Medicine Man

Not in a million years would I have thought that I’d ask for help. I never have before. Not from anyone. Let alone a doctor. But he’s not a doctor, not to me.

And I don’t want to be a patient to him, either. I want to be more.

My breaths are choppy, and my hand starts to tremble with its own weight. Only then he comes to my rescue. He grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me up from the bed. Like I don’t weigh anything. Like all the heaviness is in my head.

It is.

But God, it’s so real.

As real as this gray-eyed man and his rainy smell. As real as this strong chest that I hold onto when I’m standing on my own two unsteady feet.

“Don’t go. I-I don’t think I can stand.” I swallow, my knees buckling.

His chest feels tighter than yesterday when he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I fist his shirt in gratitude. “Thank you.”

Yesterday I was hesitant about my touch. As much as I wanted it, it wasn’t necessary to my very survival. Today, it feels like he’s the only one who can bear this weight – my weight and the weight of my dark thoughts – with his large body and intense eyes.

So I lean over him, completely, bringing our chests flush together. Or rather, my chest to his ridged abdomen. He lets me, and the breath I take is the lightest one since this morning.

But there’s still that lingering heaviness. Something solid and bubbling, at the same time. Something that needs to be purged now that he’s here.

Why does he make me feel this way? That he’ll make everything better just by his presence.

After a pause, I say, “I went to a funeral once. It was for my mom’s friend. I think I was twelve or something. Do you know what I felt, when I looked at the body?”

“What?”

“My mom wouldn’t let me go near it, at first. But I snuck up to it when she wasn’t looking.” I look him in the eye, even though I want to hide my shame. “I was jealous. Of the dead body.”

I’m waiting for him to frown or throw me a condescending look even though I know he won’t. He’s not like that. And maybe that’s why I’m telling him.

When he waits for me to talk, staring at me with his calm face and beautiful eyes, I go on. “I thought she had what I wanted. I thought I wanted that. I wanted to be that, the dead body. It was something I was aspiring to. I wanted to achieve death. But I couldn’t let myself have it. I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

I focus on the pulse of his neck, the triangle of his throat, as I tighten my fist in his shirt.

“Because of my mom. Because I just… I can’t bear the thought of leaving her behind.” He’s blurry through the lens of my tears. “The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.”

A salty drop slides down my cheek before I can stop it. They are like my words today. I can’t stop them from slipping out. “Why’s it so hard? Why’s everything so hard for me? It’s not supposed to be this hard, is it? Getting up from the bed. Freshening up. Going to get breakfast. Eating. Saying hi to people. Smiling. Laughing. It shouldn’t be this hard. It can’t be. It’s me. I’ve got it all wrong somehow. I’ve got everything wrong.”

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

That’s what I am. I was born wrong. With the wrong kind of blood. In the wrong family.

“If I wasn’t born, then my mom wouldn’t be so disappointed, you know. She’d have a different daughter. A perfect daughter. She’d throw parties for her. She’d dress her up. And that daughter, she’d appreciate it. I’m not… I don’t… appreciate things… I can’t…”

My thoughts are breaking up, getting chaotic, but everything screeches to a halt when he puts his hand on me. Or rather just one finger. Thumb on my cheek.

My gaze skitters to his face and the look he gives me is penetrating.

So penetrating that all the glaring brightness inside my head seems to be dimming under the shine of his eyes.

“It’s intimidating. It’s terrifying to fight every second of every day. To wake up, tired and exhausted, knowing that you have to do it all again. It’s easy to give up, isn’t it?” he rasps, his thumb sliding along the single stream of tear.

His touch, bare minimum as it is, is dimming every other feeling inside me. My lips part and my heart flutters inside my chest.

The sign that I’m alive. The sign that I can feel his touch.

I nod, brimming with life and yet, so pliable and submissive. “Yes.”

“Yeah. It would be so easy to just give up. Not fight.” His voice is hypnotizing, so hypnotizing that I want to sleep wrapped around with it. “You know why we don’t? At least, mostly? Because we’re born fighters. We come into this life, kicking and screaming, bursting with all the energy. There’s no shame in having to fight. There’s no shame in having to kick and scream. There’s no shame in being a warrior. It’s the most honorable thing you can do for yourself. Pick up a sword and fight. Just reach out, Willow, and pick it up. That’s all you have to do. And if someone makes you feel ashamed just for the fact that you’re a fighter, then...” He licks his lips. “Then fuck them.”