Illusions can kill when used with skill

She made me weak. I couldn’t deny her anything and on some level I knew that wasn’t healthy, I knew I needed to stop spoiling her, but I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t that she expected it, needed or demanded it; it was the way her face lit up when I brought her things that made me want to do it again and again.

She was made happy by the simplest things: a flower, a pretty shell or a lovely leaf, anything found rather than bought. Often when I presented her with my token of affection she looked at it as though she’d never seen it before, her eyes sparking with a child’s innocent wonder.

Each gift found a home through careful consideration; stones and shells were arranged in bowls around her tiny apartment and flowers and leaves were pressed between the pages of the old books I bought her second hand. A rose could be found between the pages of Romeo and Juliet. A particularly bright Aspen leaf was in Walt Whitman’s book Leaves of Grass.” A tumbled shark’s tooth was fashioned into a necklace, which she never took off.

She had a quality I’d never before encountered, an enthusiasm and appreciation for everything, nothing was too mundane to fascinate and enthrall her. Her vivaciousness was infectious, and I found that it was slowly rubbing the apathy and cynicism off the surface of my life.

She enhanced my awareness of things everyone takes for granted; guiding my fingers through lush grass just so I’d know its texture, feeding me bite sized morsels of things I would have shied away from if not for her persistence and laying in the sand on a cloudless day just to listen to the varying tones of the water.

The first time we’d slept together I was as single-minded as any other man would have been with such a divine creature in his bed, rushing toward the finish line as though there was a prize for getting there first. Patiently she taught me that there was much more to intimacy than I had imagined, and while frustrating at first, I learned to take pleasure in touch, scent and sound; the run became a marathon versus the sprint it had been.

The only aspect of her that perplexed me was her evasiveness when I asked about her family or her past. She skillfully dodged my questions like a champion slalom skier dodging flags on a mountainside, and I knew no more about her now than I did when she first came into my life almost a month before.

I had been sitting alone on the beach, only Johnny Walker to keep me company as I contemplated the shambles my life had become. My job was going no where and my girlfriend of five years had been cheating on me with my best friend, screwing him in our own bed while I was working. All the ways of getting even were coursing through my alcohol addled brain when she stepped out of the pre-dawn fog, a vision in white that sobered me instantly.

She looked lost, and I’m sure in that moment I looked found.

And now here I was, standing at the end of the pier with her, the smoky hues of the setting sun filtered through low clouds and bathing us in muted color. Her message had concerned me, asking me to meet her here because we had to talk; and everyone knows nothing good comes after that phrase.

As she explained that she wasn’t from my world I tried to understand what she meant; was she crazy? Did I care if she was? She held my hands tight, tears leaking silently from her eyes to roll over her flawless cheeks. She professed her love for me, thanking me for all I had taught her, sparing worried glances at the sun as it dipped closer and closer to the horizon.

I didn’t understand, I didn’t want to understand, and her words while soft and as gentle as possible wounded me at the core; with these wounds it would take decades for me to bleed out. Lifting the shark’s tooth necklace over her head she pressed it into my hand, begging that I not forget her and with the cryptic parting words of “Speak to the ocean, and speak to me.” She kissed me once hard and then dove off the end of the pier just as the sun disappeared.

I was too stunned to move at first, paralyzed by my own pain. Moving on numb feet I peered over the edge, blinking at the lightening flash of silver that dove beneath the waves. My mind whirled, it wasn’t possible was it? Could she have been… I hesitated to even think it. I stared down at the necklace and realized that illusions can kill when used with skill, and while not intentional, her illusion had killed part of who I’d become.

Behind the veil of water

Finally, some solitude. Kyra had fled the city the moment her shift ended on Friday, having packed her car the night before. She drove toward the mountains, eagerly awaiting the chance to re-center herself; no car noise, ringing phones, rumbling trains or chattering people.

Kyra had felt off kilter for months, unable to focus on anything for very long, and fighting the overwhelming feeling that she was drowning in her own life. Typically she headed to the ocean to recharge her batteries, letting the waves lap at her feet and burying her fingers in the sand always made her feel calm again.

Today she was being drawn toward her friend Erin’s cabin. She knew Erin wasn’t home, she was spending the summer touring Italy but she also knew that it was perfectly fine that she use the cabin in her absence.

Turning off the main highway, Kyra spent the next hour driving down a narrow dirt road that became progressively more and more rutted, bouncing her around like a ping pong ball in a dryer. The sun was setting behind the pressing stands of evergreen trees, their peaks silhouetted against the orange light like black brush strokes.

As she rounded the final turn the cabin came into view, its steeply sloped roof mimicking the shape of the trees around it. Erin had built the cabin in a way that would have minimal impact on the forest; no trees had been cleared, no electrical wiring had been run and there was no running water, only a deep well and nearby river.

Stopping the car beside the house, Kyra turned the engine off with a sigh. Climbing out she inhaled deeply of the fresh mountain air, letting the scent of sharp pine and rotting needles fill her body like a cup. Lifting her duffle bag and small ice chest from the back seat, she made her way up the front steps, slipping her key into the lock and moving into the dark interior.

Kyra spent the next 15 minutes getting settled, which only involved lighting candles so she could see, putting her things in the single loft bedroom and opening one of the bottles of wine she had brought with her.

Slipping into the navy blue sweater that she always left on the hook behind the front door, she picked up her wine glass and slipped out onto the porch, sinking down into one of the rockers Erin’s father built for her.

The night was filled with the sounds of the unseen inhabitants of the forest. Cicadas sang loudly in the trees, small animals scampered through the underbrush, and in the distance the river roared on its way to the ocean. The moon rose overhead, shining down full and heavy and draping everything in a gossamer blanket of light.

Kyra saw something move out of the corner of her eye, just a brief flash of action that pulled her gaze, but when she looked she saw only trees. The rustle of leaves pulled her attention back to the front just in time for her to see the nude form of a man dash into the shadows of the trees. Normally she would have done the smart thing and gone into the house, locking the door behind, but the shimmer of iridescent light that followed in his wake pushed her common sense onto the back burner.

Setting her glass aside she rose to her feet and moved down the steps as quietly as she could, moving to follow him into the night. The blanket of pine needles muffled her sandaled feet, making her stealthier than she’d thought she could manage.

Again the slim line moved across her path in a flash of pale skin and dark hair.

Kyra followed. The sound of the river grew louder; helping to mask any noise she might make, even the startled scream that burst from her lips when a slender hand touched her shoulder was drowned out. Spinning around to face the owner of the hand she flailed, her arms wind milling in an effort to regain her balance, but it was the long arms of the nude man wrapping around her that kept her on her feet.

He held her against the length of his body, the green of his eyes visible even in the weak filtered moonlight. Kyra didn’t struggle, his touch gave her a sense of calm she’d never felt before and she wanted that sensation always.

He released her slowly and Kysa felt like someone was pulling her out of her own skin, the feeling almost painful, and she whimpered as her own hands shot out to clutch at his forearms. His smile seemed to shine with its own light as he caressed her cheek a moment before taking her by the hand and leading her deeper into the forest.

Kyra followed without question, unaware and uncaring where he led her as long as he stayed with her. It wasn’t until he stopped walking that she looked around, finding herself standing at the edge of a large pool fed by a thundering waterfall. The man released her hand and smiled at her before walking toward the water and wading in knee deep. Turning he curled one finger at her, beckoning her to follow, which she did with only the briefest hesitation.

Following him around the perimeter of the pool, Kyra’s heart began to pound when they reached the base of the waterfall. The man stepped into the water, the silvered rush cascading across his skin for a moment before he disappeared beneath the veil of water. With a deep breath Kyra stepped under the heavy flow, the sound of it deafening her as she reached out for something to grab onto.

His hands found hers, guiding her out of the water and into the mouth of the cave it concealed. He gave her only a moment’s pause before he turned and led her deeper into the cave, and she followed blindly. It took only minutes to reach the inner chamber where mineral deposits had formed curtains of marble, columns of calcite and clusters of white crystals that sprouted from the walls like exotic blossoms.

Turning to her he claimed her mouth without warning, pressing his lips to hers while his hands pulled impatiently at her clothes. Kyra returned the kiss and helped remove the cloth that prevented his skin from touching hers. Their hands roamed and touched, bringing pleasure and ecstasy, and drowning them in passion and heat that could have lit a dying sun.

Kyra woke when the fingers of dawn poked at her, and she cursed at them in a string of incomprehensible swear words. Opening her eyes she found herself staring up at the heavy beams of the cabin ceiling, and she blinked rapidly to clear her foggy mind. Sitting up in the bed she found herself naked and alone; had the whole thing been the product of an overly exhausted mind?

“Coffee’s ready!” came the voice she recognized as Erin’s, which only served to confuse her all the more; why was she home? Slipping to the floor she rummaged through her bag and pulled on her sweats and socks before descending the steep stairs to the main floor.

Finding Erin in the kitchen Kyra sat down at the small table and frowned down at the floral table cloth. A mug of black coffee was held out to her and she shifted her gaze to the hand that held it, staring at the long familiar fingers. Her eyes moved up the length of the arm and locked with the owner’s bright green stare, his lips curved up into a sly smile.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ve ever met my brother,” Erin said, “This is Jordan.”

Kyra smiled at him and took the proffered cup, setting it on the table. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Jordan.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her fingers, “The pleasure,” he said in a husky whisper with a knowing smile, “is all mine.”

Her touch burned like ice

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be hunting demons, I’d have called them crazy. Since finding my lover the unwilling sacrifice in a dark ritual, however, I had suddenly become a believer. Unfortunately, he hadn’t survived, and I’d barely escaped with my sanity in tact.

And now, with the anniversary of his death less than an hour away, I crouched in the shadows of the warehouse to which I’d tracked the human worshipers of this demon. They were all dressed in long black robes, a wide red zigzag adorning the hem and the edge of the hood that kept their faces in shadow.

I spent every free minute researching, tracking and training. I’d only just discovered which demon was responsible for his death just a few weeks before, and since then I’d dug up as much information on it as I could. I had to figure out how to kill it.

I remained motionless, watching from the shadows as the worshipers prepared their altar, drawing a circle on the floor with cryptic symbols. They lit black candles, burned incense and anointed each other’s foreheads with blood.

My pulse sped when they discarded their robes, their nude forms softly lit by the wavering sea of flames and the incense smoke wafted in circles as they walked through it. They spaced themselves out around the circumference of the circle, all facing inward, and my fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle I held as I watched.

While I lay in the hospital a year ago, recovering from the physical and emotional beating I’d taken, I’d had a visitor; a stranger. She was the most petite woman I’d ever seen, no more than five feet tall with soft curves and long auburn hair. She looked perfectly average, but she didn’t feel average; the pulse of the energy that came into my room with her choked me.

She was soft spoken, her hands clasped in front of her as she walked slowly toward my bed, stopping to look down into my battered face. Her voice was soft as a rose petal when she spoke, “I know what did this to you.”

My eyes went wide because I hadn’t told anyone what I’d seen, certain they would have me committed to the loony bin if I did, I’d claimed memory loss and that was accepted. “I don’t know what…”

“Yes you do.” She interrupted my practiced lie, her blue eyes piercing mine, and I found it impossible to lie to her. Over the course of weeks and months we became friends. She educated me on the occult, separating fact from fiction, and teaching me the ways of magic. Together we uncovered the cult of followers, and tracked them to the warehouse where they would again summon the demon.

I looked around the perimeter of the room in which I hid, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of my mentor, knowing I wouldn’t find any. The worshipers chanting was rising, reaching a crescendo that made my head pound. I felt their collective voices in my veins, pulsing through my bones, and it took all I had not to cry out.

The symbols that made up the circle began to glow, humming with green light that seemed to climb out of the floor and reach for the ceiling. The haze of diluted beams touched overhead, and in a brilliant flash the demon appeared. His shape was smudged, a black smear on our plane of reality, and I knew it would only take the blood of a human sacrifice to make him corporeal.

I bided my time, knowing I wouldn’t be able to kill him until the sacrifice was made. I’d had to come to terms with the fact that someone was going to have to die for this trap to work, but that one death would prevent, and avenge, thousands.

A pair of worshipers stepped out of the circle, disappearing into the shadows and returning with their sacrifice draped in semi-sheer red silk. The shape under the cloth struck a familiar chord in my mind and my brow furrowed.

With more words, and more chants, the silk was removed with a flourish and I was paralyzed; there stood my mentor and friend. She was naked, wrists bound with thick red rope, and her blue eyes found me in the darkness. He gaze bore into me, and conveyed her order to finish what we had started.

She was led to the altar, hands lifting her and laying her along the stone slab, her thick hair cascading over the sides. The demon moved toward her, hovering over her for a moment before speaking in a drawn out hiss, “Wiiiiitccccchhhhh.”

I watched the scene unfold, my body taut as a pulled bow string, knowing what had to happen. I was furious now, more furious than I thought I was capable of being; this monster had taken my lover, and now I had to give up my friend as well. I felt the rage well up inside me, the pressure inside my skin unbearable as I watched the high priest approach the altar.

He raised a sinister looking knife overhead, clutching the handle in both hands while chanting and then driving the foot long blade into her belly. I heard the steel hit the stone, heard her cry out and heard the monster sigh when her blood surged out of the wound and cascaded onto the floor.

I had to wait, despite the pain in my soul, I had to wait.

The demon skulked around the base of the altar, the blood disappearing where he touched it. The more he took the more solid he became until his seven foot frame loomed over her. He plucked the dagger free of her body, licking the blade clean and tossing it aside. I knew what came next; I knew that the goal of this monster was to fornicate with his followers, impregnating the women with his poisonous seed. I also knew, however, that he always raped the sacrifice first, and I had to spare her that horror.

I stripped out of my clothes and walked toward the circle, my calm façade masking the rage and terror that beat inside me. I held the bottle behind my back, my hands trembling as I hoped to blend into the masses. The demon was moving toward her, opening her legs, and I knew I was out of time.

With practiced focus I burst from the circle and ran toward the monster, smashing the bottle against the floor at his feet while uttering the words that would destroy him. The white smoke that erupted from the shattered glass whirled up and wrapped around him, heedless of his deep bellows and venomous cursing.

The cultists swarmed me, and I dove toward the discarded dagger, clutching the handle before rolling to my feet. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once, the air was filled with the cries of those I killed and the fading screams of the demon. In what seemed like an instant eternity I found myself standing amid a sea of corpses, my body covered in their blood, my breathing coming in ragged gasps.

As some degree of calm came over me I tossed the knife aside and ran to the altar, bending over my friend’s still form. Her blue eyes fluttered open and stared up at me as I pressed my hand to the wound in her belly. There was virtually no blood flow to staunch, she was running dry and I couldn’t save her.

“I pass this to you,” she said, using the last of her energy to lift her hand and press her palm to my forehead. Her power shot into me, her touch burned like ice, and I cried out at the overwhelming influx of magic she was bestowing on me as her life winked out.

Everyone thought I was dead. They were right.

Everyone thought I was dead, and they were right. My vision came suddenly into focus, momentarily disorienting me. I reached out to steady myself and gasped when my hand passed right through the wooden doorframe as though it were made of air. Looking down at my hands I realized it wasn’t the doorframe that was made of air, it was me.

My body ran the spectrum of pale translucence: white, gray, blue and everything in between, the colors feathered at the edges like a faded watercolor. As I moved I couldn’t feel the floor under my feet, finding myself floating rather than stepping, and it took me several moments to get the hang of moving around.

The air was filled with the scent of lilies and rain, fat drops splattering against the stained glass windows of the church. As I looked around I saw the faces of the people who loved me, some collapsed in grief and others blank with calm acceptance. The pews were filled, and despite the palpable grief permeating the air, I smiled as I walked down the aisle; as I’d requested everyone was wearing red.

The congregation was broken into several groups: dancers, family and a handful of former high school classmates. I saw faces I hadn’t seen in years, friends with whom I’d fallen out of touch, family I never saw and dancers I hadn’t known even knew who I was.

I lingered in the wings, listening as each person spoke about how I had touched their lives, the impact I’d had on them and how they would miss me. The stories made me smile, laugh and cry. I was content in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be forgotten.

My gaze shifted and I found my husband sitting in the front row, his face expressionless; dark circles under his eyes punctuating the tired pallor of his skin. In his hand he held the smooth worry stone I’d carried with me always, his thumb caressing the groove in its face over and over, like a physical chant.

Walking across the church I squatted down in front of him, reaching out and touching his cheek. He gasped, his eyes going wide and darting around the room, and I fell backwards in surprise. Had he felt me touch him? I reached out again and touched the tip of my index finger to the tip of his nose, as I had often done at bedtime, and with that he seemed to calm.

Looking discretely from side to side to see that no one was watching him, he called my name under his breath, “Melissa?” It was a question, posed to check his own sanity I guessed, and not knowing if he would be able to hear me I again touched his nose with my finger.

Color returned to his face in a red rush, clearing his eyes and bringing a tentative smile to his face. Moving closer to him I leaned down and spoke close to his ear, “What happened to me?” I asked, and I knew he’d heard me when his now bright eyes widened.

“Later,” he whispered, his pulse pounding against the side of his neck, “At home.”

Home. Heaven is what we want it to be, and being with him was mine.

She was as smooth as 20 year old Scotch

It had just been that kind of a week: my car had all but exploded, my brother was being deployed back to Iraq, my parents told us they were getting divorced after 30 years of marriage and I was passed over for a promotion at work. Short of my cat getting hit by lightening I couldn’t see how things could get worse.

Nothing any of my friends said made me feel any better; all I wanted to do was find the bottom of a few glasses in a dark quiet corner of an unknown bar by myself.

Walking through my front door I dropped my keys in the cream and brown bowl that sat on the entryway table, letting the mail fall next to it as I pushed the door shut with my rear end. Simon, my long haired tabby cat, barely opened his eyes let alone getting off the sofa to greet me, and with a sigh I walked down the hall toward my bedroom to change clothes.

I kicked my black pumps into the closet as I unzipped my wool blend skirt, letting it fall to the floor and leaving it in a rumpled puddle. The blazer landed on my antique rocking chair and the silk blouse underneath hit the floor beside it. I caught my reflection in the mirrored closet doors and stopped to stare at what I’d become; a pantyhose wearing, cotton briefs adorned, full coverage white bra drone. What happened to the young wild woman I used to be?

With a sigh I stripped off the nylons before slipping into my most comfortable jeans, heedless of the gaping holes in the knees and frayed cuffs. I pulled a red T-shirt over my head and stuffed my feet into my black biker boots. Scooping up my black leather coat I made my way out of the apartment and back out through the lobby.

Hailing a taxi I slipped into the back seat, slamming my door with another sigh.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Drive around for 20 minutes, and then drop me at a bar somewhere,” I said, staring out the window at the fat raindrops that collided with the smudged glass. The car moved and I closed my eyes, letting my head fall backwards and rest against the seat; I was so thankful the driver wasn’t trying to make small talk.

It wasn’t ten minutes later that the car stopped, and I opened my eyes, looking at the driver in the rearview mirror. “Hey, I’d asked…”

“This is where you need to go,” she said without turning around.

“But…”

“Ask for Sierra.”

Couldn’t I just get one thing to go my way today? With another sigh I dug into my purse for my wallet and the driver waived me off, “It’s on me,” she said. Bonus.

“Thanks.” I climbed from the car and made a dash for the front door, pulling on the brass handle and ducking into the dark interior.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I shook the water droplets from my coat and wiped them from my cheeks. The place was virtually empty, and if their expressions as they looked me up and down were any indication, the few occupied booth were full of regulars.

I made my way to the bar and claimed a torn vinyl stool, crossing my arms on the padded edge of the black slab. The bartender made his way slowly to me and asked me to pick my poison.

“Midori sour, and I was told to ask for Sierra,” I said, speaking over the low strains of some old country song, and the bartender raised one eyebrow at me. He turned away and returned with a glass half full of a rich, tawny liquid, which was clearly not the neon green of the midori sour I’d ordered.

“Um, I don’t drink Scotch.” I pushed the glass back toward him, but he ignored it, turning on his heel and walking away down the length of the bar and disappearing into the back room. I slouched on my stool and glared at the glass, even getting drunk wasn’t going as I’d planned.

I felt her approach before I even heard a footfall, turning to watch her make her way across the room. All eyes were locked on her, including mine, and it wasn’t humanly possible to look away. Her dark red hair hung to her waist in thick curls, framing the taper of her waist and accentuating the flare of her hips. Her impossibly long legs carried her toward me while her green eyes stared at me with a predatory weight behind them, making me feel like a cornered rabbit.

She didn’t speak when she reached me; instead she pushed the glass toward me and raised one eyebrow expectantly.

“I don’t drink Scotch,” I said softly, afraid that if I spoke too loudly I’d scare her away.

Without a word she picked up the glass and took a long drink, her eyes never leaving mine. I gasped when her hand shot out and she tangled her fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as she pressed her lips to mine. The pressure of her kiss forced my lips apart and my mouth filled with Scotch that then burned its way down my throat.

When I next opened my eyes I was staring up at my own ceiling. The familiar sounds of my own house filling my ears, and I sat up slowly, wondering if I had imagined the whole thing. I threw the covers back and slid to the floor, heading toward the door, but I stopped dead when I caught sight of my reflection.

My long brown hair had been cut into a steep A-line and had electric blue streaks running through it. I was wearing a blue lace bra and matching lace panties, neither of which left much to the imagination, but it was the single bite mark on the inside of one thigh, more than anything, that made me stare.

Hazy memories compelled me to opened my closet door, and there I found all of my conservative work clothes cut into little bits lying on the floor. Turning around I made my way down the hall, picking up the trail of clothing shreds and following them into the living room where they culminated into a small mountain on the coffee table.

At the peak of the mountain lay a slip of paper, across which was scrawled, “Dreams are meant to be lived, not regretted”

No phone number. No idea where the bar was. No clear memory of what had transpired that night, but this stranger had managed to radically redirect my life in only a few hours. I smiled; she was as smooth as the 20 year old Scotch she’d kissed into me.

Being buried alive was the least of my worries

It was like a twisted Bond movie. I was wrapped up tighter than a child proof medicine bottle, sitting at the bottom of a small cage that was hanging over a giant tank filled with adolescent bull sharks.

I’d made the mistake of laughing when I walked into the room, unable to contain my amusement at the campiness of the arrangement, but that had only gotten me a beating before I was bundled up and packed into the cage. Were they serious?

As it turned out, they were very serious, which they demonstrated by running an electrical current through the metal of my cage. The voltage was increased incrementally until it felt like every nerve was on fire, and I ultimately passed out.

Why was I here? What had gotten me into this situation? What had I done to warrant this treatment? I’d had the nerve to discover a cure for cancer.

I had no idea who the men who had kidnapped me worked for, no idea where I was and no idea why they wanted to keep my discovery a secret; but it all became clear in very short order.

Medicine is big business, and cancer is an enormous piece of that business. Without the need to treat, but only to vaccinate, billions of dollars of federal funding would be funneled elsewhere. That re-direction would make some people’s lives less posh than they were used to.

I’d hidden my notes and journals before heading out to talk to my mentor, Dr. Walter McAndrews at Yale, my Alma Mater. My excitement was kept almost entirely in check by a healthy amount of skepticism, but some leaked out into my voice as I relayed my tests and findings to my old professor.

The look he gave me morphed quite rapidly from disbelief to wariness to anger and finally clearly forced joy; his reaction surprised and frightened me. He had spent the majority of his career working on cancer research, soliciting more funding from the government as well as private parties than anyone else.

He had reached for his phone as he asked me to give him a moment, and his extremely out of character demeanor set off warning bells in my mind. I tried to leave to give him privacy for his call, I tried to tell him my tests weren’t conclusive and I tried to tell him I’d come back another day; he remained insistent that I stay.

His strange behavior turned me on my heel and sent me running for the door. I bolted down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, but I only made it as far as the lobby before I felt the electric shocks of a tazer in my back seize all my muscles, including my brain and everything went black.

And now, when I opened my eyes I found I was no longer in my cage, instead I was staring up into strange faces. My instinct to run snapped my body into action, my arms and legs jolting painfully against the straps that held me to the table on which I lay.

It soon became clear what they wanted; they wanted my notes, which I wasn’t willing to give them. They tried reasoning with me, beating me and threatening to bury me alive; but being buried alive was the least of my worries when they brought my wife into the room.

She was blindfolded, gagged and her hands were tied behind her back; if I didn’t turn my notes over to them Rachel would pay the price. I stared at her, at the gun they had pressed to her head and their shouts almost completely drown out her whimpers.

A phrase I’d heard over and over throughout my life played through my mind like a mantra; the needs of the many outweigh those of the few. Over and over I reminded myself of this, and I knew that Rachel was thinking the exact same thing, but of course that knowledge wouldn’t over ride her own natural fear of dying.

My eyes went wide when Walter walked into the room, and for a split second I thought we were safe, until he took the gun from the man holding Rachel’s arm. In one smooth motion he removed her blindfold, her green gaze locking on me an instant before he shot her in the head.

I lay there stunned, unable to move or speak, barely able to breathe. My chest tightened painfully at the sight of her limp body lying in a heap on the floor, blood slowly pooling around head in an ever widening circle. Tears leaked from my unblinking eyes and as I watched Walter walk toward me I felt my expression turn smug; I would have laughed too if the bullet had given me time.

I wasn’t there when Rachel’s sister, a nurse in whom I’d confided my discovery, retrieved my notes and saw to it that they found their way into the right hands. I wasn’t there months later when the FDA approved my vaccine, or when it was first administered. I wasn’t there over the years to watch cancer become a memory.

I’d known I didn’t have to worry about being buried alive, and it hadn’t occurred to me to worry about simply being buried.

I picked the wrong day to quit smoking

I was pretty damn sure this was what it felt like to die. My body had gone cold, my skin was clammy and all I could see what a bright white light; clearly that was death, right? Wrong. I was actually disappointed that I wasn’t getting a free pass on my current situation; I’d have much preferred almost anything else to being in my own shoes right about now.

The nausea that rolled over me made me want to throw up with my whole body; and my mind was convinced that doing so would make me feel a whole lot better. Stomach acid burned my throat, my mouth went dry and sweat trickled down my back in a long ticklish line.

My fingers twitched, tightening into a fist and then opening like a flower, over and over repeating the same restless dance. My boots felt tight and my legs bounced a staccato rhythm against the floor with the heels, tap tap tap.

I began to question my own sanity, wondering how a crazy person would know that they were crazy; they wouldn’t, would they? They would just merrily go through life under the firm belief that the sky was green, the grass was red and the birds could talk; who could convince them differently?

I rose slowly to my feet and stared even harder at the white light, convinced that I would meet my demise if I touched it, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from shuffling forward like a hypnotized zombie. Transfixed, I was able to ignore the whooshing of the wind as I stepped into the light, letting it rush and swirl around me, whipping my nerves into a raw frenzy.

Reaching up to my chest I pulled the handle I found there and a huge red parachute deployed above me, slowing my descent. I was used to this, I’d done it a million times, but I’d always had nicotine to calm my anxiety and with a deep, adrenaline saturated sigh I realized I’d picked the wrong day to quite smoking.