to my 'eating whatever, whenever and not doing anything to counter it' build, which isn't as great).
"Feebs, back to Earth now," Angie told me, tugging at my sleeve, which pulled my eyes away from gawking at Dylan. "You can stare at him all you want in AP English."
"You can tell?" I stage-whispered.
"It's pretty stealthy, but I can tell," Angie replied. "I don't know if he can, though," she added, staring at her palms.
Angie's right about my stealthy staring. Between listening intently to Dr. RK because she's quite a witty doctor and taking notes or doing whatever's required that day, I do tend to eye Dylan. He sits at another table with his cool, popular friends, while I sit at the funny nerds table with Angie and two guys, Harry and Shawn. However, today's a little different from most days. Instead of my stealthy staring, I spend any free moments thinking about the weird things that Angie and I have been doing lately.
Angie and I both took Spanish class back in freshman year, and though we excelled at vocabulary, we fell short on grammar skills and our teacher said that our accents were unconvincing at best. Neither of us has ever taken Lesson 1 of French in our lives, though she could have picked up the phrase Buon giorno through the media. I decided to send her a stealthy note to test the waters.
"Angie," I began. "Answer me this riddle one. How do you say 'I like Canadian boys with blond hair' in French?" I placed the paper atop her books and watched as she glanced at it, chewed her lower lip, and hastily scribbled an answer.
" I like Canadian boys with blond hair. Do you want me to give it to Dylan for verification of spelling and grammar and whatnot?" read the reply.
"HELL NO!!!" I scrawled onto the paper.
"You have to tell him eventually."
"Tell me something I don't already know."
"Why haven't you told him?"
"Hello! He's popular and I'm not."
"Big deal. Everyone likes Dylan, even that one emo kid who hates everything. He's universally appealing."
"That means that some other girl has her eyes on him."
"DON'T THINK SO NEGATIVELY!!"
"What am I supposed to do, anyway? I've never done this before."
"I don't know…"
"Big help."
"Maybe you could just ask him out for coffee sometime as a friend. You know? It doesn't have to go anywhere unless you both want it to."
"Maybe…"
"Look up. RK's coming to pick up homework."
My eyes darted upward and I shakily handed my homework over to Dr. RK, who smiled as she received it.
"Good morning, Phoebe," she said cheerfully.
"Morning, Dr. RK," I replied, smiling. Dr. RK went to check Harry and Shawn's homework and I whirled around to face Angie.
"You know who we haven't seen in a while?" I asked.
"Who?" Angie asked, eyes wide.
"Sharmila!" I exclaimed. Sharmila is a mutual friend of ours who is a freshman at nearby Georgia State University. We visited her during her fall break, but that was back in October and it's now November. "We should go visit her this weekend."
"Maybe she'll know something about…" Angie looked around, lowered her voice, and said "this" in Japanese. I know that word from listening to Japanese music and looking up translations of the lyrics, so I nodded.
"Let's go see her tomorrow," I declared. "I'll call you."
"CHAR! I'm home!" I screamed as I opened the front door, toddling inside with my heavy backpack and unceremoniously depositing it in one of the kitchen chairs. As I made my way to the kitchen for a snack, Char came up from her room in the fully furnished basement. She was still dressed in her pajamas and looked sullen. "What's wrong?" I asked her.
"Ny guhk ging iz guzhking," she told me. I wonder if Angie could make heads or tails of what she just said because it surely doesn't sound like English.
"Say that again?" I asked.
"Ny…" Char frowned, held up her index finger, and found a stack of Post-It notes and a pen by the phone. She wrote something down on one of the notes and handed it to me.
"My tongue ring is pus-ing."
"GROSS!" I cried, throwing the note at her. "Did Big Red tell you what you should do if this happens?" Char thought about it and shrugged, shaking her head no. "Did you look stuff up on the Internet about it?" Char thought about it and shook her head yes. "What did it say?"
"Ay gish ow uh uck," she said.
"Pardon?"
Looking thoroughly miffed, Char got another Post-It.
"I'm shit out of luck."
I looked at the note and at my hands, remembering how Angie's hurt ankle and hands suddenly stopped hurting when I touched her, before looking back at Char. She looked like she was suffering and I don't like to see her suffer. Though I personally disagree with the concept of tongue rings, I'm going to put aside my personal opinions and just help someone in need. Crumpling the note and throwing it aside—I'll put it in the trash can later—I went over and touched Char on the shoulder. She frowned in confusion and I felt that tingle in my hand again. A moment later, she swallowed loudly and her face brightened.
"I don't taste any pus anymore!" she sang. "Yay!" She started doing an odd victory dance that I joined in on. "What did you do? You made the pus go away! How did you do that?" She grabbed my hands and held them up to her eyes. "Nothing special about them on the outside," she noted. "Oh my God! Feebs! You're a miracle worker! You're kinda like Jesus! I need to call the Pope and tell him about this!" Singing the word 'Hallelujah' over and over, Char danced her way back down to her room.
"The Pope…?" I asked. Sure, Char is crazy and she's probably not going to really call the Pope (if you can call him at all), but I'm starting to wonder. Twice today, I've touched people and their wounds have healed. It seems strange, too strange to explain.
I bet Sharmila knows what's going on here! I'll call her to let her know we're coming tomorrow, then there's some AP English homework to do, and then it's off to bed (maybe I can stay up late enough for Conan, but I doubt it).
