[Be] fear (less)

September

“Here you are, Mr. Freeman,” I said politely as I placed a cup of coffee before him with a napkin underneath.

“Thank you, hun,” he grumbled and coughed with the napkin held close to his mouth. I caught just a glimpse of the blood he hid in the napkin and while it was wrong, it gave me joy.

I’d been serving this man his same combination—two sugars, three creams, and a pinch of arsenic-every day for the past six months, since I started working at this diner. This wasn’t my first gig in the restaurant business but circumstances being what they were at the time, I found myself in need of new employment several months back.

Mr. Freeman was your typical middle-aged, washed-up career man—scrawny, thinning black hair which now only crested his head and muscles that couldn’t stand up to a fifth-grade bully. I knew more about him than anyone else in this diner, and while anyone else would pity him for his sob story of losing his wife and kids in a bitter divorce, I found myself lacking in the pity department.

To me, Mr. Freeman was more than a sad man who felt sorry for the circumstances he brought upon himself—he was the man who turned my childhood into one of fear and torture. Had it not been for him, I don’t know what potential my life might have had to be safer than what it turned out to be.

Between the broken bones and constant bruises, I never once felt safe in his custody when he was charged with my care. My father trusted him to take care of his little girl while he worked after my mother died, and this man, a supposed long-time friend of the family, took advantage of said situation to express his anger regarding his own life. It wasn’t my fault he lost his career and family all at once, and it sure as hell wasn’t my fault, he would never be able to get them back; but he seemed to disagree. And now, I was ensuring his reign of terror not only never repeated itself on someone else, but I was taking his punishment into my own hands.

But as much as I chose not to pity him now as he sat in the corner of my diner looking like an unsuccessful reflection of the strong man I feared for so long; I also chose not to pity myself for what had happened to me. There was no reason for me to feel sorry for myself for something that happened in the past. I couldn’t change it now and feeling sorry for myself would only make it harder to continue following through with my current assignment. My past was just that, my past. And while that was the case, I could control one thing—my future. And that was what I intended to do.

It was a rather humorous situation. I never imagined myself accepting the idea of ending another person’s life before their natural time of death. Who was I to think that was a decision which should be held in my hands? And more so, who was I to assume I even had the capability to follow through on such a thing?

At first the idea bothered me. I hated this man with every fiber of my being but killing him had only been a dream-induced fantasy. I’d never made any actual plans and gone so far as to write anything down. Even in my years of therapy, I’d always been a person of thought, not action.

I wanted to refuse, and I did—but that didn’t pan out well. I fought the idea with every fiber of my being—but sometimes there are forces stronger than any person’s sheer will; and that was the case I was now facing. My perspective changed a lot when I realized it came down to kill or be killed. When you’re faced with such drastic options it’s funny how easy it becomes to choose the former of the choices.

January

“Harper Faye Jackson, this is the end. We can no longer overlook your sin.”

I awoke with a gasp of air filling my tightened lungs. The sun leaking through the cracks in my blinds drew me further toward consciousness than I desired to be that early on a rare Saturday morning not being spent at the diner trying to convince myself that my life wasn’t entirely a lost cause.

Sleep wasn’t going to return no matter how loud my heavy eyelids cried for it—so I decided to appease my longing with coffee and a cigarette. The grounds met my fatigue with a glimpse of hope that this day could be salvaged. As the coffee brewed, I opened my bedside window and slipped out onto my balcony. The first inhale of what would certainly be too many cigarettes that morning brought with it a rush strong enough to momentarily make my hands stop shaking.

“Harper, we don’t have any other way…”

Hearing voices in my mind wasn’t a new phenomenon for me. The first time it happened earned me an extended stay in a blandly decorated psych ward and a scarlet letter. Now that I was an adult by the standards of those whose opinions technically mattered, I’d retrieved some of my life back.

It wasn’t the fact I was hearing voices again that was bothering me—it was the fact that I couldn’t help but feel as though they had a message for me this time around.

Generally, the voices came and went as they pleased, and I couldn’t control them. They were always in the present—casting doubts and darkness over my already clouded and disturbed mind. Sometimes throwing hits at my appearance, ‘you’re only loved when your ribs poke through your skin,’ ‘it doesn’t matter how many times you cut your hair, they’ll still find you,’ sometimes threatening me and reminding me that if I listened to them, I would never truly be the one calling the shots. I had my own set of radio stations with a select few choices: self-loathing or homicidal tendencies? Or how about distaste for humanity with special guest suicidal thoughts?

The voices always bothered me but the one benefit of ten years distancing me from the psych ward and the present was being on the winning side of a war between my broken brain and the right level of various drugs. For the most part the voices were manageable.

But that wasn’t the case as I sat on my balcony sucking down my third consecutive cigarette in ten minutes. I knew it was a filthy habit. And I knew that one day I would pay the price, but for now, they were one of few comforts I could still cling to.

These voices were brand new. There was a new dee-jay in town and they hadn’t auditioned for a role on my radio show—and I wasn’t okay with their guerilla warfare. What bothered me more about the bombardment was that I couldn’t peg the root of the message I felt emanating from the new collection of voices.

They were calling me by name—something which was new. And they were warning me or reminding me of something that had happened rather than mocking me or threatening me. Everything about these voices felt more direct than vague, more calculated in their sudden appearance. And yet, here I was, sitting and thinking and coming up with nothing to explain where they came from or how I was suddenly hearing them or remembering them.

“Hey, babe. How long have you been out here?”

I was startled when Jared’s voice brought me back to reality.

“Not long. How’d you sleep?” I asked as he joined me on the balcony and offered me his hoodie.

“Not too bad. You okay? I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.” He pulled me close to him and kissed me as I handed him my cigarette for a hit.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just lost in my own head,” I said as I cast the last ash over the rail of the balcony and climbed back inside our apartment.

“Coffee?”

He nodded and I poured two cups of my strong brew.

“What’s on your mind? You only go out there when something is bothering you.”

Jared always had a way of getting me to confess what was in my head. After being together for nine years and living together for the better portion of that time he knew some of my habits better than I did. He knew all about my past and loved me despite the many mistakes I’d made—something that only attracted me to him more. He had his own list of transgressions, but he managed to hide a lot of his traumas in the form of caring for me.

“I think another episode is coming on. It’s no big deal—”

“Should I call Dr. Thorne?”

“No, no—she doesn’t need to be involved. I have my meds. And this doesn’t feel the same as the others.”

“How so?” he asked as we sat across from each other at the dining room table.

“You’re going to think I’m insane,” I said with heaviness.

“That ship sailed long ago,” he joked. “What’s different?”

“They’re more, controlled, I guess is the right word. It’s like they have a specific message rather than empty taunts to get my blood pressure up.”

“What kind of message?”

“I still can’t figure that part out. Hence, the balcony session.”

“When did they start?”

“That’s the other strange part—I can’t figure out if these are actual voices like I’ve heard before or if it’s part of this strange dream I had last night. It felt so real—I usually don’t remember them but this one is sticking around for interpretation.”

“What happened?”

“I was standing in this room with gold walls and a gold floor—it felt ethereal, almost like I’d died and gone to heaven, as if that was still a possibility,” I mumbled, “and there was this panel of five people sitting in front of me. They were all disappointed in me for something they had witnessed me doing. And they were talking about this being the end of the road.”

“Did they say anything to you specifically?”

“Not that I can remember. It was just them talking about the end and how they had no other way to deal with me.”

“Strange. What do you think it’s about?”

I sighed. “I wish I could figure that out so it would stop trying to rob me of what sanity I have left.”

“Could it have anything to do with today’s date?”

I knew he was going to take it there. I’d done everything I could to avoid thinking about what today meant. It had only been a year—everything was still too fresh in my mind, and I still wasn’t ready to remove the psychological gauze I’d wrapped around that night.

“Jare—can we not go there? Not today?”

“Harper, eventually you’re going to have to answer to your conscience. Your own mental punishments are all you have left to fear. The judge sided with you—it was self- defense. You had no intention of doing it when you went out that night.”

I knew he was right. The rational part of my mind knew he was right. But the rational side of my mind wasn’t always the strongest part. The irrational side was usually what devoured my strength to fight.

The reminder of that night sent me into a series of flashbacks. I remembered sitting in the bar waiting for Jared to get off work and join me. He was late and I was angry—so I went outside to blow off my steam in the form of a few cigarettes. And that was when I saw it start.

She was innocent. She had no intention of being involved in anything except getting in her car and heading away from the bar with her drunk friend in the passenger seat. But fate had other plans.

She became the target. She didn’t do anything to provoke it, but she was chosen. The man who emerged from the shadows with the blade in his hand was probably just looking for cash for a quick score. But whatever the reason, he approached her with no fear. Walking down the alley with the friend barely keeping their feet in stride with hers made her easy to hit. She was vulnerable.

I saw this man lurking behind her, waiting for his moment to pounce. As she rounded the corner toward the parking garage where I assumed her car was waiting to take them both home, I saw him quicken his pace and go in for his hit.

I knew I had two choices: finish my smoke break and pretend I hadn’t seen this man and attempt to clear my conscience when I read the headline the next morning. Or—I could come to this innocent girl’s aid.

I chose the latter because I knew the guilt would kill me eventually and I had other plans for how I would leave this earth behind.

The man was almost walking in a crouch when I approached him from behind with my own weapon in hand. Jared insisted I always keep a knife and mace on me given I had several occasions when I was leaving work late and walking the streets of Brooklyn alone.

For this moment, I was thankful for his precautions. I called out to create a distraction.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The man immediately stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. The girl looked back and ran toward the garage as she realized what would have been. I’d thought and hoped maybe he would simply be scared off and go look for another victim for whom I would harbor no guilt—but I was wrong.

He decided to create in me a new target. So, I ran.

The alley he had skulked down became my new escape route. I reached for my phone and tried to call Jared first, but my natural clumsiness prevailed, and I tripped over the curb at the end of the alleyway.

When I saw he was catching up to me fast I knew I had one choice: fight for my life. I didn’t know what this man’s intentions were, but I imagined they weren’t intended to leave me in the same condition in which he’d found me.

He tackled me head on before I even got to my feet. The first punch to my stomach hurt more than the second to my face. The fall had left my knife a few feet away from me but still within reach if I’d had my hands free. When this man straddled me, and I felt my belt buckle begin to loosen in his hands I realized exactly how much danger I’d now found for myself.

I was a natural fighter. My rough upbringing had taught me enough lessons that I could hold my own—and for that I was finally thankful. I managed to get my hands around his throat and pressed my thumbs as tight as I could.

The part that stuck with me the most about that night was my inability to stop myself from the result.

Within a few seconds of my death grip this man was disabled and I had no reason to fear him. I could have called Jared or the police and handled this problem the way any normal person might have.

But I wasn’t normal—and I didn’t act normally.

I kept my thumbs pressed tighter and tighter against this man’s throat until he stopped moving and slumped over. The lifeless stare in his open eyes was disturbing and it pulled me from rage to regret faster than a bullet could kill a deer with a headshot.

Jared found me within a few minutes after he saw my missed call and heard me scream at the sight of what I’d done. The police were on scene just as quickly and as Jared held my hand on the way to the hospital, I played the scene in my head over and over.

Five hours, seven stitches across my right eyebrow and a several more bandages to treat superficial wounds and a broken wrist later and I was on my way home to explain myself to Jared.

The months following that night sent me on a repeat roller coaster to hell and back. The courts found me innocent. This man started the fight, and I did what I had to do to save myself from losing my own life.

I agreed with their judgement, and was thankful for it, but that didn’t change the fact I still had to convince my psyche I was truly innocent.

“Harper?”

“Hmm? What?”

“You okay? You kinda spaced out there.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said with a sigh. I knew there would always be a part of me that wished desperately to be free of the guilt stained on my soul, but some wishes just weren’t meant to come true.

“I need to smoke. Want one?” I asked as I held the pack toward Jared.

“Sure. I’ll be right there.”

He took the cigarette from my pack and got up to go toward the bedroom. I didn’t ask what was on his mind because I knew by his expression that he was upset with himself for not being able to comfort his girlfriend yet again.

It was an unhealthy pattern in our relationship, and I hated that I was the source of it—but I didn’t know how to beat it. I couldn’t remove the guilt and Jared wouldn’t ever have the right words to lift the curse over me.

“Hey, babe, are you expecting someone?”

“What?”

“There’s someone at the door. Did you invite someone over?”

I sucked in a final drag of my cigarette and climbed back inside. “No, are you?”

He shook his head and opened the door.

“Hello?”

The space in front of our door was empty and no one was in the hallway in either direction. Whoever had knocked on our door was either playing a prank and changed their minds or insanely skilled in the magic of disappearing on command.

“Look,” Jared said as he noticed a small package on our doormat.

I took it inside and unwrapped it. There was no sender’s name on it, but my full name was written in black ink on the outside of a taupe envelope on top of a neatly wrapped package. It didn’t make sense. My address wasn’t even on it—I had no family I knew of anymore. After my mother passed away, my father left, and the rest of my family disowned me after last year’s incident I had no one in my life except Jared.

“Is this some cheesy romantic expression?” I asked as I slid my finger under the flap of the envelope.

He scoffed. “Why would you think that? I would never sink this low.”

He had a point. Jared was romantic and cheesy in his own right but pretending to have an anonymous package delivered to me on a random Saturday morning was out of character for him. Which left one question: who knew my address and would bother to leave me a package with no hint of who it was from? Had one of my family members finally decided to forgive me for what they called a sin? If that was the case, were they so inconsiderate as to think a love letter confessing their wrongdoing was enough to placate over a year of judgement?

The letter was written on old, beige paper that looked worn for the years. The writing was in a penmanship I’d never seen before. Elegant and presented in the straightest of lines despite the lack of a guide—someone took a lot of care in ensuring this letter presented well.

Harper Faye Jackson,

It is with heavy hearts we have come to the only conclusion we have available. Your disregard for the laws of those seated in the duty of judgement has gone unpunished for far too long. It is time for your dues to be paid.

We have arrived on a fitting punishment that will either teach you the error of your ways or break you down until there is nothing left—in either case our issue is resolved.

In the attached package you will find a book. This book contains the legends of the emotionless and their rules of operation. There exists in these legends seven hourglasses of the immortal emotions which create a living human being. You must prove to us your wayward ways are a thing of the past through your attainment of the qualities which create a positive human being. Should you stray off the right path too far and for too long and the hourglass empties of its sand before you have achieved your goal the consequences will be dire.

As the legend dictates, when the sand has entirely fallen to the bottom of the hourglass and the subject has earned success in their given task, that emotion is forever endowed to the subject of the legends. The fate of the person facing their moment of judgement is sealed upon the weight of the sands against their will to succeed.

We desperately seek to observe a severe change in your ways. For should you fail, your only fate is to be forever cast away from the light without hope of future redemption.

Forever yours,

The Council

I didn’t know what to say or think. What was this? An elaborate joke? What kind of ‘council’ existed that thought they had this kind of power? And who did they think they were to exert authority over my eternal destiny—if that even existed. I still didn’t know what I believed happened after we died.

“What does it say?” Jared asked when he saw my perplexed expression.

I handed him the ridiculous letter and stood from my seat at the table. I started pacing as I tried to think up a logical explanation for the letter and my supposed punishment for some grave sin I had committed.

I immediately assumed the sin in question was my unfortunate occasion for murder. It was the worst thing I’d ever done in my mind and that of anyone else I’d crossed paths with—yet part of me thought it had to be something else because the only people who could hold me accountable were the judges in the various trials I’d sat through; and they’d all found me innocent.

Even if this letter was somehow directed at punishing me for killing that pile of filth the year before it still didn’t explain who this mysterious writer was and how they knew such intimate details about me and my life. My story hadn’t been anything of a spectacle. There was no news coverage and being that I had such minimal contact with anyone in my family there were few people in the courtroom.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around anything that put the pieces together in a way that even remotely made sense.

“What do you think it means?” I asked when Jared set the paper on the table with the same expression on his face.

“I don’t know. It’s sounds like some weird stuff though.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled as I took another look at the letter.

There was a strange symbol at the bottom of the page. It looked odd yet familiar to me. I studied it for a moment trying to rack my brain for the source of its familiarity.

The symbol looked as though it was of Celtic origin, but it was also unlike the other symbols I’d seen. It was a small square made of twisted knots and in the center, there was a circle with thorns pointing inward. Inside the ring of thorns was the number seven with a strike through the bottom of the number.

I couldn’t break my focus from staring at the symbol. It had my eyes locked and it was irritating that I had no idea where I’d seen it previously.

“Have you ever seen this before?” I asked as I handed the Jared the letter again and pointed out the symbol.

He studied it close and shook his head. “Nope. Have you?”

“I feel like I have but I can’t place it. This whole thing is just weird. Who could this be from?”

“I don’t know, babe. I say we just forget about it.”

“Don’t you at least want to look at the book?”

He grabbed the package and unwrapped the parchment holding the book. The cover was stiff, chestnut colored leather. The book was held shut by a small gold buckle. He unfastened the buckle and opened to the first page.

“Inside this book are the legends of the emotionless. There are seven legends, each dealing with one core emotion every human experiences in their natural life. The tasks presented lead the participant through a journey to discovering the oldest root of each emotion. If the task can be completed and the participant is able to achieve the purest form of that emotion, it is forever theirs to keep. However, should they fail to achieve their goal, they are forever deprived of that emotion.

“Each task is encrypted in a way only the current participant will recognize. It is your duty to decipher your task and complete it before the sands of time run out. Your first task awaits you on the next page—should you choose to decline this lesson your fate lies in the void of the emotionless people. The choice is yours.

“And it’s signed ‘The Council.’ Babe, did you forget to tell me you’re practicing Wiccan or something? This makes no sense.”

I didn’t have words for Jared—not yet anyway. How was I supposed to react to something like this? It wasn’t a challenge to test my mind—it was a threat on my life for all intents and purposes.

“No, you know I gave up all that crap after high school.”

“What is this then?”

“I have no idea; but it makes me angry. Who is ‘The Council’ and where do they get off sending me something like this?”

I started pacing and mumbling to myself. When I put my hands on my head and shut my eyes tight Jared got up from the table and caught me as I paced toward him.

“Babe, stop. Open your eyes—look at me,” he whispered.

I stopped when I met his open arms and looked into his eyes. He had a serious gaze prepared to meet mine.

“Breathe. Don’t let this force an episode. We’ll just put the book away and forget about it, okay? It has to be some stupid prank or something.”

I took a few deep breaths and nodded. Jared was right. This had to be meaningless, and I was determined to convince myself—but I also knew it would be difficult to avoid focusing on it. As much as the whole idea angered me, it also intrigued me. Whoever was behind it obviously had inside knowledge of my life and had gone through a lot of trouble to prepare everything.

A week after the package arrived, I decided to feed my curiosity while I was waiting for Jared to get home from work. I had no intention of pursuing anything within the book, but I was curious to read about the first task of which the introduction spoke.

I snatched the old book from the bookshelf and climbed into bed. When I flipped to the second page my eyes grew wide at the recognition of something no one had ever seen before; a poem I had written in high school that I’d chosen not to show anyone due to its particularly dark flair.

Tonight; I lie in fear, waken. I see the owl.

Sleep has vanished, I feel forsaken; I see the owl.

Freedom calls my name in the mocking distance.

Erase this reverie, I feel shaken. I see the owl.

Escaping for the sake of my youth; a lovely concept.

I’ll plot the plans, you run; I’m taken. I see the owl.

Enveloped by him, my thoughts are filtered anew.

Sleeping seven years, awaken! I see the owl

Mellowed under his sway. I have no ammunition to fight.

Desperation replaces hope. Mistaken. I see the owl.

These two people living as one cannot coexist.

A victor rises. Reawaken. I see the owl.

The sight of that poem caught me off guard and panicked me enough to require a Xanax to calm my nerves. When I felt as though I could handle a glance at the writing placed beneath the poem, I was shocked all over again to see yet another warning.

It is expected the sight of this poem should come as a shock to you. We will not reveal our ways, and you are encouraged not to pursue our methods of obtaining our information or the consequences you meet will not be pleasant.

This poem is meant to serve as a trigger to provoke your memory of its origin. Your first task is held within its meaning. The first emotion you stand to lose is fear. We bid you well. Your time starts now…

My eyes opened wide when I stared at the bottom of the page and saw an image of an hourglass slowly draw itself onto the page. It appeared with the top completely full of sand and my eyes followed down the page as the first grain of sand dropped to the bottom.

I slammed the book shut and ran back over to the shelf. When I heard Jared come in, I tried my best to compose myself. I wanted to believe this was all still some elaborate joke. Maybe one of my friends who stilled practiced Wiccan was sending me a message; I couldn’t count how many people were probably still angry at me for abandoning my coven when I did.

“Hey hon, how was work?” I asked and greeted him with a kiss.

“Not too bad. You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just thinking again.”

“What are you thinking about?” He asked as we climbed into bed together.

I rested my head on his chest and stared at the ceiling. I had two choices: I could tell him what was on my mind and be rational about what I’d just seen in that book or, I could deny everything my mind was screaming about until I managed to bury it deep enough to forget it.

I chose the latter.

“Just the same schizo stuff as usual,” I said blithely.

He leaned down and kissed the top of my head as he wrapped an arm around me. Feeling him pull me close to him and hearing the steady beat of his heart was a feeling I imagined was close ecstasy. I loved Jared. He was the only person I still had who loved me back and he was the only one who stayed by my side after the smoke cleared last year.

Jared reached over and shut off our bedside lamp and held me close as I snuggled up against him. I loved so many things about him but one of the more important things was he’d taken care to learn how to love me. He didn’t see me as a mental illness like so many others in my life had chosen to. Instead, he chose to look at me as a human being working through her flaws—and he helped me in whatever way he could. And I appreciated that he allowed me to do the same for him on the rare occasion his demons chose to speak up.

We had a solid rhythm to our relationship. We leaned on one another, but we also knew how to survive without the other. Jared was everything while he was also someone who I didn’t need in my life to keep going. I never wanted our relationship to end but I also knew if it did, it wouldn’t break me—and I knew he felt the same way.

When a week had passed since I dared take a second look at the mysterious book, I started to feel better about everything. The thoughts about what I’d seen were turning to fleeting remnants faster with each day.

As Jared and I were fooling around one night I felt as though I was getting past what I’d seen. My mind wasn’t focused on the book at all—I was only focused on Jared and what he was doing. And the reward for my undivided attention started off amazing.

“I love you so much,” I panted between kisses, and he threw me on our bed and climbed on top of me.

“I love you too,” he whispered in my ear. When he started kissing my neck, he knew I would be helpless to his every whim.

That is, until I had to put a stop to everything.

“Ah! Oh, my God that hurts!” I screamed.

Jared jumped off me and stood beside me.

“What is it, babe? Was I too rough?”

“No, it’s my ribs,” I grimaced as the pain increased. “They feel like they’re on fire.”

Jared helped me sit up in bed and grabbed an ice pack.

“Let me take a look,” he said as he sat beside me.

Even the feeling of him lifting my tank top to expose my right side was excruciating.

“There isn’t a mark on you. Did you do anything earlier that could have caused this?”

“Ah, I can’t—I can’t think of anything.” I felt as though I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air because every breath was causing another intense wave of pain.

“Stand up,” Jared asked as he helped me to my feet. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

I felt delirious the entire drive to the ER. Every turn and bump in the car reminded me of how bad the pain was.

He ran inside right up to the counter to ask for a wheelchair as soon as we arrived. A nurse followed him out and started asking the same questions I’d already answered.

“She doesn’t know what caused it. The pain came on so suddenly. We were in bed and then she started screaming.”

The fear in Jared’s voice worried me. He was generally a stoic person and to realize how terrified he was didn’t bode well for me holding it together.

The nurse brought me back to triage immediately and I was seen by a doctor before anyone else because of how intense the pain was. Jared did most of the talking because I could hardly breathe let alone answer questions.

“Harper, we need to get a CT before we can diagnose anything, but I don’t think this is just your ribs,” the doctor explained.

I should have been concerned by that statement. I should have wanted to ask more questions. I should have been begging them to explain more of their thoughts before taking me away from Jared to run their tests.

But I wasn’t. I didn’t care. I just needed the pain to stop. And I needed it to stop now.

I couldn’t hardly stand the pain of lying down for the scan. Being on my back made the pain worse. But I managed to make it through for the sake of getting it to stop.

The nurse brought me back to my room and drew blood for more tests.

“Do you have any allergies to medications?”

“No,” I whispered.

“We can’t give you anything for the pain until the doctor gets the scans back, but I can try to make you more comfortable.”

She grabbed a couple extra pillows and placed them under my back to serve as cushion. I couldn’t believe it when some of the pain was relieved.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“Are you okay?” Jared asked when the nurse left us alone.

I shook my head with tears marking my cheeks. “I’m scared Jared—I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

“I know. It’s going to be okay. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I reached out for his hand and squeezed tight. I needed him now more than ever.

The doctor returned rather quickly with a grim look on his face.

“Harper, we’re going to have to admit you,” he began.

“Why? What’s going on?” Jared asked with more fear.

“This isn’t in your ribs. Harper, your kidneys are failing.”