Couldn't Live Without You

Ben walked hurriedly off the cold streets into his lukewarm apartment building. He took the elevator to the 7th floor, and walked to the end of the hallway, to apartment 14. He took the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door. As he stepped through, he threw open his coat, and watched the blood pool on the floor. He stared at it, watched it leak through the bandages he'd laid down. This, he thought, is the consequence of bad planning.

This is the consequence of not listening to me, said something. A something he knew well, one that called itself the Hand of Anyone.

You're not the boss of me, thought Ben. He knew the response that was to come.

Really? and a strange feeling came over him. His body became numb, and his vision tunneled. His breathing became short, and his chest hurt. And he felt a throb in the center of his chest. It's where the cancer had been. The cancer that almost killed him.

Had killed you. You'd be dead if not for me. said the thing in his head.

I know. You do a good job reminding me. Ben thought. How did you know she was going to turn violent?

Her rider, the Bullet-Thing, is always violent. It was a hunch.

Did you know her geist, the, uh, Bullet-Man?, asked Ben

Thing. Yes. Now come. We will sit, and as you think, I will restore you. Again.

Ben sat, and grabbed the photo album. He flipped it to the first page. It was a young man, smiling weakly. He was in a hospital bed, with an IV drip, and a breathing mask. The caption on the photo read: "James LaCroix, died January 14, 2007. Brain tumor." Ben touched the picture, remebering the man's laughter as he took the picture. On January 13. James had played checkers with Ben the entire day, even though it was hard for him to move or speak. He smiled the entire day. As Ben left, James had touched his hand, and Ben had felt the death. He had taken the picture then.

He wiped away a tear, and turned the page.

A child of about 4. She was young. Lying still, with tubes sticking out at all angles. She'd been born with cardiomyopathy, and had been under hospital care for about a year before this photo was taken. The next day, a nurse came in to find her dead. He thought about chance, and decided that this was not chance. This was an attack. He knew attacks.

Ben was dimly aware of a tingling sensation on his midriff, as his "partner" closed his flesh, whispering strange words all the while. He smiled, but it never reached his eyes, and he turned the page.

For an hour he read the captions, remebered their stories, imagined what their life slipping from them felt like. He paused on a few entries, like Jennifer Rhodes, died October 23, 2007, breast cancer. He saw her father, deceased, run his fingers through her hair, and he saw her shiver. In the picture, you can see his outline. Mortimer Luongo, died March 5, 2008, heart failure. Mortimer, an old Italian man, had made Ben listen, as he wrote his own obituary. He smiled as his picture was taken, and then he told Ben the last paragraph. And he paused at his own. Taken from the hospital he now volunteered at: Benjamin Li, successfully recovered from lung cancer, November 12, 2006. In the picture, clipped from a newspaper, you can see the imprint of a hand resting on his shoulder, but without anyone there.

I was there, reminded his friend. And I remain.

Ben closed the book. He feels the hand on his shoulder, and on his chest, where the cancer was plucked out. He coughs, and runs his fingers through his hair. He let it grow since his recovery.

We will visit the Bullet-Thing tomorrow. We will alert our Krewe. We will come armed, says Anyone.

I can do that, thinks Ben. He stands. He throws out the shirt, and fetches a new one, one not covered in holes and blood. He lays it on the bed, and places a little weight in the center of it. He smiles. He died, but came back, with something else. It's a memory he doesn't like, but couldn't live without it.