The Healer
This story is dedicated to Wissa. I wrote this about a month or so before she had knee surgery, because I wished I could take her pain away.
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I REMEMBER THAT IT was raining that night. I could barely see past the drops dripping from my eyelashes. The gunman’s bullet hit its mark.
“I’m sorry . . .” She choked past the blood filling her lungs.
“No, no, shh,” I whispered. I smoothed her rain-soaked hair and placed my hand over her heart, over the bullet wound, the other on her forehead.
Her eyes widened. “No,” she gasped. “Don’t.”
I shushed her gently. “I don’t want you to die,” I whispered, clenching my jaw to keep from crying. “I love you.” I took a deep breath and prepared to steal away her pain and take her from death’s grip.
It was a curse, not a gift. Those wh
