Chapter 2
The air in the room seemed to be sucked out by some invisible vacuum. I felt dizzy, like I did in my dreams (the few that I actually had). Michael eyed me over, waiting for me to react, but I was busy waging a war of emotions inside, which I guess did not show through on my face. I couldn't lose him. It would kill me to be alone, and that's exactly what I would be if he was gone. I had no one else. After a few seconds of these thoughts I reminded myself where I was, and that I was being incredibly selfish.
"You cant die." I squeaked, on the verge of tears. My childish side was getting the best of me, but I felt hopeless and didn't know any other way to react. Michael forced a smile and put his hand on mine.
"My dear, you know better than anyone that we all have to go sometime." He said, in his usual deep comforting voice. I had heard that tone a million times when Michael would comfort our bereaved customers.
I lost it. My body was racked with sobs as I collapsed on the floor shaking. I had no idea that I was capable of such an emotional outburst.
"Why are you the strong one?!" I yelled through a mess of tears. "You wont die! I won't let that happen. I can fix it! " At this point I was starting to sound like a lunatic. Grief hits people in different ways. Mine hit me like a freight train.
Michael wrapped his long arms around me and hugged me until I could almost breathe normally. He then helped me back into my chair and poured me a drink. I sucked it down with out hesitation and fought my body's urge to bring it back up. I then downed another glass.
"It's cancer." He said calmly. "Nothing they can do about it. I'm not sure how long I will be here for." Michael looked away, but not in time to hide the fear that was growing in his eyes. You would think that People in our line of work would be able to accept death more easily than your average person. The reality is that no one is quite ready to meet their maker when it comes down to it.
I gathered up any composure that I was able to hold onto and grabbed his hand. Michael broke out in a cold sweat and closed his eyes. My fingers started to tingle, so I squeezed tighter. The strange sensation in my hand slowly moved up my arm and spread to my entire body. I could feel the physical anguish surging through him, and I willed my body to take it all on. Michael opened his eyes and starred into mine. He locked shocked, confused, and almost horrified.
"What are you doing to me?" he asked. I did not answer. I was losing strength fast. I could feel the cancer drain out of Michael's body and into my own. I could feel the disease flooding in, and something else in me start to warp and change it. The air was stirring around us it what felt like a small twister. I felt Michael grow stronger, the weaker I got, but I could not transform the debilitating cancer fast enough and hold onto the strength that I needed to continue. I started to fade out, hearing his words of concern echoing as if we were far apart.
Michael ripped his hand away from my own, and it was like a bright light switched on in a dark room. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me.
"That was dangerous and stupid!" he yelled. "You could have been killed." I was still too weak to defend my self and simply dropped my head, like a child who was being scolded. Michael stood up and started to pace back and forth nervously. "How long have you known that you can do that? And what exactly was that?" He finally asked. I was exhausted. And I had not known that I had the ability to physically heal. I sighed, and grabbed the glasses to put in the sink. Cleaning has always been therapeutic to me, and I now found comfort in the ritual.
"I have never done that before. It's like I had no control over it Michael." I said finally. I could feel his eyes following me. I felt like a freak. The only person who understood me was looking at me like every other person I've ever met. He seemed uneasy, and I wanted to hide somewhere.
"You were healing me Miraka. I felt the sickness leave me, but did you ever think what would happen next? Things don't just stop existing. Do you really think that I would want you to have my death sentence?" He said. We were both extremely tired and I couldn't see where this conversation was going to end.
Michael had known about my ability to heal others before that night, but until then neither of us knew that I could physically heal. My condition usually consisted of absorbing feelings of guilt or anguish, and turning them into a sense of calm for the person who carries them. When I was younger, I did not know how to control the process, or even see the guilty coming. Over the years I have been able to hide my "gift" by wearing sunglasses in public, and avoiding public places altogether. The key is to not make eye contact. When a heavy soul finds me, they start confessing whatever it is that troubles them, and it all spills out like word vomit. The whole ordeal is involuntary and draining on my end. It's like a one night stand that the receiving party gets to walk away from feeling purified, yet confused. Not only does this make for some awkward social situations, but I come out of it feeling used and hung-over. As if that isn't enough, I have an extremely unusual characteristic that seems to draw even more attention to myself. My eyes are a very bright shade of violet, and they seem to turn a light grey color whenever the hopelessly conflicted are close by. I've tried colored contacts, but it seems that my condition makes my eyes extremely sensitive, not to mention it doesn't stop the guilty from finding me out. Plus touching my eye ball freaks me out. So I am doomed to wear shades even at inappropriate times. I guess I would rather be the weird shades-at-night girl, than the weird makes-people-confess-all-their-sins-at-awkward-times girl.
The thing I loved about Michael was that he was a very truthful person whether you wanted to know it or not. He never confessed any embarrassing secrets to me, and was very accepting of me when I told him what I really was. But there we were, looking at each other like strangers in his kitchen. I was so afraid that I scared off the last person in my life that understood me, and all because of the damn dis-ability that now seemed to rule my life.
"I'm sorry." I said, and forced myself out of the chair. "I really need to sleep. I will call you tomorrow and we can talk about it ok?". He didn't object, or say anything at all as I walked past him and down the stairs. The expression on his face was something I couldn't make out, but I knew that time was the best thing to give him. I lethargically made my way to the old hearse that I used for transportation. I opened the door and sat in the driver's seat with my hand on the key in the ignition. I spaced out for a moment. "Well that was a hell of a night at work" I said to myself and made my way home.
By the time I reached my house, the sun was coming up, and I was developing an emotional hangover. My mother had left me the house in her will, and I often wondered if she had know she wouldn't still be here to share it with me. I never saw any signs in her that she thought she would meet an early end. I'm sure if she had know, she would have set up a better plan for me than bouncing from foster home to foster home until my eighteenth birthday. Now at twenty five, I had grown accustomed to thinking of it as my house, and only remembered living here with her in short sensory bursts of memory. Sometimes thoughts of her were triggered by the smell of flowers and cedar. I had to close my eyes and shut them tight to hold on to her face in my mind. The details of her smile grew fainter ever time. I thought about selling the place but couldn't force myself to let go of the only thing I had left of hers. She took such good care of our house, and loved that we had something to call our own.
Unfortunately, I didn't have the gift of decorating that my mother had possessed. I remember bright colors on the walls, beautiful paintings, and interesting knick knacks that she would find at thrift shops and yard sales. She had an amazing ability to sort through all the worthless crap and pick out beautiful things. There were always fresh flowers on the table, and the hard wood floors seemed to shine as if they were covered by a sheet of glass. If my house could speak I'm sure I would never hear the end of it; how much of an awful home owner I was compared to her. Thank god houses can't talk, although at times I was lonely enough to welcome any kind of conversation.
I walked in the door and tossed my purse aside on a near by arm chair. I meandered over to my bedroom and flung myself on the unmade bed. Before shutting my eyes I made a promise to myself that I would do laundry when I woke up. Little did I know, I wouldn't get the chance.