toobertsock

[toobertsock]

This power of mine, one of my three wishes, to see timers above people's heads representative of their life span, has bothered me for a while.

I live in a rural area, not a whole lot of people, just neighbours and friends, to see. Most of the young people had long timers, denoting decades of time left. Others were tragically short, one sad young boy with less than ten years left to live. It was while I was looking at this boy that I thought of my second wish.

I rubbed the lamp and out popped the genie. The powerful magic within the genie causes it to take on a form that pleases the eye of any who look upon them. That's why my Genie, Jeanie, is quite the attractive, slim red head, simply wearing a sweater, knee length shorts, and flip flops.

"You ready for your second wish, my master?" She asks in her melodic voice. I nod, still looking at the boy hidden from sight. He's sitting on a bench, blissfully ignorant of his short life, observing the small corner of our local park. The clock above his head ticks down slowly.

"I wish for the ability to cure any disease, ailment, affliction, or virus. I wish for the limitless ability to heal." I tell her. She looks upon me with searching eyes. With a small, indulgent smile, she takes my hand in hers.

"Your noble wish, 2 of 3, within my power to grant to thee

Healing hands of peerless might to aid you with your deathly sight

I grant you this, master sublime

A wish of healing, to the end of time,"

A swirl of verdant energy surrounds us, laying into my hands, bringing with it a friendly warmth. I smile at Jeanie, her kind green eyes lit up with glee at her service.

"Go, great master mine, bring life and healing to the world. But be careful, a power such as this would be highly sought after. Many would do you harm to have it for themselves," she said with worry. I simply nodded, fixing my powerful glasses higher upon my nose.

"I know. I'll move to a city, see if I can earn my keep there. Hide a tree in a forest and all that," I said as I walked up to the boy. She faded from view, the worried frown on her face never disappearing as she watched me invisibly. I walked up to the boy, he seemed maybe twelve, observing what was likely his mother and sister playing on the playground. I sat next to him and held out my hand.

"Hey there kid, I'm Paul, what's your name?" He looks at me and smiles sadly. Seems he knows of his imminent demise after all.

"John," he says quietly. He takes my hand and immediately, the clock above his head shoots up.

'JESUS CHRIST, 116!' The years on his clock skyrocketed into the triple digits. The kid starts coughing, hacking wetly into his elbow. The coughing gets harder and harder, and eventually he falls to the ground.

"JOHN!" I hear a cry from across the park. The nother and sister are running towards us as I try to help John up onto the bench. He's coughing up flecks of blood, now.

"Do you know what's happening, ma'am?" I ask, eyeing the clock. The numbers are only ticking down in seconds, just like everyone else, so why was the kid hacking up blood? John starts throwing up the scarlet liquid.

"I-I-I don't know! He's never coughed up blood before!" She says, crying heavily over her son. The coughing eventually gets weaker, the puddle of blood under John tinted black. He seems shocked as he looks at the puddle, coughing weakly intermittently, less like someone had stabbed him in the neck and more like he was clearing his throat.

"Mom?" He asks. He seems scared. She looks at the sister, who herself is crying.

"Get in the car, Angela. We're taking John to the hospital. Your father will meet us there," she says as she attempts to lift John up. I assist her, beinf careful not to brush her hand in case something similar happens. We bring the boy to the car and load him into the back next to Angela, who fusses ober the exhausted boy.

"Thanks, mister...?" She trails off.

"Just Paul, ma'am. I hope John gets well soon." I say and beat a hasty retreat before the woman can say anything. I head home, and turn on the tv, hoping for some form of information about the kid sooner or later.

-------

Nothing shows up that day, but tomorrow holds a different story.

"Miracle in local hospital, 11 year old John Graines, having been diagnosed with Leukemia last year, makes a sudden startling recovery after an episode at the local park," a reporter on tv says. The camera pans over to John's family, all of whom have the biggest grins I've ever seen.

"He was coughing and puking up blood, I thought he might die. Then we get to the hospital, have him checked up in the ER, and what does the doctor say? 'I don't think I've ever seen a healthier set of lungs on anyone in my life!' My son's had Leukemia for almost a year, and suddenly he's cured? It must be an act of god!"

Jeanie scoffs at my side. I look at her and she just smiles back. Neither of us say anything and turn back to the tv, neither of us really watching anymore.

This was a promising outcome.

You are someone with really bad vision problems. Upon finding a genie’s lamp, one of the three wishes you make is to have “depth perception”. However, the genie misinterprets it as “death perception”. Now you must deal with your unusual and morbid powers.

[toobertsock]

I always tried to make my office look friendly, or at least comfortable. The chairs had to be soft and inviting in dark, rich colors to match the color of the table between them and to offset the soft beige of the wall paper. There were photos of landscapes, mountains, rolling hills, waterfalls and such, but never more one than the other. It was perfectly planned out, meticulously outlined in such a way to be as neutral as possible.

I loathed my office, this farce of a room. There was no personality, no human being in this room. Just a facade, this illusion of friendliness that cleverly disguised the cold, calculating mind behind the warm smile.

The door opened suddenly, and in walked a young boy of maybe 11, possibly 12. He was lanky, with bony arms and legs and a long face. His hair was a pristine blonde, hidden behind grime from a time without bathing. He was pale, too pale to play outside very often. His glasses were crooked, one lens sticking out slightly, as if it had been forced out, and then back in multiple times. It wasn't until I looked into those dull green eyes that I realized I was seeing myself.

It wasn't necessarily the color, or the deadness, or even the way they lazily took in the room. It was what lay beneath, what had kept me in therapy all the way through school, sent to a facility and alienated my friends.

Anger. Deep seeded, fiery, undying, hate fueled rage. That howling beast sealed beneath the surface. The lack of understanding why everyone hated me, and the lack of understanding that no one truly did. I felt that same fury bubble up in my chest, and my hands clenched on the soft fabric of my recliner. Without a word I motioned to the chair in front of me. The boy sat down.

"Wait here, I'll be right back," I said. I got up a and went out the door to the vending machine just outside the door. The smell of carpet shampoo always dominated this hallway, and I nearly put my fist through the wall at the aggravation it caused me.

As always, I pushed it down, and it lingered in the background.

I returned with two drinks, a simple soda for me, and the most sugar infested, caffeine riddled concoction I could get away with putting in my personal vending machine for the boy.

Like coffee on meth, but soda.

"We'll start when you've finished that," I declare. He gladly accepts the drink, slurping slowly, loudly, unknowingly prompting me to wish for his death.

"Why?" He asks in that high pitched, annoying kid tone. I simply nod at him.

"I'll tell you when you're done," I state imperiously, slowly, loudly sucking at my drink.

After he finishes, I pop up the rest on my recliner. "My name is Jacob. What's yours?"

He smiles at me, much less lackadasically than before. "My name's Jacob, too, but my dad calls me the Mighty Dragon, because I get angry, but I'm also really strong. I love the Hulk because he's like that too!" I nod, never taking my eyes off him. He gets restless very easily, hardly being able to sit down, let alone sit still. Good, the drink was working.

"Do you know why you're here, Jacob?" He nods.

"It's because I get mad all the time at school, and I throw things," he says with a sad little tilt of his head. His hair drops on front of his eyes, long enough to reach the middle of his back, much unlike my close cut mess of hair.

"That is true. But you're also here because your teachers and the professionals dedicated to your case think you're brain damaged or retarded," I say with narrowed eyes and deep calm, hiding the fact that this enraged me very much.

"But I'm not! I'm smarter than all of my classmates, that test my brother and I took said so!" He argued loudly, petulantly.

I nodded. "I know. You know. Your parents and brothers know. Even your teachers know. They just don't care. All they see is what happens when you fail. You get angry, and you scream and you cuss and you don't calm down until you've hurt yourself enough or until you've broken something. Do you know why you're angry?" I asked him. He stared down at the floor, the sad look on his face as real as the anger in his eyes.

"Because I don't have any fr-" I slam my hand down on the table between us. He jumped and looked at me fearfully. I was glaring at him with a furious grimace, like a wild animal ready to tear his head off. I sat back slowly in my chair.

"Try again," I growled. He swallowed and nodded.

"I don't know," he said quietly, thinking that I wouldn't accept the answer. Had I been anyone else, I wouldn't have. But I knew how it was, to be angry all the time without any reason. To live and breathe a bloody rage day in and day out.

"Having friends won't help you not be angry. You're angry because of something you can't help. You'll get older and you'll still be angry. You can't help being angry. You'll ALWAYS be angry. Do you know who I am?" I ask, glaring down at him from my seat. He nods. "Then you know I know what I'm talking about. Everyone else says they know, but they don't. They can't."

"Why am I angry all the time though?" He asks quietly.

"You're angry because you are incapable of recognizing complicated emotions within yourself. Because you have only ever had experience with being sad or angry. You're depressed, but not quite yet." I said to him. He seemed confused, but content to let me continue.

"You'll hate people when you get older. You'll have them, then you'll stop hating them. One of your best friends in the whole world when you become me will be someone you hated. You'll meet people you like. You'll fall in love a hundred times but only a few times would you actually love the person you seem so taken with," the younger me smiled brightly.

"One ends up hating you, the other refuses to talk to you, and the last you will thoroughly fuck up on your own, because you will be a creepy loaner with no redeeming qualities, and a real fucking problem with keeping promises," I almost yell at him. He's crying now, quietly letting the tears fall down his cheeks, barring the occasional sob.

"Fix that. I can't. Now get the fuck out!" He runs crying out the door.

The room slowly changes, the colors on the wall becoming brighter, the landscapes replaced with pictures of me and a girl I recognize from school, one of those few that I gave my heart to. We have three children, all girls as beautiful as their mother, and I can feel my face getting wet with tears from emotions that I had refused to let see the light of day.

"Thanks, kid."

You, a therapist, has helped many people in your life. But none could prepare you for the day your childhood self walked into your office.