Image for Without Wings

Without Wings

A short story
by Kurt Kirchmeier

Lucias could feel the girl’s aura from a full six paces, the lapis lazuli waves pounding against his chest like bass-heavy music turned up way too high. It was always thus with blue auras, auras on the brink. Green ones hit him like a blast of fresh air, like wind through rain-soaked pine. Yellow and orange warmed him like summer sunshine, while red set his heart to thumping with vicarious lust. So many colors and emotions, few of them his own.

He’d been following the girl for about an hour, watching as she slipped closer and closer to the edge of sadness, to the point of no return. Suicides were easy to spot, like blue-period Picassos amidst a gallery of black and white.

As tempting as it was to reach out to her, he kept his distance.

He wouldn’t be able to help her if he moved too quickly; the decision needed to be made first. Why this was, Lucias didn’t know. His gift had not come with a manual.

The girl, a petite redhead with ghost-like skin, was standing in line, waiting for a prescription to be filled. Her eyes were bloodshot, set above bags like miniature, bruise-colored smiles.

Her hands rested on the counter, fingers motionless, betraying no sign of her inner turmoil. Her aura, however, was wild, arcing out from her body like electric streamers.

The pharmacist gave a brief overview of the drug as he handed over the bag. “No more than three a day,” he said, with an emphasis that made Lucias wonder if perhaps he, too, sensed the inevitable.

Her apartment, which looked half again as run down as she did, was only three blocks away, overlooking a litter-strewn street with more burned out lampposts than not. The entrance was decorated with graffiti, most of it profane, the colors completely out of sync with the words.

Lucias hurried forward as she opened the door, and then thanked her as she held it for him. Courteous even at the last; perhaps this one would actually be worth saving.

As he shadowed her up the stairs, jingling his keys as though he lived there, he couldn’t help but wonder what hardships she’d endured. Abuse? Betrayal? An addiction? There were times when he wished he could sit down and just talk with them, see if he could do with words what he could with a touch. As if the counsel of a stranger could carry so much weight. No, better not to intervene; better to leave it looking like a miracle, like it was God’s hand rather than his own.

And perhaps it was. Lucias had long since learned to check his doubts at the door, to do what he could and not question why. A man could go crazy contemplating such things as fate and faith and purpose. Lucias knew; he’d spent the better part of his life doing exactly that, both before and after the overdose. He remembered the darkness before the tunnel, the beat of a thousand unseen wings. And then he’d awoken. Men in masks. Confusion. A miracle.

The girl lived on the third floor, apartment number seventeen.

Lucias kept on walking as she put key to lock, and then listened for the bolt to strike home after she’d entered. Despite their intentions, they often locked the door. Habits.

This girl, however, left it open, allowing him to slip in without need of the small pouch of tools he carried in his right inside pocket. He didn’t do so right away, mind you. He merely stood there in the hall, eyes closed, palms against the wall.

The distance made it difficult for him to feel the aura’s pulse, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel it, like an unborn child’s heartbeat. He waited for the rhythm to falter.

He found her on the floor, the empty bottle of pills on the coffee table, which was turned somewhat sideways, as though she’d collided with a corner of it after rolling from the couch.

Her aura was faint now, swirling around her prostrate form like a cyclone set on slow motion. Duller and duller, slower and slower.

Lucias reached out and rested a hand just below her sternum, over her solar plexus. He then placed his mouth on hers and breathed in deeply, inhaling the desperation of her final act as though it were sustenance for his soul. Maybe it was. It certainly felt that way. A thousand colors danced behind his eyes, his entire being vibrating with the sort of euphoria that no drug could ever mimic.

Her aura throbbed with restored vitality, and although there remained an unhealthy lapis lazuli edge, it was lighter as a whole. It would buy her time, a reprieve from her sadness, but that’s all. Ultimately, she’d have to save herself.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Lucias had faith that this one actually would. Perhaps because she’d held the door for him, perhaps because she’d left her own unbolted. Simple things. Telling things. Whatever the case, Lucias believed.

He left her sleeping, a strangely comforting itch between his shoulder blades.