Excerpt
– Chapter One – The Good As Dead: Olivya
has just learned that her mother plans to upgrade their home-based hospice
center to euthanasia, a service called “deliverance”. GAD is short for “Good-As-Dead”. The first
“customer” as arrived:
Deliverance.
Olivya hated
that slithery word, that thin euphemism. Why not call it what it was? Murder.
Her legs tensed, straining to run through the front door, down the street, east
to Lake Michigan, and keep on going, right into the cool deep waters. Instead,
she crept to the foyer, careful to stay out of Mama's line of sight.
The
new GAD lay mummy-bound in a pale blue blanket. This one had no intention
of hanging out in a tranquilized coma or happily zoned on Hypno-Peace. He just
wanted out. She wanted to look into the soul of this death-wisher. Did it take
courage to broadcast that invitation to the Reaper? You are cordially
invited to escort me to oblivion.
The
sickly sweet stench of diseased flesh and stale urine wafted from the GAD.
His sweat-soaked orange hair lay like worms on his forehead. Straps
held his wrists to the side rails. His lips fluttered with each labored breath.
She frowned. He looked just like all the others. Nothing special - shrunken,
coma-tranked, and reeking. Was he a coward or a hero? The answer didn't show in
his face, but she could find it in his aura.
A
chill breeze rippled, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Maybe the old Reaper was
already standing right there, ready to claim his prize. If she allowed herself
to fully Sight, would she see
Death's black robes, its bottomless eyes rimmed in bone? She wanted to curse
it, spit in its hideous face. Like Papa, this newcomer had set out a welcome
mat for Death.
Mama
would be furious if she caught her gaping, disobeying orders to stay away.
Olivya would have to hurry, but a moment was all she needed.
She
closed her eyes, lifted her defenses and willed the Sight to come. Colors, shapes and lights swirled behind
her lids. She compressed them into a single point of white-light deep inside her
mind, then she opened her eyes.
The
GAD's aura, at first vague and wavy, sharpened into view. Despite the
drug-induced coma, misery rose from him in sluggish waves. The dull red of
malignancy throbbed against a background of greenish-gray - similar to the
other Good-As-Deads, but somehow weightier. Intuition told her to look more
closely.
Faint
hues darted behind that auric death-shroud, ghosts of the man's former
emotions. A streak of robin's egg blue, shimmers of peach. An eerie feeling
came over her. Something looked familiar about this combination of gentle
pastels in this particular pattern.
The
face of a smiling man rose in her mind's eye, one who had always been patient
with the friendless psychic girl. Mr. Gragg. Her Seventh Grade English teacher from
the old brick and mortar. Could this be him? It looked nothing like
him. Mr. Gragg had been thick-muscled and robust, his hair a riot of
bright orange ringlets. Yes. That pastel aura was Mr. Gragg's. She
recognized the colors of his unique, unflagging kindness. Why him? Then again,
so many in the world had cancer. Why not him?
Olivya
caught Mama's voice in the kitchen. “Any family?”
“Not
any more,” the deliveryman said.
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