Dying Wish

This story isn't science fiction at all, and it only has one element of fantasy, but I think this is the most suitable category available, so here it is. It is set in the real world, with real people and one simple and impossible (in the real world) premise. It's sort of a 'What if?' story combined with an impossible dream. Enjoy - BB1212

*****

They say you should start a story at the start, and I guess it all really began when I died. Now I know that sounds weird, because obviously I am not dead now, but I was back then. I was dead for eight minutes and twenty five seconds according to Snotty Grist, and not only was he there, but he was also very much the sort of person who would be busy looking at his watch and timing it while everyone else was trying to resuscitate a person who had drowned.

We were on our schoolies trip, the traditional drunken celebration that marks the end of high school, and six of us had travelled up from our dreary Melbourne homes to play in the sun at Surfer's Paradise on the Gold Coast in Queensland. I was trying to impress Theresa, and after far too many beers I decided that I would try to body surf. I got dumped, and I vaguely remember my face being pushed into the sand at the bottom of the sea.

People have often asked me what I saw when I died, and that is a really tricky question. The true answer is I didn't see anything. Also I didn't hear anything and I didn't physically feel anything. I was entirely disembodied, but not like I didn't have a body any more, more like I never had one. I experienced a most pure form of serenity which was way beyond anything I can describe, and I had an amazing sensation of awareness. I had no normal senses; there were no lights, colours, smells or sounds, just a constant state of total bliss. Then I had knowledge in my consciousness, something wanted to know what would be my greatest wish if I were still alive. I didn't have to think at all, there was just awareness of my answer. My greatest wish would be for me to be able to cure cancer.

Yes, I know. What a nerd answer. But that is what I was like back then, and not a lot has changed since. I was definitely a product of my environment. Like most of my generation, both of my parents were working long hours, and they were very tired when they came home. As a result of that they had very little time or energy to devote to me, their only child. So instead of learning and adopting their upper middle class liberal values I was instead deeply influenced by the radical left wing messages that my arts teacher, Peter Boskin, had enthusiastically pushed onto the slightly lost young and malleable next generation he was teaching at every possible opportunity. He showed interest in us when our parents didn't, he made us feel like our opinions were important and he gave us all the attention that we craved. Much to my parents' helpless horror, at that stage of my life I was pretty much an idealistic environmental activist. I cared about causes and people and I despised capitalists. Like my parents. But out of everything I had heard of in my eighteen years, I knew that cancer was the worst thing in the world, so cancer was what I wanted to get rid of.

Then I knew I was going back, and that I was being given a very rare second chance at life.

My first physical feeling on my return was agony. As it turns out it is not uncommon for a person providing CPR to break the patient's ribs, and this is considered a fair trade-off for a chance to continue living. But I can tell you it sure is painful at the time. Then add to that the next action of bringing up what feels like at least four lungful's of seawater with a heaving, shattered chest and I was really missing the serenity that I had just left.

Ever since that day I have not been afraid of dying, in a way I look forward to it, but really now I just want to avoid dying painfully if I can.

I was taken in an ambulance to a hospital where I was thoroughly examined, both physically and mentally. The psyche tests were relentless, and over and over I was asked questions like 'What are your parent's names?', 'Where do you live?', and 'Who is the Prime Minister of Australia?' At that time I would have had to answer the last one with 'that depends on what week it is, doesn't it?' We had had four Prime Ministers in less than three years, so it wasn't the most stable reference to make at the time. Eventually they decided that I had not suffered any brain damage or other ill effects. Apart from my painful broken ribs the only thing I noticed was some weird red dots that sometimes appeared when I looked at people. I didn't say anything about them because I thought that was just a part of what I had been through, and I didn't want to give the doctors another reason to prod and probe. I just wanted out.

So anyway, eventually my mother grudgingly sacrificed some of her precious time to come up and discharge me from the hospital. Then we endured the long and uncomfortable train ride south, because the doctors said I shouldn't fly with broken ribs. So all the way home I got to listen to lectures on how disappointed in me my parents were, and how I had upset their lives. Apparently it was my fault that I died... well OK, I was drunk, but I wasn't trying to drown, I was just trying to get to first base with a pretty girl.

I recovered quite quickly, but that was no surprise given my youth and my state of health at the time. The only enduring results of my misadventure were that I had some sort of cult status among my peers as the kid who had died, and I still kept seeing the red spots on some people. I endured the first and ignored the second; not wanting to have any further tests or scans. I had seen enough doctors and hospitals to last me a lifetime.

My parents were very happy when I was accepted by one of the most prestigious universities in the state, but their pride turned into horror when they found out I would be doing a Batchelor of Arts degree, something they deemed to be 'useless in the real world'. My intention was to go on to Master of Social Policy, but I thought I would break that horrific news to them later. Anyway, I immediately deferred my studies for twelve months, and chose to take a gap year in which I would be following my heart and joining protests and demonstrations wherever I could, because I wanted to make the world a better place.

After a while my notoriety faded, mostly because I really didn't want to talk about it anymore and my new purpose in life took me away from the people who had known me back then. So I just became another militant activist, in amongst many other militant activists.

I was happy, because I was doing my bit, and eventually even I stopped thinking about my brush with death. That was ancient history.

I had been in the forest in Tasmania for three months protesting against the logging and destruction of a vast expanse of virgin forest. Three times I had been arrested and locked up for a short time, but now I was looking down the barrel of a much longer sentence if I was arrested again, so I decided it was time to get out and look for another way to support the cause that didn't threaten me with major jail time. Getting home and having a hot shower and a warm bed were also fantastic bonuses, but facing my parents with my long unkempt hair and straggly beard was not a bonus at all. I did have a shave and a haircut, not because of their pressure, but because I couldn't grow a real beard at the time and my hair curled ridiculously as it grew and I hated how it made me look. It was also pleasant to have my folks off my back for a couple of days.

A week or so after I got back home I had a surprise visitor. The doorbell rang and I opened it to see Theresa. I hadn't seen her since just after our schoolies trip, and that had been a very awkward visit because she felt responsible for what had happened to me. But this was a different girl, and a much more subdued one.

"Hi," I said, and she looked at me nervously. For a moment I thought she was going to turn and run away.

"Uh... hi," she said with a wan smile.

"You want to come in?" I asked, "My folks are at work." She looked nervous.

"I don't bite," I assured her, and I got another faint smile.

"Yeah, sure," she said, and she followed me into the lounge.

I organised a coffee for her and a juice for me, I never used to drink coffee during the day back then. Then we sat down and I waited. I knew there was something that she wanted to say, but she was trying to work up to it. We drank in silence and I threw her a couple of what I hoped were reassuring smiles. Finally she took a deep breath.

"Um..., Edgar," she said, "I um... I've got cancer."

For a moment I just stared at her in shock. She was only eighteen, how could she have cancer? Cancer was what old people got. What a bastard hand she had been dealt. Then I saw the tears welling in her eyes, and I snapped out of it. Theresa needed sympathy, not pity. I got up, walked over to the couch, sat next to her and hugged her. She tensed for a moment and then collapsed into my arms. I could feel her sobbing as I held her tight.

"It's just not fair," she finally said, "I'm too young for this. I've only just started uni, I've never travelled and I've never even had a real boyfriend." I held her, I stroked her hair, and I let her let it all out. "I wanted to get with you at schoolies before your... accident," she sobbed, "and then that happened."

"I really wanted to be with you too," I said quietly.

"Can you hold me for a while?" she whimpered, and I squeezed her tight.

"I'd love to."

She stayed for an hour that day, and she came back the next day, and then every day she would turn up. I let Theresa do the talking and I didn't put any pressure on her to talk about it. She didn't say much at first, but we cuddled a lot and I think she was able to handle her situation better with my support.

"Thanks for not pushing," she said one day as we lay together on the couch.

"I'm here for you," I assured her, and she nodded.

"It's breast cancer," she said suddenly, "it's only in the left one, and they need to operate. But who would want to touch it now?" she asked plaintively.

"Me," I replied, and I reached over and gently squeezed her beast through her clothing. She smiled briefly.

"My left, not yours," she said, and I hurriedly swapped. It was the one with the red spot on it, not the one without.

"I believe in equal time," I explained hastily, "I wouldn't want the other one to feel neglected." I was rewarded with a giggle.

"Edgar?"

"Yes Theresa?"

"Do you like me at least a little bit?

"I like you a lot."

Theresa smiled, and then she got up and left. As she got to the door she turned around.

"Thanks," she said quietly, and I nodded. Then she left and I went straight to the bathroom and masturbated. Just squeezing her breast had made me incredibly horny, and there was not a thing I could do to take it further with her without upsetting the delicate balance of our friendship. But I had my eyes closed and was imagining what she would look like naked when my cock exploded into the basin.

For a few days we followed a bit of a routine. We would lie together on the couch and I would gently stroke her breasts through her clothing, paying particular attention to her left one. It didn't lead to much else, although we had started kissing sometimes too. My bathroom basin gleamed due to the frequent and thorough cleaning it was getting, and my fantasies about Theresa were getting more and more graphic. But then, one day, everything changed.

We were on the couch again, and this time I was lying with my back to the arm and Theresa was lying with her back up against me. I wasn't really comfortable in that position because I was sure she could feel my erection poking into her back, but neither of us mentioned that. It was a warmer day and she was wearing a button up shirt with the top few buttons undone. I was idly playing with her breasts when my hand slipped into her shirt. I swear it just happened, it wasn't deliberate. Theresa tensed for a moment, and I froze. Then she relaxed.

"OK," she whispered and my hand resumed its exploration. When I touched her bra I paused again.

"OK," she whispered again, and I awkwardly slipped my hand into her bra and cupped her breast.

Then something really weird happened. It was like a static shock going from the centre of my palm to the middle of the red spot on her breast. Theresa jumped in surprise, but I held her tightly.

"Wait," I grunted as I felt a massive surge of energy passing from me into her and I stared in amazement as the red spot slowly shrank down to about a third of its original size.

The process took about ten minutes, and in that time the penny finally dropped. The red dots I had been seeing since I died weren't just random vision impairments, they were cancer. And as I watched the dot shrinking I knew that I was curing it.

I had wanted to be able to cure cancer, and now I could.

My energy faded out before the spot was gone, but the spot was much smaller than it had been. Then my vision dimmed and I couldn't see it at all, but somehow I knew that was because my vision of cancer had gone, not because the cancer had gone. Then I passed out.

When I came to, Theresa was shaking me and panicking.

"What the fuck was that?" she asked, her strong language showing how unnerved she was.

"I couldn't get all of it, but I got about two thirds," I said vaguely. I was still exhausted.

"What?" Theresa sounded suspicious.

"The cancer," I mumbled, "I got rid of a lot of it."

There was very long silence, and then Theresa stepped away and glared at me.

"You fucking asshole," she screamed, "how dare you joke about a thing like that?"

"Not joking," I whispered, as I tried to focus properly, but I failed.

"That's not fair," she cried, "Why would you do that? I need a friend, not bullshit like that. I never want to see you again."

I vaguely heard the front door slam as I collapsed into a deep sleep.

I woke a few hours later and the whole world seemed to be dim, and my mood matched that very well. I was sure that I had seen the spot on Theresa shrinking down, and I had been sure at the time that I was reducing her cancer, but why? Thinking about it logically it was impossible for anyone to see cancer, and it couldn't be cured by touch either. Surely if that was possible then we would all know about it wouldn't we? And there were so many people that I had seen with red spots on them too... I suddenly remembered that my mother was one of them, and that thought scared me even more. What if I could? But logic said I couldn't.

The next couple of weeks were the worst of my life. I could not see the dots anymore, but rather than making me happy it just made me even more depressed. I didn't hear from Theresa, and I guessed that she was gone from my life for good. I really missed her, but after what I had done to her, and what she had said, I didn't dare try to contact her and make up.

I stopped shaving, and I only rarely washed. I didn't go out at all; I just sat there thinking my sad thoughts as my mind unravelled inside my head. I often forgot to eat. I was slowly going insane, and I knew it. Some days I never even dressed. My parents tried to talk to me, but I was so buried in self-pity that I wouldn't even listen. Of course they decided I was on drugs and their proposed solution was to send me to rehab. That's the thing with my parents, everything has to make sense to them and if they don't have an explanation they will find one that fits their views. I was different to them; therefore I must have been on drugs. Yeah, right.

One day, while I was gloomily chasing my thoughts around in ever decreasing circles, someone knocked at the door. I knew exactly how to deal with that, I just ignored it. They would go away. But a little later they knocked again. And again. And again. Eventually the sheer persistence got me angry enough to move. I staggered to the door and wrenched it open, ready to give whoever it was a furious spray, but I stopped dead, my mouth open and my angry words frozen in my throat.

It was Theresa.

"My God," she said, "what happened to you?" I couldn't move and I couldn't talk. I just stared.

"Edgar," she asked desperately, "are you OK?"

I still couldn't move, although I was swaying a bit like I was about to fall over. The truth is I probably was. Theresa looked at me for a while, and then she seemed to make her mind up. She grabbed me, turned me around and then pushed me into the house. She followed me in and then pushed me to the lounge where I fell on the couch. Dumbly I watched as she made us drinks, then she put mine on the table next to me and sat down facing me. I finally got my voice back.

"What are you doing here?" I mumbled. She nodded, and took a deep breath.

"What did you do to me?" she asked.

"Dunno," I replied, and she stared for a while.

"I was due to have surgery to remove it the next day," she suddenly explained, "but I thought all night about what you had said, and I came to the conclusion that you would never have lied about that. You may have been wrong, but you really believed it."

I nodded.

"So I refused to go and said I wanted another test first."

"Wow," I said softly, wondering if my delaying her surgery had put her life at risk.

"I had to really fight them all, the doctors, my parents, everyone, but I didn't budge and they finally booked me in for another test. I got the results today."

"And?" I asked, terrified to hear the answer.

"The cancer is down to about a quarter of its original size, they were amazed. That pretty much never happens in a case like mine." Theresa stared at me for a while. "What did you do to me Edgar?" she asked quietly.

My mind was in turmoil. I had completely talked myself out of my initial belief that I had helped Theresa, and now, suddenly, it seemed that I had. I shook my head dumbly.

"I thought I had, then I thought I hadn't and now..." My voice trailed off.

"When was the last time you had a shower?" Theresa asked, and I shrugged. It might have been a day, it might have been a week, but who was counting anyway?

"I really want to give you a kiss and a cuddle, but you stink," she said, and then she stood up. She grabbed my hands and hauled me to my feet. My head was spinning. Had I really reduced her cancer? I didn't know, but I no longer had the vision of the spots, so even if I had I couldn't do it any more anyway.

As my mind span around and around crazily Theresa pushed me into my bathroom.

"Strip," she commanded, and I fumbled uselessly with my clothes. After a while she got impatient and she just undressed me completely. She turned the shower on, got the water to the right temperature and then pushed me in.

"Wash," she commanded, but I couldn't even pick up the soap. It was like my brain was no longer connected to my body. After a while she was obviously frustrated.

"Fuck this for a joke," Theresa muttered, and then she stripped off herself and stepped into the shower with me. She picked up the soap and thoroughly washed me, and I mean thoroughly. As she scrubbed me bit by bit I felt my gloom slowly receding. Maybe I had actually done that after all? That was good wasn't it? And I wasn't insane was I? Then I felt her hands on my cock, lathering, rinsing and stroking, and it started to react.

"Good," said Theresa in a satisfied tone, "at least this bit still works."

"I leaned over and kissed her, and she pulled me to her. I could feel her slippery breasts rubbing against my chest, and I could feel her coarse pubic hair rubbing against my leg. I pulled her harder against me, and she pulled her mouth away and grinned.

"Are you back?" she asked.