The Way Out is Through

“Vincent, remember I told you what happened in the hospital after I got sick and puked all over myself trying to get to the bathroom?”

“Yes I remember you said that but …”

“Can you do what you did in the hospital?” Layla looked at Isaac.

Isaac smiled at Layla. She bent down so he could kiss her forehead.

“Thank you,” she said, standing up. She smiled at Vincent.

“Why are you….”

“Isaac just healed me.”

“What? What are you talking about.”

“Honey, I can’t explain it, and I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have the cancer anymore.”

“Woman, have you lost your mind?”

Layla grabbed Vincent’s hand and placed it on the bottom of the left side of her left breast. “Do you feel anything.?”

“No.”

“Let’s go to the hospital, right now. I have something to show you.”

When they went to the hospital, her doctor was just about to leave for the day and Layla begged him to do another mammogram. He was reluctant to do so, but he remembered that Layla Morrison was the woman who was rumored to have been miraculously cured of a brain tumor that was inoperable and, if she was insisting that she was healed again, then maybe, in her case, it was true. At the very least, he wanted to see for himself, considering that he was the one who initially gave her the diagnosis of breast cancer. He was able to put a rush on the mammogram, biopsy, blood work and other lab reports and when he received them 5 days later, he was dumbfounded. The new reports didn’t show any abnormalities at all. He was literally dumbfounded.

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The Beginning And The End Of Everything

The only reason I tried to be as still as I could, while lying underneath my father’s body was because I was playing dead. While trying to make sure that my breathing wasn’t noticeable, I was trying to be as conscious as I could be under the circumstances. As much as I wanted to scream, as much as I wanted to ask why this was happening, I figured that, as long as I didn’t move, then whoever was shooting would think he had killed everyone in the car and would leave as quickly as he had come upon us. I had hoped my father wasn’t dead, but he had stopped moving suddenly, and his body felt like a lead blanket spread out over me. He was heavy. I could hardly breathe. A minute earlier, my father had yelled and moved in front of me to block me as a man had reached in the driver’s side window with a gun and had unloaded it throughout the car, spraying all of us with bullets. Did he know my mother’s best friend who was driving my older brother to the emergency room because of his asthma? Did he know my brother, who was slumped over in the passenger seat, or was it one of those random muggings that we so often hear about on television and think it could never happen to us because of where we lived?

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