Questions [3]

Dr Caesar does a series of tests which involve my senses. He tells me everything seems normal. He’s a very calming person -someone who can be spoken to about anything and he would listen. I haven’t been to very many doctors growing up, but I imagine they’re all very similar in that way.

“Ethan seems so worried about you,” Caesar says, “I thought you two were a couple.”

“No way,” I laugh. “Ethan has a habit of collecting the numbers of beautiful girls who come to get tats done at the parlour. And I’m sure he gets numbers wherever else he goes, too. He’s not a bad guy and he’s not a bad-looking guy, but he’s my best friend. I don’t want to jeopardize that. Our friendship is a magic of its own.”

“I understand,” is all Caesar says, but somehow, he seems disappointed.

After a few silent moments of him conducting a test and scribbling notes, he asks me an odd question.

“Do you believe in the extraordinary?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled. “Like... aliens, life on other planets, the existence of a greater, superior being, that kind of stuff?”

“Magic,” is all he says. “Any kind of wonderful or terrible magic. Do you believe in magic?”

“I suppose I do,” I answer. “Magic changes things. Just as any person or living thing can change things. I think that belief is what gives way to the existence of magic. When someone believes in something it makes it real. Like love. Love is a kind of magic. It’s alive and it thrives. It belongs to certain people and spreads. Love changes things. I think that love is a kind of magic. I can’t recall any others off hand that I personally believe in, though.”

“You said that magic changes things,” he says, getting comfortable, “which... I find very interesting. So, I must ask –if love is magic, what kind of love is magic?”

“Any kind of love. Regardless of what others believe, Love is the most powerful magic to ever exist. That’s what I think.”

“So,” he thinks, “what if someone had a love for something –like a subject in school, or a favourite element. Like Fire. Does that mean they can wield magic?”

“Definitely. They change things with their love for it. If someone loves fire, then they can use fire to either make a mess or send a positive message –they can use it to create art or to burn something to the ground. There’s magic in the creation. There’s magic in the chaos. They could choose to create things with fire, or to destroy things. Their love for fire alone can do that. That’s what love does to people. It’s a kind of magic that convinces them they can do anything. That’s what I think the magic is. The magic is getting this unshakable feeling that you can do anything, and it encourages you to try.”

“Do you think you are someone capable of wielding that kind of magic?” he asks me.

“I think everyone has that capability. Whether they’re good people or not, everyone loves something. There is not a single person in this world who hates everything. At some point in their life, every bitter person once loved something –even if they loved it too much.”

“What do you love, then?”

This stunts me. All at once, my mind overflows with thoughts –enough to make me speechless. There were many things I once felt motivated to do; things that gave me a rush of adrenaline; things that brought me happiness; things that made me feel alive.

“I love feeling alive,” I say. “But I’m suddenly realising that I haven’t truly felt alive in a very long time.”

“When do you feel most alive?”

“When I can express myself freely by doing the things I want to –the things I like to. When I can create things –like my tattoo designs for example- that not only remind me of who I am but also that my feelings are valid, and that I can make changes in the world. A feeling that I am doing something that will make other people acknowledge my existence. Leaving a mark on the world –even if it’s through something like spilled tattoo ink, makes me feel alive. I crave life in the rawest forms. Through expressed creativity. Expressed thoughts and feelings.”

“You have a very passionate mind and soul, Faye,” Caesar says to me. “I’m very honoured to meet you. I’m honoured to be the first of many people who will meet you. I hope that you never let that magic burn out.”

“I try. I’m someone who has too much hope for my own good. Even on bad days, I’m always looking ahead, or trying to find the small positive things. I used to be someone very depressed. I never want to be that sad ever again.”

Caesar gives me a warm smile. After a beat, he asks another odd question.

“Do you believe in the god of opportunity?”

“What you mean like a deity? Like… Kairos from Greek mythology?”

He nods.

“I mean,” I say, carefully, “I don’t believe particularly in that god, but I believe that wherever a good opportunity presents itself, one would be a fool not to take it before it’s gone.”

Caesar studies me, considering my words with a nod. “I have something I’d like you to read. It might help you to remember something you forgot. Perhaps, it will also be a good opportunity for you.”

He shuffles through pages in his binder and pulls out a sheet of parchment paper. The writing is calligraphic. It doesn’t seem like someone’s handwriting at all, but as an artist, you can always tell a print from a handmade piece.

“Will you please read this out loud for me?” he hands me the page.

I take it, clearing my throat and studying the delicately and beautifully written words.

“There are few in this world, able to comprehend

the subliminal messages this universe may send

to the mortal ones across land, sky, and sea,

and to those gifted, humble, strong and mighty.

There are few in this realm

who can calm a storm before dusk’s end,

who can wither the leaves before Autumn is due,

or call a hurricane with a word or two.

And for those who have the ability to believe in us,

We spread Love, Hope, Courage,

Belief and Trust.

For we are the people of

a chosen generation,

transcending all boundaries

and spreading inspiration.”

“It’s a beautiful poem,” I smile, shifting to look at a smirking Caesar. He takes the sheet of parchment paper from me. “It tells quite a tale. But I don’t understand. How will it help me to remember something I forgot?”

He thinks carefully. “Do you like literature?”

“I do.”

“Then you know that there are countless tales of worlds that seem to exist only in fiction.”

“Of course.”

“What if I told you that everything you knew about your world was wrong?”

“What do you mean?” I scoff.

“I mean, what if you’ve been lied to about everything you thought you knew?”

“I don’t think I quite understand what you’re saying,” I say, nervous. “Did I forget something very important? First Ethan didn’t want to tell me what happened and now I’m finding out I might’ve been lied to about everything I know?”

“I know what happened to you earlier today,” he says. “However, it’s more complicated of a story than you would believe.”

I get comfortable in my seat. “Try me.”

“I’m going to give you an opportunity.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

He smiles. “A glimpse of what you’re forgetting. But you must know, Faye, that if you want to find out all of the truth, you have to be brave enough to face the reality of it, yourself. All we can do –all Ethan, me, or anyone can do- is give you a glimpse. The rest is up to you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “You said you like literature. I’d like you to construct a short poem in your head. It can be anything. Just close your eyes, think of a few lines, and keep memorizing it so you remember it.”

So I do it. It’s nothing fancy. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just a couple basic lines.

“You’re gifted,” he says, lowly.

“Huh?”

“Open your eyes.” When I do, he gives me the same parchment page with the poem I had read earlier. “Take a look.”

Something is different.

It’s not the poem I read.

It’s the poem I wrote… just a minute ago in my head.

“Wh-what…”

A sharp pain shocks me right in the middle of my temple. I crumple the page in my hand.

It glows.

I shut my eyes, dealing with the pressure in my head and the brightness of the light in my palm.

A voice appears in the back of my head like an echo –a familiar sound of laughter, taking me back to a time when I was very young. The vision –the memory- is clear as day.

There they were; two little boys with their older brother, standing behind a table full of vegetables in the farmer’s market. Something glowed in their bags; a bewildering, beautiful, green orb.

“Mom, look,” I had said, “Those boys have magical powers.”

“What?” She replied, turning to them. She studied the boys. She wasn’t impressed.

“Faye,” she said, turning to me, “Don’t be ridiculous. Magic only exists in books and on television.”

“But-”

“-Let’s go.”

She pulled me away.

Another memory crosses my mind of a time I had seen a teacher of mine scribble a drawing onto a scrapbook page; the doodle glowed bright neon blue.

The scene then changed; to a time when I think I had last seen a familiar glow; I was fifteen, training privately with a vocal teacher. As she sang, the microphone glowed in her hands.

The lights collide in my memory, and I open my eyes to see the bright orb in my hand.

I fall from the chair, dropping the crumpled page. The glow dies. I stare at my hand.

“What on earth…” I whisper, out of breath.

“Take this,” Caesar says, resting a box of tablets on the desk. “It’s for the migraine.”

“Wh-what was that?” I ask, startled.

“An opportunity,” he says. “To discover a place where you belong.”

“Where I belong?” I ask, scoffing.

“You said that you haven’t felt alive for a long time,” he tells me. “But it’s not that, is it? It’s simply that you need to find the place where you belong.”

“Doing what? Magic?” I ask, baffled. “You’re kidding.” I stare at the crumpled page on the floor. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“All I did was give you an opportunity,” says Caesar. “If you want to understand more, then whenever you’re ready, tell Ethan to bring you back here. Take the meds. Today they’re on me.”

I stare at this man; He’s crazy. He has to be. I must have hit my head really hard during the accident. Glowing orbs? Memories of magic? Am I dreaming? Am I in the middle of a surgery? I’m going to wake up soon… this is all a dream.

I grab the tablets and back away, heading for the exit. I push through the doors until I’m outside. Ethan shouts my name, running behind me.

I stare up at the blinding sun; flashes of the glowing orbs appear before my eyes again. The migraine returns.

“Hey, are you okay?” I hear Ethan say behind me.

Before I can respond, my knees go weak, and he shifts forward to keep me from tumbling straight to the ground.

I stare up at him, blinking away the dizziness. The brilliant emerald green of his eyes glimmer in my vision for only a moment… and I find myself realising they’ve never been ordinary at all. They’re nothing like any pair of eyes I’ve ever seen before.

No…

They’re not mere human eyes at all.

“Faye,” he says.

“Y-you…” I mutter.

His eyes...

“What’s wrong? Faye…”

His face...

“Hey, stay with me…”

His voice… is slowly fading…

“Faye…”