Swinging Doors

A cognitive smack rattled my ribs the moment I entered the breakroom. Kneading my right temple with my fingers, while wrapping my left arm protectively around my chest, I heard their conversation.

"Bro," the hyper one said, coughing through his exhale out the cracked nearby window. He should stop smoking. I could already hear the start of a rasp in his voice. "that design is wicked. How long did it take?"

"Couple hours, Tim," his friend's husky voice replied almost inaudibly before raising it to a normal level and shoving off the door he was leaning against. "No big deal. You know Jimmy, he likes to take his time."

"Yeah," Tim replied while chugging a 5-Hour Energy drink. Why he was drinking that garbage was beyond me. He was already flying off the handle, not knowing what to do with himself as he pinged from one breakroom locker to another. His restless energy threatened to give me a migraine as he continued talking. "He does a dope job, though. No fuck-ups like that shit shack down on 3rd Avenue."

"Right?" tattoo guy commented rhetorically. He sat down on the distressed wooden bench and began taking off his street shoes. He pulled his black Timberlands out of his employee locker and started lacing them up. The guy was a million miles away. It was clear he was trying to be polite to his friend, participating in the conversation where needed, but keeping things to a bare minimum as the endless ranting continued around him.

"For real, Vince. Last thing you need is a permanent ink screw-up across your arm. I heard Theo talking last month. That little shit went around the way down there. Thought he was getting some kind of tribal shit on his back only to find out later the parlour fucked it up. Now he has to have it reworked. That were me, I'd kick the artist's ass."

Vincent tilted his mouth in a slight grin before he dropped it again along with his left foot that was now boot-laced to the top.

I could feel Vincent's dark, painful energy from where I stood. The guy was sitting two feet to my left, but he might as well have been on a deserted island for all the mental wool-gathering he was doing. The emotions emulating from him were hitting me in relentless waves, making me nauseous.

Usually, I tried not to get involved with people. I wasn't an introvert; I longed to interact with others more often than I did. I didn't have self-esteem issues; my sense of individuality was healthy.

Being a psychic empath kept me reserved, though. It was a matter of survival. The idea of letting in everyone else's baggage scared the crap out of me. There's a lot of screwed-up people out there.

This guy, though.

Hmmm.

There was something hidden beneath all of his protective layers and walls. Despite the numerous tattoos, the heavy leather jacket that he hung in the rusted locker in front of him, and the shit-kicker boots protecting his feet, this guy was all heart. And I could feel it breaking from where I stood. A waterfall of grief poured over me, engulfing me in sorrow. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling as I gasped through the pain.

Drowning in his wake, I broke the usual rules of keeping my distance and walked up to the sheep in wolf's clothing. Caught unawares, he blinked up to look at me; a complete stranger now invading his space. I knew I was crowding him. I could feel his instincts kick in and then relent as he took in my small stature. I had been assessed. I was deemed a curiosity not a true threat.

Little did he know.

Used to being underestimated, I tried to block out my need to smirk. A snarky comment wouldn't help this guy and I really wanted to do something, anything, to offer him comfort at a time like this.

Bending down slowly, I reached out to grasp his right hand and hold it tenderly in my palm. As I knelt before him, I could feel the unease of my intentions slip off his shoulders onto my own. He was leery and back on alert mode.

I didn't blame him. My conduct was out of bounds and I knew it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, slowly rubbing the top of his hand with the pads of my fingertips. "I'm so sorry you're going through this. It will get better, though, Vincent. I promise."

Leaning into the guy, I wrapped my arms around him, opening a door of relief while holding onto him tightly. "It's ok. She'll be ok."

I could feel the guy tighten up at my forward behavior, but his need for comfort over-rode all else. He draped his arms around my waiting shoulders and began to cry. The dam broke and sobbing buckets of heartache lopped out of him.

"Whoa," I heard Tim gulp behind us. "Uh, yeah, I'll just-"

Unable to process the spectacle we were making, hyper took a walk. I held onto Vincent a little longer and let him finish. When the nearby swinging doors slowed in time with his tears, I severed my hold over Vincent and sat back on my heels.

My job done, I stood up silently, and patted the guy's shoulder before removing myself to my own locker to retrieve tissues, and my work ID. Earlier, I had had the sense that it'd be best to come in fully dressed for today's duties. I was glad to have followed the premonition. It would make my momentary speedy exit easier to pull off.

By the time I returned to the man, he was a little calmer. "Thank you," he said to me, rubbing his hand over his mouth and nose while standing in place. "I'm not sure why you did that, but I-" Vince started to say as I cut him off with a wave of the hand and the tissues.

"It was nothing," I replied before turning to leave. "I'm glad I was here to offer you a shoulder to lean on. Don't worry. She really will be fine."

I turned to go but Vincent reached out to grasp my hand before I could flee. "Wait. How do you know? What? Who told you about Jeannie? I don't know you. I mean, I've never met you. I don't understand-"

"It's ok," I tried to reason with him kindly. "Just forget about me. Go on. You have work to do today, as do I."

"But you-" he started to say before I cut him off one final time.

"I'm nobody. Forget about me," I finished the conversation. "Take care of Jeannie. The baby, too."

As I walked out the breakroom doors, I heard the man's surprised voice echo down the hall behind me. "Baby? She's pregnant?"

That kind of happy ending wasn't an often outcome. I did work in a Level I trauma center, after all. Our patients usually suffered severe injuries if they came through our doors. Family and friends' lives were all too often shattered once they got here. This guy, though? Him I could help.

So I did.

And, things were going to be ok.