The Healer

By Tania L Ramos

The Healer: A Century Series is a dystopian fictional novel loosely based on a true story. Set after the next Great World War within new boundary lines of the Western High Desert, Talora, a tincurest and Healer, finds herself as a key piece to an ancient murder of an Egyptian god. Her introverted life in this smog filled and barren land becomes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drowning Moon
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989315222

Book preview

The Healer

A Century Series

Tania L. Ramos

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Drowning Moon

Copyright © 2024 by Tania L. Ramos

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Acknowledgements

Considering this book is loosely based on a true story, I suppose thanks goes to the tangled web of deceit that sparked the flame for this book.

The larger host of gratitude goes to my children, all of whom waded through the fog with me. And when the world became clear again, they collectively said, You know you have to write this story.

Special thank you to my oldest, Dasan Storm. You listened to me go on for hours about mythology, plots, characters, and gods, and kept me humble. You brought me back to earth anytime I went a little power hungry over killing a god, by reminding me that thousands of gamers kill gods daily.

Thank you to River Jordan, my baby boy. You tell everyone I'm a writer and even managed to sell my books to a group of my enemies at a barbeque. Takes class and sass, kiddo.

And to Jorja-Rayne, my budding socialite, who promised to make me booktok famous … I'm still waiting. And I'm so sorry you got sucked into the madness at such a young age. Thank you for constantly yelling, Shouldn't you be writing? You are the cheerleader to my life.

Every bit of thanks to my kids, who encouraged me to write this mockumentary of my life. And didn't laugh too much when I turned myself into a warrior for the telling. And who also had to endure the real life melee that premised this book. My kids who encouraged me every step of the way while I complained about writing and rewriting this. Eight times. You are the true heroes of my real life story.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to me. Because I survived that narcissistic relationship with my mental health mostly intact.

And if you ever survived a toxic relationship, this is also dedicated to you. Stay strong warrior.

The Healer

Sticky, humid air molded into every crevice of the hellish triage arena: an old concrete factory converted into a hospital. Pearls of filthy sweat oozed down the brows of the medical staff and the sick. Talora stole an isolated moment to examine the day’s chaos from a dark corner while sucking down air from behind an antiquated respirator mask. Reminding herself, slow breaths. In and out.

Bodies amassed, moaning fleshy foundations, as staff trudged through the injured. The dying padded every fissure of warm dankness within the arena. Metallic scents defiled the thick atmosphere. Whether from blood or rusted metals, nobody questioned. Hardly the aseptic bouquet of a therapeutic dwelling, she thought. Under the fractured respiration mask, she took a deep inhalation. A trace of death mixed with the oxygen.

What remained of her jaded soul ached for the waning patients. Acidy vomit lingered in her throat. The mask refused to protect her from the pungent stench of death and rust. Talora panted, holding back bile. Migrating with her mother to the east may have been a wiser choicer. To follow the politics and safety. To escape the foulness of rotted dreams.

The last great war left the country in derision. Wealthy families scrambled to eastern regions, huddling to elect a new system of capital. One by one, states withdrew from the Union. Regions established laws appointing themselves as new independent countries. Each one relied on their own means and tradeable exports—food, clothing. People.

Those in the desolate West Desert needed Talora’s talents. Lunacy brought on by moist heat ran rabid. She could not help those with brain demons; respiratory ailments were her specialty. This is where she belonged. Her decision to stay back felt lost now as she wiped sweat from her neck with her unclean, already saturated handkerchief.

Many failed to survive alone in this era of gloom and restructuring. The ones who endured best had ties to social clusters. Family. Friends. That was not her life. Searching the hall of lonely faces crying into soiled skin, she realized her error of staying behind. Alone and unprotected. Mostly alone.

Though she found a niche amongst the medical circles, she remained on the outskirts. Tinctures were her forte. Herb and spice mixtures to heal the sick of minor afflictions became her duty—her barter. Outwardly, the ill looked to her for treatment of the infections that thrived in mugginess. Secretively, she possessed more: the gift to heal with only the touch of her hand.

Others with gifts were called Strangers. The word rang in her ears. The craving for her gift amplified daily, but today she felt parched. Drained by enclosed work in the arena, she collapsed against a water-stained pillar. Slimy liquid seeped into her clothing. She wiped her neck again. Zapping prods rushed her fingertips in unison. An electrical force buzzed her nerves. Someone close by tugged at her energy for healing.

Depleted, she surveyed the dimly lit hall with flickering lights. At the far end stood a younger man in drab makeshift scrubs, pant legs tucked into tattered boots. Soil and sweat covered his face and misbehaved, golden locs. His eyes, in drooping slants, shared her attention. Scrutiny hung on his gaze behind weary compassion.

He waved without energy. Much too tired for the twenty-something she took him for. But he had an old soul behind those eyes. On occasion, when he glanced her way, she wondered what misery he saw in his young life that made him so glum. That was Shivawn’s way. His presence. They didn’t speak much, but always exchanged pleasantries.

He worked as a crowd keeper, wary of the relentless crowd that gathered outside. His arsenal of weapons hung off a thick, old leather belt repurposed from older belts. Chunky vials with viscous orange fluid sat inside leather loops. Black ampoules with oxidized pull-rings hung off discolored secondhand rivets. His thick gloved hand remained steady over a scarred shotgun with short and wide double barrels. Those were his tools. He was proficient with them and kept the chaos outside in order.

This day already proved busy with a fresh wave of infirmed rushing the open steely doors. Talora watched Shivawn push into the growing crowd. Stance wide, one leg back, he dug his heels against the ground. The bodies of the sick leaned back, then rolled forward, like a tide rushing the shore. Each swell of the groaning wave grew more powerful, forcing Shivawn to draw the gun and load an orange vial.

Ramming into the swarm, he flicked an electric trigger charge and pointed the gun above their heads. Talora cringed at the abrupt bang followed within seconds by a pop. Breathing paced her heart rate while sucking down oxygen faster. She watched, fingers in a fretful twist, body tensed, as the vial burst above the masses. Thick liquid evaporated into a bright orange haze.

The cloud dispersed and drifted downward. It was almost lovely how the vibrant sunny hue broke up the dreary browns and grays. A fleeting array of colorful cheer amongst death. A child in his father's arms beamed at the display. His innocent grin and wide eyes were mesmerized. Within moments, the masses—and the child—stumbled into a hurried sleep. Piled like lambs to their slaughter.

From the shadows emerged the Sentinels, lower-ranking Sentries. Men weighted with enhancements of clanking metal gears, pistons, and bolts from shoulders to fingers. Machinery to boost strength. They lowered oxidized, steel colored shields fastened to snaps embedded on their heads. No sane person dared sprawl with them. But the arena lacked sanity. Within minutes, they carried off every fallen body. Some fallen at their own weighty hands.

Shivawn watched the grounds, finding his place back at the doorway. Shoving against a fresh tide. The triage arena never slept and never found a shortage of angry, delirious mobs. With a heavy breath, Shivawn clipped the gun to his belt and counted the three remaining vials. He nodded at Talora, then leaned into the new horde of the nearly dead.

Talora grew eager to drown the energy attempting to extract her healing gift. Deep breaths. Breathe in and out. A man sitting cross-legged across the hall caught her attention. His thin body rocked through shivers and a cool cerulean gaze darted in her direction. The steely stare sent her to a forgotten memory when similar eyes twinkled down at her. A time long before her gift was known. When the world still held hope and dreams. She would stay in that moment forever if she could.

Despite the arena being hot as the devil’s own sin, he appeared freezing. Curious, Talora raised a hand toward him, ensuring others were not looking. In that instant, her heart skipped and air evacuated her lungs. She stumbled hard into the pillar. Her feet slid across the floor. She fumbled for balance before hurrying toward the door.

Jerking her away from the onslaught of the crowd, Shivawn grasped her hand. Wrinkles furrowed his young forehead. Some already permanent creases. Searching for any excuse to escape the humid enclosure, Talora blurted about escaping the heat. Empathy filled his eyes, which appeared in a relentless state of sadness even through smiles. Hesitancy occupied his sideways grin. Talora noticed he touched her skin to skin. He rarely went without his thick rubber gloves. Swiftly she withdrew and tucked her hand to her chest. Their muddled expressions met as Shivawn pulled the glove on.

Sweaty, he explained. The long drag in his voice said he didn’t start in the desert regions. His elongated words were casual and as tired as his eyes.

He directed his sight to her armband. Talora pulled the band with the medical insignia from her right arm and tucked the cloth away in the pocket of her long red coat. Her hands fumbled. Why she felt nervous in his presence, she shook off as introversion. But there was more. Something she couldn't explain. Without anything to say she gave a shaky nod and slipped away.

In the open air she yanked off the purifying mask and gasped while clawing at her chest. Not that the polluted air fared better but feeling helpless brought suffocating discomfort. She found consolation knowing the smog-darkened sky masked her appearance from others. Sitting with a box of herbs and vials made her an easy target too many times.

The ill, seeking any manner of treatment, often saw the box and assaulted her for tinctures or supplies. She thumbed the band in her pocket, working it between her fingers, and studied the moping faces wandering the grounds.

Memories of Sentinels finding her trampled and left for dead beneath the crowds sent a shudder down her spine. She recalled one night in detail. Hazes of neon orange dusted the air and Shivawn plucked her tattered body from a pile of the nearly dead. He carried her away and warned her. Desperate people would see you dead for a mere vial of hope. Keep your body and heart protected. The world might need you someday.

The next day she rifled through forgotten boxes. A haunting whisper called to her from deep within her thoughts. A familiar voice reminding her of a hidden secret. She searched every hidden place until she secured her dead father’s black dagger. Something about the smooth curved stone blade worried her. A reminder of her father’s rage. Yet it brought comfort in her hands.

On that night, she started secretive training to learn to protect herself. To someone’s death if necessary. She choreographed every attack and counterattack until she collapsed with exhaustion. When they were perfected, she illustrated them in a drawing book. But they were only pictures until she could use them and train with another person.

Now three years later, and even with the dagger secured to the small of her back, she struggled for strength both physically and emotionally. No amount of training, and no weapon, taught her how to handle the energy depletion from her gift when used on the sick.

The arena alone drained her, with masses of the ill staggering in lines for days. Some did not live to see inside and with that came the clean-up. The Morticians would arrive, shrouded in their inky cloaks. Silhouetted, thin bodies that emerged at midnight. Loud archaic gas masks, with pinpoint lights on either side, caused the screams of the sick to go silent in reverence. In fear, all turned from the death harvesters when they made their rounds. In their gowns they appeared to float as deathly apparitions across the grounds. Smelling of iron from blood-saturated cloaks and the putrid stink of thousands of dead.

The masses parted for the Morticians. No soul dared to glimpse their black-veiled faces for fear it would seal their own demise. Morticians were shadowy salvagers, transporting rotted remains to a fiery end. Souls that kept the turbines churning.

Though lifeless bodies lined the grounds tonight, no Morticians came to collect. People casually traipsed over the deceased. Nobody was immune to the desert's diseases. Not young or old, Perfect or Enhanced. Deceased littering the grounds was a normal sight. Overlooked and ignored.

At the far end under a flickering lamppost, Talora noticed a Perfect hiding her face. Perfects were devoid of deformities which stemmed from chemicals spilled during the war. They were the lucky ones, most would say. Talora knew better. Those perfect specimens lived in fear of being kidnapped and sold for trade. Some for breeding among the rich—though most assumed that to be rumor. Light-haired and light-eyed women were sought the most. Though brunettes still fetched a decent barter. Taking Perfect males for trade into breeding mills was spoken of through whispers.

Fatigue set as Talora studied the variety of people about her. A group of men from the mines gathered in a corner. Their hands charred and clothes still smoking. Miners were an easy spot. Most had blistered faces and flesh-toned masks. Metallic mesh filters snapped over their mouth to hide deformities and strain the pollution before they inhaled it.

The Enhanced were different. Talora stared at a coal miner with his webbed, scorched mouth. Enhancement fitting was a flourishing business in the West Desert; most people needed at least one at some point. By the front entry waited a man with a mechanical hand, gears cranking, though thick oily fluid seeped and stained the exposed parts. A woman near the thicket of dead trees had pins from a thick barbaric headpiece drilled into her scalp. The headpiece held a reflective shield over her face; her head balding and covered with sores. Talora squirmed. She had seen that type of enhancement before on a Gauge—people who tested radiation levels at the energy archives.

Full-animated metal gauntlets were reserved for the Sentries. Some converted every extremity into a whirring machine made from scraps. The extremists had guns and flame throwers augmented onto their already heavy arms. The Regulators used tin amplifiers sewn into their ears with a dozen tiny antenna embedded across their head. No body part was beyond being repurposed.

Talora grew dizzy as the harsh heat lingered. She found an old metal bench and nearly collapsed on it. Thick air pained her chest as she gulped the stagnant atmosphere before sucking from the respirator. She gazed over the surrounding world while tightly cupping her ears with trembling hands. Drowning out the confusion and screams echoing off the abyss of dark corners.

She caught her breath, aware of those not as comfortable. The forgotten. They would always need someone at their aid. For that reason, she could never leave. No matter how often her mother sent for her. She would live alone, always watching her back. In that thought, Talora startled to see a young girl beside her. Disheveled from head to toe, she couldn’t have been over ten years old. Yet her eyes were markedly round and enthusiastic. Full of light in such a dark place. As if she never knew sorrow.

You look sad, the child said as Talora began placing her ragged respirator back on. I can help.

Talora looked around. Not seeing anyone with the child, she asked where her family was.

I have none.

An orphaned child was not uncommon in the new era. Parents and grandparents died from toxins left over from the war. States were so busy fighting over boundaries they didn’t bother to clean up the air or water. Orphans were abundant, raised by extended family and siblings, bartered into trades, or worse.

I’m tired mostly. Talora glanced back at the barely living bodies with their blank stares. She studied the child’s blouse with tiny yellow flowers long faded. A sense of warmth and contentment reminded her of yellow and purple flowers in a clearing on a distant mountain trail. One day she would have to go back to that place, she mentally vowed. With a weak smile, she whispered, Maybe a little sad. This isn’t a happy place.

I can help.

Curious, yet still untrusting, Talora leaned closer. How can you help?

The child’s dirty face radiated with flecks of gold and amber in her eyes. She reached out. Talora studied her, then slowly took her tiny hand. Instantly an outpouring of warmth flowed into her body. Her entire being was enveloped in warm rays of sunlight, like warm oils were injected into her spine. She melted into the sensation of a protective hug that awakened every sense. The worries of the world vanished, leaving her light as hydrogen—euphoric and unchained. When the child withdrew, the sensation lingered moments longer until it drifted away.

The girl beamed, pulsing on her tiptoes. You’re a Healer.

Talora angled her head. What do you mean?

The child whispered. You’re a Stranger.

Talora offered a hesitant nod. So are you.

The girl partially lifted her tattered, over-sized blouse to expose small, fiery welts on her dirt-streaked abdomen. Talora examined the angry wounds, then furled her lips, knowing exactly what they were. Cigarette burns.

The girl nodded; her smile never failed. Punishments. For when I forget my place.

With a rush of heat, Talora held a hand inches from the child and noticed the girl’s prominent bones that poked beneath her skin. An immediate surge of energy tugged at her nerves.

You didn’t feel it when you were happy, the child said. They were on my arms, but you fixed them. She leaned closer to touch Talora’s moist cheeks. In a whisper, she asked, Can you fix them?

Yes, Talora answered softly.

Talora placed her hand on the girl’s scarred belly and concentrated. Energetic magnetism grew the moment their skin met. She wanted to be enraged. Instead, her lips turned up and her heart beat light. Peace permeated her body. She imagined herself floating into puffs of cottony clouds. When she looked, the welts were gone. A tear trickled from her eye.

The child wrapped her arms around Talora’s neck. I’m happy Shivawn told me to find you.

Talora’s brows creased. He told you to find me?

Questions barraged every thought and sent her mind into a frenzy. Nobody alive knew Talora’s secret. How did Shivawn? Had he seen her work her gift in the shadows? Is that why he touched her, ungloved? Was he drawing healing? Was that what he hid behind his watchful glances? No, she would have felt it.

The girl waved her closer. Her voice innocent, delighting in her secret. He’s a kind of Stranger too.

Dumbfounded, Talora mumbled. The child looked at the incline across the grounds, to a slender man with a watchful eye, then back. Her voice quivered as she hurriedly asked, Will you find me again?

Will you need me again?

The child brushed back matted hair to reveal a grim expression. That was the only answer Talora required. She knew people needed her healing. They desired her tonics. But for the first time in a long time, someone needed help in ways beyond magic and herbs. Talora closed her eyes and felt a recurring call deep in her soul. A familiar voice called her a fighter, and her eyes burst open, knowing she would return. I’ll find you.

The Eyes

Silence waned behind the rhythmic ticking of an old, weighted, brass clock. With each passing tick Talora tapped her boots. She lost hours of thoughts to the disheveled man with blue eyes at the hospital three days ago. And to the child with the gift to make Talora feel utmost joy and peace. She couldn’t help but think how the child’s gift contrasted with her own affliction.

People considered Strangers with the ability to aid others as a marvel; even demigods. Descendants from the heavens. Gifted to humans as miracles to help after the losses of war. But Talora never considered her gift a sanctified blessing. She likened herself to the obscure perverseness of the Reaper. The ability to save life. The capacity to withhold it. God would not bestow such a power and deem it a gift.

Except things weren’t that easy. Barring that they were. Without a care, she could easily saunter away, offer no aid. Leave the fate of the world at the feet of the sick. And only certain people could accept her gift. Takers, she called them. If there was another name, she did not know.

Takers could extract healing, but with it, they also took pieces of energy and strength. Some felt the healing and were in awe of its power. Others never sensed the occurrence. Such an impressive gift, people said early on, when her father exposed her talents. How enchanting to offer life and second chances to those in need.

Lies.

With a burdened sigh, she abruptly stopped tapping. Offering healing as a child was her father’s exploit, a misuse of her gifts for his own gain. She quickly grew cognizant of the sinister aspects of power. Terrible memories of healing outweighed the good. Yes, she could save some. Perhaps many at barter. He misled her to believe her talent was enchanting or romantic. But she did not feel remarkable in any manner.

Healing became a curse over the years of agony and her soul’s disquiet. The secret locked away, tucked into the recesses of her mind. She kept her gift hidden, using it only as she saw fit in the shadows. With the ability to save many she discovered the choice to save none. Ethical dilemmas riddled many opportunities. Who was worthy of living? Who merited death? The ominous query plagued each encounter with a Taker. Watching a soul pass, who deserved to live but could not receive her gift, brought a gnawing pain to her belly and heart. She closed her eyes and tried to forget the haunting onslaught of pleading faces she could not heal. But they would forever be ghosts bedeviling her mind.

Yet some choices were as effortless as breathing. The child thrown from wreckage between an old tin carriage and a heavy metal contraption on clamoring tracks. He became pinned, with a shard piercing under his rib. The boy scarcely breathed through panic and mangled metal. As his reddened eyes met Talora’s, the sensation of a million strings of fire ignited each fiber of her muscles. Saving that child came without effort.

Eight years prior, during a vicious rainstorm, a tall straggly man cloaked in a dark hood attacked a young woman in Parliament Square. He’d followed her into an alleyway and took a dagger to her throat. Talora feared intervening but called to a phantom strength to do so. As she scrambled into the bleak alley, a familiar male voice ordered her to depart at once. With her assailant distracted, the young victim snatched the dagger, forced it into his chest, then escaped with screams and tears. Her wailing echoed until it dwindled to a distant whisper.

Talora knelt beside the man who apologetically pleaded for healing. Hands trembling in manic spasms, Talora leaned her weight onto the blade and watched as his life seeped from the wound into the shadows. He reached desperately for the hand she held less than an inch away until the moment his chest rose no more. Until his end, she felt his energy struggle to corral her own. He was a Taker in more ways than she knew. That night, she ensured he would take no more.

When she withdrew the knife from his chest, the wound grew wider. A dark chasm increased across his chest, up his throat, into his bowels, until nothing of him remained. Not a spec of flesh or drop of blood. He ceased to exist. Horror stifled the scream wedged in her throat. Air seized in her lungs, desperate to escape in dry, choked pants. The dagger fell from her trembling hands before catatonia consumed every cold vein. Never had she witnessed such an event, and her brain had no sense to make of it. Her extremities went numb, then limp, until she collapsed into the void where the body once laid. In a panic she succumbed to the darkness behind her eyes. Into the safe place brought forth by her own mind.

Her thoughts now drifted to the disheveled man at the triage center. How his ghostly eyes had burned into her brain at first sight. She went into the building after her encounter with the empath girl. As she approached him, her body nearly leaped into spasms. He realized his effect and pulled away.

I’m sorry, he cried. When you’re near, my body … He tucked inward but not before she caught his rounded opaque eyes piercing through his mud-soiled face.

You’re a miner? His ailment must have originated from the tainted air of the scarce coal mines. Is that why you’re sick?

The man shook his weary head; his light hair tarnished with dark soot. Thick sweat clung to his face. His eyes peeked again before darting away. Every muscle in his body twitched, as if seizing all at once, followed by rushes of pronounced contractions. A moan gurgled in his throat as he doubled over and wheezed. What possessed this kind of pain and symptoms was beyond Talora’s knowledge but his energy attempted to consume hers.

What ails you? Do you know? Her voice sounded hoarse through the whirring of the respirator and mask.

Revenge, he mumbled. Judgement. He coughed through another rolling gasp. I deserve this. It’s my repentance. Leave me to atone.

Baffled, Talora studied the quivering man further. He appeared in his mid-thirties, shy of malnourished. Nails trimmed. Hair, other than unkempt and soiled, cut neat. The man was no vagrant. Judging by the thickness of his trousers and overcoat, he was well off. Cleaned up, he may have been handsome. Men of his status were rarely ill to this length.

I don’t understand, she replied, but I might be able to help. You need to tell me what ails you. Then you can atone to your god in good health.

Against his filthy face, his pronounced eyes were moving and ghostly. One word stole past his dried lips—Widow—before he looked down in shame. Off guard, Talora huffed and arched back. She knew of Widows and the poison they unleashed at will. Without further question, she stretched her arm toward the man, but he pulled back, and begged her to leave.

I can help, she insisted. You don’t have to suffer in this place.

No! He twisted, his body coiled reminiscent of a snake. I deserve this.

Confusion riddled her. I assure you, sir, no man deserves such torment.

With those words, he craned his neck, haunting eyes shifting to her. Some men deserve their ailments. I don’t deserve sympathy, nor pity. I certainly don’t deserve healing. His breathing grew rapidly. Go away. Go. Help someone deserving.

Torn, Talora quickly touched his trembling shoulder, instantly absorbing his torment. She thought back to the empath, glad to not feel the suffering of the dying as the child did. Instead she absorbed subtle fluctuations of current. Waves giving glimpses of pain. From those she could decipher how much energy to expend. No need to waste, she thought.

The Widow had poisoned his body within the brink of death. He would die from exhaustion, not directly from her poison. The man pulled in tighter, eyes wider and maddened, and shouted for her to leave. So loud, he screamed, that others turned to observe the commotion.

You’ll die, she declared through gritted teeth, an agonizing death.

Is that so wrong? He matched her infuriation. You don’t have the right to heal those who choose to die.

But I should, she quickly retorted.

His eyes shifted to interest; his breathing slowed as he studied her face. But you haven’t. You haven’t healed everyone.

Talora inhaled a labored breath, eyes wide toward the stained wall behind him. No. No, I have not. And that is my curse.

This is my choice, not yours. I am not a good man.

What did you do?

He half-laughed, partly choked. His heavy eyes rested on her. She has judged me. You are a good woman. I see that in your heart. Don’t trouble your mind on me.

You will die.

I will. He coughed. I asked for this.

Asked?

When she heard my confession, the Widow agreed to my plea for death. Only then will my daughter see, he said through another thick, wet cough.

Talora shook her head. If death is what you desire, why are you in the arena?

She brought me here. He chuckled and gasped. Said she couldn’t leave me on the streets to die, that she was a proper psychopath. This is her mercy. The chance at salvation and healing. My soul screams with every spasm. And still, I haven’t changed my mind. Let me die so she can pillage me.

Pillage? She wondered what brought a man to the edge of sanity. Who are you saving?

The man leaned back, struggling for every bit of air. I killed my wife because I’m a coward. He choked. I could have … saved her. My daughter deserves to see. His eyes rolled. Let me go so I can lay eyes on my wife in the afterworld before they come for them.

From a wooden box of homemade tinctures, Talora removed a serum. With a dark dropper, she pulled three different liquids and squeezed them into a tiny green vial. The drink would make him sleepy, she offered, easing him into his land of peace if he chose. She placed the vial at his feet, then watched from afar. The man held the drink tight, then gave it to the half-dead woman beside him. He whispered to the woman, she nodded, said a silent prayer, and sipped the drink. When she slumped over, the man removed his coat and placed it over her body and face.

A ruckus at the doorway caused Talora to jolt. Her attention moved to Shivawn as he pushed at the crowd, simultaneously showering Talora with expressions of sadness. Sorrow fell easily upon the man with his down-turned eyes. But something more sat upon his young, wrinkled brow, something she could not decipher. Grief. Empathy. Sympathy reminiscent of parental concern at the inability to fix a child’s distress. She turned, feeling far too bare.

After the blue-eyed man’s passing, a slender woman in a long black lab coat and a leather mask with mesh filters approached his body. Her thin, pallid skin appeared to have never seen the light of day. She carried a large rugged case and removed a multi-scalpel and purple plastic bag. From a long chain hanging off her neck, she pulled up a thick monocle and placed it on her eye. With the push of a tiny button a brilliant blue light shone as the telescoping lens whirled and elongated.

She opened the plastic bag and squeezed to activate a freezing sludge. Without grace or remorse, she opened the man’s left eye with an archaic, fork-like speculum to inspect the eye in depth under the lighted monocle. As she maneuvered the spinning multi-scalpel to his eye, Talora realized the woman to be a Harvester. At the first spurt of blood, Talora doubled over, then pushed past a tall, robust woman in a loud Victorian dress and gold corset.

The women exchanged brief apologies. Talora glanced back at how out of place the woman appeared in her exaggerated outfit, tall and full of pride. The woman also turned, with a slanted smirk, simultaneously mischievous and enthusiastic. Behind her, the dead man in the distance now missed one eye.

The exasperated breaths of the man plagued Talora as she watched the clock on her wall. His phantom breathing paced the rhythmic ticking. She clenched her eyes, feeling her own breath grow heavy, hoping to bury the man’s bright eyes from her thoughts.

The poisoned man died that night, yet he persisted as alive in her mind as she was. He became an image in the mirror. A reflection that haunted the truth of who she truly was. Of whom she could be. What manner of Healer didn’t heal? What kind of Healer could walk away? Eyes now opened, they fell to a dusty picture of another man with fascinating Caribbean water’s eyes. His wild stare obsessed on her as she took a deep half-gasp.

She recalled her father; the last time she saw his eyes in the dead of night. How he pleaded for healing … how she offered none. Nothing favorable came from his life. Not even her. Freedom and a sense of possibility came from his death. Positivity poked holes of light in her dim world. Nobody to invoke the madness of her thoughts. An existence alone wrapped her in guarded sanity. Solitude imparted comfort. Not caring for another person meant never handing down judgement between life or death intimately again.

She alone held the balance between living and dying. Good and evil. This world and the possibility of the next one. Yet the lines were often blurred, and her morals tested. Most sleepless nights, she wondered why fate chose her. The whisper in her soul said she was destined to fight. It beckoned her to have courage. To prepare. But nothing could ever prepare her to look into the souls of the dying and decide on their fate.

The ability to heal, this talent, was no gift from any god.

Healing became agony. A perplexed and vile burden.

This was her gift?

No. This was her curse.

The Stranger

The morning sun rose behind pine-covered hills of the western desert. Talora’s face warmed by the sun's glow during her hike along a familiar trailhead. Arriving at a clearing in a thicket, she removed the portable respirator and mask needed to hike through the pollution layer. The clearing ascended high above the smog produced by the struggling industries in the desert below.

Taking in the crisp fresh air held one of the few remaining delights the post-war world offered to anyone willing to make the journey. The escape transformed her into a different person; free of her gift and renewed of natural energy. In this tranquil place, she could forget herself, the indiscretions and piercing eyes that preoccupied her dreams. Here, she could be anonymous. Free. Alone.

She pushed forward to the next clearing a quarter-mile up. Most were oblivious to the next vista, quitting after the cumbersome ascent this far. After moving through the last cluster of trees, she caught sight of a man stretching his arms to the sky with a blissful moan. Daunted, she ducked behind a tree and observed his movements. Should she leave? She held her breath, struggling at her concern. The clearing was her favorite spot. Where the yellow and purple flowers grew without effort. They reached with praise to worship the sun. A field of color that was never told they weren’t meant to survive. She envied their obliviousness and admired their tenacity. It had been too long since she last allowed herself to be lost in this place. Now the stranger whom consumed her vision stretched to the heavens in unison with the delicate flora.

Tense and insecure, she straightened the creases on her shirt and coat. She tugged at her tall hiking boots, secured the buckles, then cinched her ponytail taught. Cold sweat dripped behind her ears and neck as she smoothed back loose strands of hair. Fixing her clothes served as a nervous tick more than preening. She had always been awkward around people—especially strangers. People called her brash and nonchalant, not that she took either as a complete insult. Mainly, she didn’t care for small talk … or people. And she didn't care for this strange man being in her hidden oasis.

Her heart raced when the stranger called out. He discovered her in the hiding spot behind the tree. Not so hidden she realized after observing she stood next to a narrow tree trunk. Uncertain what to do, she froze. Her mind buzzed with how idiotic she looked, standing there like a sweaty, anxious statue. After a beat, her hand slipped around her waistband to ensure the dagger remained latched onto her back. Self-consciousness consumed every thought when she noted the handsomeness of the man in his approach. She cleared her throat, then peeked at the thicket behind her. The man laughed, assuring he didn’t mean to cause her any harm.

I haven’t been up here in a thousand years, he said as if continuing a conversation with a best friend. I was an idiot and pushed through without a respirator. I should be dead, shouldn’t I? But this—he laughed, then breathed deep—my lungs hardly know what to do with this fresh air.

You inhale it, Talora blurted, embarrassment instantly burned her face. She stepped back a pace to search in every direction except his. Most people don’t know about this clearing, she said, stumbling over her cracked tone.

His dashing smile exposed the whiteness of his teeth against his light, brown-bronze skin. Though he appeared to be kind, Talora remained gracelessly cautious, inching forward and immediately stumbling over a pebble. He darted forward and grabbed her hand to steady her. Every drop of blood pulled from her toes to her face until she felt catatonic at her inelegance. She withdrew her hand from hands and released a mortified gasp.

He chuckled. This time she knew it was at her inept embarrassment. He looked at her squarely. Are you okay, miss? I apologize. I don’t mean to laugh—

But you do, she scolded and rubbed her temples.

I do, he admitted. "It’s just, I don’t