Write Me Up

Official writing with some random thoughts

Part Two May 7, 2013

Filed under: General Blog-tastic Writings — Dorothy Lynn @ 10:08 pm
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“Your sister had one of her breakdowns again yesterday. It was worse this time,” she said as she scraped the last of her husband’s eggs into the garbage disposal. “Your mom called me last night while you were at work.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you tell me?” he replied, sounding unconcerned.

“I would have, but you were so tired when you got home from work last night. It was late. I didn’t want you to be worried.”

He shook his head. “I keep telling her that she needs to go see a doctor, it’s all psychological you know, this problem of hers.”

“I know, but she seems so convincing. It’s like she is in another world altogether. Sometimes I can almost believe that she really is seeing things the way she describes it. Your mom wanted to take her to the hospital, but Sophie kept saying that she couldn’t move, that it hurt too much.”

“Why didn’t she call an ambulance?” he asked. And why didn’t you call me? he thought.

“I guess she was afraid to. When she called me she sounded really scared. I could hear Sophie in the background. It didn’t sound good, but…I didn’t know what to do.” She wiped down the counter and then sat across from her husband at the kitchen table. “I should have called you.”

“It’s okay, Ginny. I couldn’t have done anything anyway. I’ll call her today, to see how she is doing. Maybe I can convince mom to take Sophie to see someone.” He folded up his newspaper and tucked it into his briefcase. He didn’t want to talk about this, not now.

“Okay.” Ginny stood up and wandered to the cupboards, looking for something to do with her hands. “I hope she will be okay,” she muttered. “She’s only seventeen.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, Ginny. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry you had to hear my mom so upset.” Not now. Not now. Why do you always have to TALK about things like this?  He wanted to yell at her to drop it, but he knew he couldn’t.

“No, I don’t mind that. It’s just, if you had heard her, Sam, it was like she was a different person. I don’t want to worry you, but I think that something might actually be wrong with her.”

He ignored the last comment. “She just needs to go to a counselor, a priest, anything, and she could get better. It’s the belief in a thing that heals you, not the thing itself. Her problem is that she doesn’t want to get better.” He was impatient now, and more than anything wanted to escape to his car, his job, somewhere to get out of this discussion.

“I suppose I agree,” she said with a reluctant nod. “It’s just that sometimes…sometimes it feel like there could be more to it than that.”

“Maybe. But don’t get too caught up in your feelings or you’ll end up just like my sister,” he chided. “I have to go, honey. I promise I’ll call my mom tonight. And let me know if she calls you again, okay?” He kissed her on the cheek as she stood at the counter, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the back door.

Ginny opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator took out a coffee mug, and slammed the door shut. How can he be so cold and exacting toward his own sister? she asked herself. And to me? Just for suggesting that Sophie might need more than a good talking to? Where is his heart? She threw her coffee mug into the sink and sat down at the table again. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes, trying to overcome the frustration. When she opened her eyes, for a split second, she saw nothing but a faint red gleam surrounding her. She blinked it away, shook her head, and went back to the sink to finish cleaning the dishes.


Part One May 6, 2013

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What kind of nonsense is this?”

“You’re dying,” she replied sadly. “And you don’t even know it.”

“Look at me though. I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Do you know where you came from?” she asked him.

“Of course. I’ve read all the history books same as you.”

“No, I mean before all that, before the history and science and philosophy. You know there is more to it than that, don’t you?”

“Is there? How could there be?” he asked.

“Where do you think your Umbra came from?

“Umbra? What do you mean? That’s just an old wives tale from before the Philosophers. It’s been proved as myth. Do you, perhaps, mean my brains, or my emotions?”

“No, I mean your Umbra, the other part, the separate part. It is not myth.” she replied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only have one part to myself. It’s just me. That’s all I have.” he stuttered.

“Oh, but it isn’t. If only you could see, if only you could read the history before the Philosophers. Would you be willing to see it?”

“What, my…Umbra?”


“Well…okay, why not?” he was skeptical, but after all, she was just a girl. What could she do to him? Better to indulge her fantasy so she’d leave him alone sooner.

“It might hurt.” she warned.

“Whatever.” He didn’t believe anything would happen anyway. She reached out and touched his arm. She held on and a shocking jolt ran through him. “It didn’t hurt.” he remarked. “Just like a tingle, really.”

“Open your eyes.” she told him.

He hadn’t realized they were closed. Blackness engulfed him. Where had the daylight gone? Everywhere, everything was a deep, dark, acrid black. He looked down at himself and saw his hand. It too was dark, but as he inspected it closer he saw it was a dull, writhing red, a raw infestation of flesh-like shadows that roiled and moved sickeningly. It made him nauseous and he could feel his knees hit the ground. He frantically picked himself up and ran to the nearest red shadow. He grabbed its arm, and it turned its face to him. He almost vomited when he beheld the horror of the diseased crimson eyes and the crawling nose sneering down at him. It was too much, his heart cried. My heart? he thought. What is my heart? All he knew was that it was terribly painful. Save me! Someone save me now! he screamed inwardly. His legs buckled once again and he remained there, prostrate on the ground, slowly but surely dying from that pain. A cool hand touched his head and he looked up with tortured eyes. A blinding blue-green glow poured down onto his face.

“Who are you?” he demanded again. This time his question was of vital importance to him.

“I’m alive,” was her answer.

“What is…this?” he held up his crawling, bloodied hand.

“It’s your Umbra. It’s the other part of you, the part that runs your life force.”

“How did I not feel this pain before? Why does no one see this? Is this why people are dying? Do you see this all the time?”His voice escalated with each urgent question.

“Come with me.”

“Take away this pain first. You did this to me. Now you have to take it away.”

“This is how you’ve always been. This sickness is your own, and no one else’s. I simply opened your eyes to it.”

“How do I get rid of it then? Can’t I just go back to how it was?”

“Come with me.” she repeated.
“But how—“

“Just come.” she started to walk away, pulling him with her, for her cool hand was still holding onto his. Were it not for this, he could not have risen at all. The pain was not physical. It was not even the pain of thinking too hard or the pain of deep emotional distress. It was much deeper, more inward, as if it belonged to a different realm of existence, a realm that he knew had been there, but was locked away and, overjoyed at its sudden release, had overtaken his senses and rebelled against him violently. He had no choice but to follow this girl, no choice but to discover how to end the suffering.