od, no! Please don't do this!"

Angus wanted to put his tiny hands over his ears as she shrieked it, but if he did that she would only push him away, try to stop him from doing what desperately needed to be done. Her raspy, terrified voice pierced his young ears, made his head feel as if it would split apart, vomiting his brains all over her face. And that, if it were possible, would create a mess all over the spirals of mother's favorite braid rug. He didn't want to do that, soil something so prized by his mother; so he held her down with all the might an eight year old could muster, and let his head hurt from her screams. If she would just stop struggling, it would be over soon. He prayed for her to let him have his way, to stop clawing at his hands. Her nails were brittle, but sharp and split his skin like Muskie, their cat, had once done and made the job all the more difficult.

"Angus, please stop!" Between the blinding pain and her son's tiny fists smashing viciously into her chest, she could manage only strangled, plosive pleas that never passed beyond her home's periphery.

"Momma," Angus cried as he beat her, the pain in his own heart far too much to bear. "Please let me finish it."

She struggled to push him off but, even at eight years old, he was too strong for her. God, she thought, Take me now. Make this stop.

God heard her prayer.

 

ost of the bodies were still warm by the time they reached the hospital morgue. Angus liked it when they came in that way, when the ICU nurses hadn't taken their time or the ER staff hadn't been too busy to cart them down. Some illusion of life lingered within them when they were warm, some radiance he could harvest. Often, he would pull the sheet back, look into their eyes, hold their hands for hours before starting the autopsies, and imagine that he had known them, had loved them. He needed these moments, though they were as empty as he truly knew them to be.

Perverse. Sick. One step away from necrophilia. That's what others would say if they knew. So, Angus was careful not to reveal his secret. He never took their hands when he was called up to a ward to remove a body, and not once had anyone walked in on him during these vitiated moments. He kept the door locked, like his life, safe from intrusion or escape. Things became a little easier when the night shift opened up and everyone ran from the assignment. To him, it was ideal; not some horrible childhood nightmare come true. He could spend all the time with the bodies he wanted, could get whatever they had left to give and no one would be the wiser.

Angus had been alone almost all his life. Momma, the most cherished person in the world, died when he was eight, and Papa.... Papa had been a coward, had run away when his son was only four. He hadn't understood it all, wasn't able to deal with a child who screamed in pain and agony every time he was held. Oh, he tried for a while. He carted Angus off to doctor after doctor looking for a reason, praying that his son would be cured, normal. Modern science had no answers for him, though, and he got tired of wanting hugs. So, off he went, leaving Momma and Angus behind, and into the arms of another woman who bore him normal children. When Momma died, Daddy didn't call for him, didn't welcome his first born into his new family. He simply let Angus go into a strange land.

The Benison's Pass Orphanage was where he first heard anything about his affliction, but it wasn't from one of the good Sisters or Fathers who imparted their schooled wisdom to the unwanted. It was another child, a mountain boy, a childhood widow, who had enlightened him.

He was called Elijah Tyme by his parents, mystical people of southern Kentucky. He'd ended up "in house" -- that's how everyone referred to Orphanage, though it was more like living at a school twenty-four hours a day -- when his parents were killed in an auto accident. Deeply spiritual people, they had taught their son well, conferring upon him a knowledge and belief for which he would surely be ridiculed all his life.

Elijah was a quiet boy; not wont to interact with the other children. Angus most often saw him in the facility's small library where he flipped through books, though everyone knew he could barely read at all. Sister Saint Claire was often there with him, going over simple sentences which Elijah repeated slowly, stumbling over the simplest of words, sounding them out. Other than those few occasions, Angus rarely heard the boy speak. But one night, when Angus lay crying in his bed, Elijah Tyme delicately asked what was wrong.

"You're a path," he told Angus as they lay side by side on adjacent beds.

Angus didn't understand. "A what?" He sniffled, his tears dried by someone who seemed to have a name for what he was.

"A path," Elijah had a thick accent that made his voice syrupy. "Empath. You feel too much. All the joy and pain in every person comes to you through their skin and lives in you, changes you, eats you up." Elijah threw his covers off, sat up and reached under his pillow for a small pocket knife, the last possession of a former life. He flipped it open, pressed the blade against his arm, and drew a shallow gully.

Alarmed, Angus sat up, pulling his legs close to his chest. "What are you doing?"

Elijah smiled. "Showing you how it works. Touch my arm." He held out his scar as blood gurgled forth.

"I know how it works. I'm not stupid!"

"Then show me," Elijah whispered without desire or force. "I've only heard, never seen."

Tentatively Angus reached out a finger and ran it over the blood. A shiver went up his spine and pain shot into his arm. It wasn't the worst he'd ever felt, but still it stung and he closed his eyes as he placed his palm over Elijah's wounded flesh.

"Amazing," Elijah laughed softly. The laceration appeared on Angus' arm and then healed itself, like a film run backward through a projector. When it was over only seconds had passed and both their skins were pristine. "That was a pain you could bear."

"How can I stop it?" Angus needed to know. He wanted to touch other people without feeling their pains of betrayal or jealousy or fear. He needed other people to hold him without their love bursting his heart.

"You can't. It's your gift. God gave it to you. All you can do is live with it and find others who can live with you." Elijah was in awe.

"Other paths?" Angus asked, knowing his gift must be as rare as anything in the world.

Elijah shook his head. "Other paths. Or other people who know how not to kill you." He held out his little hand to Angus, urged him with knowing eyes to take it. "I won't kill you, Angus."

Reluctantly, Angus entwined his fingers in Elijah's, reveled in the warmth, but was certain he would feel all the despair in his friend's heart. The pain of his own mother's death was far too much to bear; he didn't want to relive Elijah's grief. All that was there, all that greeted him was a flowing calm, a peace into which Elijah had lulled himself. They both laid back on their beds and fell asleep, holding hands from that night forward.

Elijah was the only person Angus had ever let himself love. It hadn't been an adult love, a sexual love; it had been pure. Elijah, Angus reasoned later, had been a path of sorts, a human soul who recognized a pain greater than his own and a way to heal it through the benign touch of a hand. Two years later, when Elijah developed a violent cancer, they'd stopped holding hands, though Angus had been willing to take on the pain and disease. When Elijah died, Angus took his hand and felt joy, not pain. Elijah whispered to him, "Don't be alone."

He never met another Elijah, never really looked. Of course, others had found Angus attractive, asked him out on dates, but he'd always refused. A mate would be a needle in a haystack, and the pain of the search, he knew, would be too much to bear. Instead he found his human touch where he could, in the flesh of those whose bodies had relinquished their pain.

"Bag, tag and put a stamp on her!"

Mike Singh's demeanor was always flippant verging on disrespectful, but Angus had learned not only to take it with a grain of salt, but to enjoy the banter. He'd seen Singh working in the ER and knew he was a dedicated professional, intent on doing his job well but not letting it eat him alive. So, he always had some smart-ass remark when he pushed bodies through the stainless steel doors, a duty he needn't perform but one which he'd been doing with an increasing regularity.

"Hey, Mike," Angus greeted him as the recently departed was placed at his side.

"Hey yourself," Singh smiled a devastatingly gripping grin that took his dark Indian looks to new heights of beauty.

"No post?" Angus asked, pulling the sheet back. It was a woman who looked to be in her sixties. Her face was remarkably at peace.

"No, straight ahead cardiac. Family wants her moved immediately to the mortuary."

Singh handed over a clipboard -- part of the trail of possession necessary to make sure the right family got the right body. Nothing was worse than the bereaved showing up for visitation and crying over the wrong corpse. It had happened once; not on Angus' watch.

"Margaret Lafferty," Angus read from the chart. "Caucasian, Sixty-two, cardiac arrest, D.O.D. 02/19/00, T.O.D. 01:37:45. Mortuary: Ruttle and Neltner. Attending Michael Singh."

"She's my lady."

Angus couldn't help but smile as he finished reading the board, scribbled his signature on the bottom, and kept the pink and yellow carbons for himself. He liked Singh; found him intelligent, funny. The spark between them was palpable. They both felt it, but Angus knew it was impossible, though he hated to admit it. "Mine, now." He grabbed a plastic sleeve from a shelf and slid the folded the yellow copy into it.

"You've got a good smile. You should use it more."

Angus stopped in his tracks. More than anything he wanted to respond, wanted to toss a compliment Singh's way, but thought better of it. Compliments lead to flirting which lead to dates which lead to touching which lead to explanations. Instead, Angus lowered his head, almost mumbled as he slipped the plastic toe tag on Margaret's foot, "Thanks"

"You're welcome," Singh tried to meet Angus' eyes, but it was futile. "Listen, Angus. I'm off at six. Breakfast?"

There was plenty Angus could do to avoid the issue, keep away from those piercingly beautiful brown eyes. "Uhm, I've got a lot to do tonight. I think I'll be pretty bushed." His heart ached when he said it.

Singh nodded, fiddled with his stethoscope a bit as Angus went about business he needn't, and finally gave up. "That's cool." He turned, his sneakers squealing on the vinyl flooring. By the time he hit the door, he'd made up his mind to get his answer. "Dude...uhm...I'm not a hard-core pushy kinda guy."

"I know that," Angus threw the comment over his shoulder as he removed Margaret's clothes, folded them with respect, and placed them in a mortuary travel pouch.

"I mean...I'm getting some really mixed signals here." It was hard for Singh, being so direct, but as much as he liked Angus -- as attractive he thought him to be -- he was tired of assessing the situation. "We get on okay, yes?"

"Yeah." Angus hated that he was making Singh uncomfortable.

"But every time I ask, you shoot me down. I mean, I'm not crazy, right. You are gay?"

The question startled Angus. He'd never really thought of himself as gay or straight, just lonely. Male or female, what did it really matter? When the field from which to choose was so limited, why rule out anyone? "Uhm, yeah, I'm gay." It was easier to lay claim to it rather than start a conditional clarification. And as much as he knew he needed to steer clear of Singh, the knowledge that he was wanted felt good and he didn't want to relinquish the joy of possibility.

"Oh..." Singh was deflated, taking a benign statement and translating it into a hundred different rejections. "That cool. Well...I'll catch you later, then."

"Mike," Angus wanted him to stay or at least not go away feeling he was something less than he truly was, "I like you, but it's complicated."

"Complicated...I'm not asking for a life commitment. Hell, I'm not even asking for sex. Just a date. Doesn't get any easier than that."

"I wish I could say yes."

Singh locked eyes with Angus, bared his soul. "So do I."

The swinging door swished, thumping, reverberating a disappointment that Angus regretted, knew was mutual though it was too late to share. Their next meeting -- perhaps in the parking lot or one of the hospital's monochromatically sterile hallways -- would be one flooded with awkward propriety, each wanting to say something witty or painless but settling for a simple nod. Friendly banter would not fade away, but come to a fast halt with cacophonous, steely silence while they tended to work which became their distractions.

Angus shook it off. He was stronger than this wallowing. Singh was just another person he'd get over. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to it. He pulled a rolling chair over to her side, sat and reached for her hand. "Okay, Mrs. Lafferty."

She was still warm, and her fingers interlaced easily with his own. Like an anti-depressant or the sun after a cold rain, her touch flowed through Angus' body, stilling his mind, filling his heart with a humanity from which he had long ago divorced himself.

She had a son. Angus saw it. Saw it? Something was terribly wrong. Angus never saw things through his communion with the dead. It was as if he was seeing through Margaret's eyes: a young man looking down, crying. What was happening? Why was he seeing these things?

Her hand clasped tightly to his own. Her arm twitched and her head turned to face him. The eyes weren't clouded with death, but bright and sparkling. Angus tried to jump back, but her grip was strong. And then he felt it.

A red hot poker slashed through his heart and he gasped for breath. He recognized the pain.

 

"Momma, please let me finish it!" The words came from deep within himself.

 

With a great jerk, Angus managed to break free landing with a thud on the cold, hard floor. With a great gasp, he caught his breath, jumped up and grabbed the phone sitting on a nearby counter. Looking up the extension, he hit several buttons and waited for what seemed an eternity for an answer.

"ER. Morgue. I got a live one here. Get a crash cart and Singh down here. Stat." He slammed the phone down, paced back and forth, unsure what to do.

Margaret had brought her own hands up, pressed them to her chest, as she looked to Angus with failing eyes. "You...can help me."

 

"Don't help me," Angus heard his mother say, "it'll kill you."

 

Angus checked his watch. It was taking too long. He had to do something. Margaret would die by the time they arrived.

 

Momma had taught him to call 911, but he knew they would be too late. He had to do something. He threw the phone down, crawled with teary eyes to her side and ripped open her blouse.

 

Margaret's flesh was burning hot as Angus started chest compressions. One. Two. Three. She clamped her hand over his, forcing him to take her pain. She could feel it easing, her heart healing itself through God's gift. She hardly noticed the mangled look on Angus' face, didn't know that his heart beat for them both.

 

Momma tried to push his tiny hands away, but little Angus, scared that the only constant in his life would be lost, forced his hands onto her chest. The pulse of her heart pounded against his flesh, rumbled up his arms and threw itself into his infantile breast. Angus nearly vomited as his heart skipped, squeezed itself voraciously to keep pace for its failing twin.

"Angus, get away from me!" Momma screamed as she tried to pry his tiny fingers away. She'd break them if she had to.

 

Angus' body convulsed as he took Margaret's affliction as his own. A tender heart, hardened by God's gift, trembled, grew weaker and diseased. He wanted to break away. He wanted to save himself.

 

They fought to save one another. A mother's love for her son showed itself through screams and attacks. A son's love for his mother forced into a violence. He couldn't let her die, wouldn't let her die. He'd keep his hands on her chest, absorb all her sickness no matter how hard she fought, how much she hurt him.

"Please, God," he heard Momma whisper, "take me now. Make this stop." She became still, and Angus knew that God had chosen to hear her prayer instead of his own.

 

The muscles ripped. Angus was sure of it, positive that his heart bled upon itself. When he collapsed on the floor, his fingers left Margaret's, and he knew it was done. Her heart was whole again and, as he stared up into the bright florescents, he wished they were God's bright light. Momma would be there, and Elijah, too. They'd hug him, pull him close, take him to their God. But they were only lights, and neither Momma nor Elijah was waiting for him on the other side of them.

Angus vaguely heard the door swing open and a team of footfalls approach. It was all like an echo, like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon and shouting "hello." He'd done that once. Outside of holding hands with Elijah, it was the most peaceful moment of his life.

Singh looked down into his eyes, lifting the lids, and blinding him with a penlight. Angus saw that beautiful face, angelic but not an angel. He was glad Mike was there. He wanted his last sight to be something beautiful.

Strong hands pressed down on Angus' chest in a steady rhythm. One Two. Three. He knew Singh was counting aloud, though the words were muddled. Then those soft looking lips came down upon his own. Velvety and slightly wet, they landed exquisitely and air forced itself into his lungs.

Calm. Singh was calm. There was pain inside him, but it was tempered, like the pain Angus had sensed in Elijah, but had never been forced to feel. It was amazing, like a warm surf lapping through his body, strong yet lulling, powerful yet reassuring. Even the rapid thrusts of Singh's hand on his chest seemed serene, the ache being natural; not emotional trauma transmitted through flesh. Angus wallowed in the moment of human touch, in the peace he felt, and allowed the muscles of his body to relax.

Singh was a safe one! His kiss proved it, and Angus could feel himself smile, honestly, truly for the first time. He'd found someone! With his first kiss he'd found someone!

Angus longed for another kiss but the prayer went unheard and darkness swallowed him whole.

[END]

© Paul G. Bens, Jr. 2001

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