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SHADOWS deepen as wolves cry; night in supreme reign over the earth.
The distant, deep-throttled hum of engines from the outskirts of the city, through streets and avenues, like a calling, drew closer and closer. On cue, they burst into the city’s main square with hell-raising sounds, fire on their wheels. The big bikes, metallic demons, fearsome and brutal, the roads can say, and their riders wild and fearless as night after night they played games with death.

‘Wild Things’ they called themselves, the roads their playground for daredevil stunts and acts; wildlife to live and to die if may, no regrets, no tears. The angels from above watched bemused, for how many over the years hadn’t they guided home as their loved ones cried and prayed for their souls.

Rebels of today and tomorrow who cared less how sacred and priceless life was, and as the wild things of the night continued to flirt with death, in another part of the country, in a hospital bed, prayers courted life as a young girl battled to stay alive.

A defect in her heart could not guarantee her long life; and as it grew weaker, her days became numbered. Her name was on the donor’s list for a long time, waiting as the minutes ticked away, day by day. Her eyes became dull, her lips paled, yet she could still smile a little, holding on to faith as time drew closer. The Christmas songs and jingling of bells she heard, knowing she may not see the dawn of the new year.

The irony of life, a revelation, stunning in its extreme; a young girl nurturing a dream to become a doctor, to make a worthy contribution to humanity, a girl in whose belief life was as unique as the stars, sun and moon, was, by an act of fate, being denied a chance to live.

“It’s God’s will, mom,” she said with her precious breath, “Don’t cry.”
“How can I not cry, my child?” her mother asked, a tremor in her voice, “You’re my heart and soul.”
She squeezed her mother’s hand, too weak not to even smile, and she closed her eyes.
“The angels from Heaven watching the scene of life on earth whispered, “It’s almost time.”
As the angel set to descend, a young biker performed her last daring stunt as her bike skid out of control and crashed. Doctors on-call rushed the accident victim to the theatre. She was a donor, her heart the exact match to the young, aspiring doctor drawing on her last breath. The complexity of fate and a miracle bond by prayers.
In the dark of the night, the engines hummed and revved as ‘The Wild Things’ lit candles for their fallen friend. They will continue to ride, a legacy of death and dare that must not die.
The girl who was the recipient from the donor, sang songs of praise and thanks as she heralded in the New Year. A life to treasure as she continued her studies to follow her dreams, but sometimes it seemed hushed whispers interrupted her thoughts. It was something strange, and though she tried not to focus on it, the whispers continued as though someone close was trying to tell her something. She told no one about her strange experience, knowing it was something she had to deal with on her own.
Who was trying to talk to her? And why?
Sarah always studied late into the night, and it was on one of those nights, months later, when the hushed whispered became soft, distinct words, “She wanted the best for me, but I followed the wrong path. Now I’m gone, and she’s all alone.”
Sarah said nothing, and the voice faded away. She wrote down the words and stared at it for a long time, not sure what to think. It was a young girl’s voice filled with regret for someone close to her. Sarah heard nothing more until a few days later.
“She’s so sad, she cries all the time. How could I not have known how much she loved me? I wish I could hold her now, and say ‘sorry’ but I can’t.”
The regret in the young girl’s voice was so deep, it touched Sarah’s heart, and she asked quietly, “Who are you? And why are you talking to me?”
No answer, not for another few days. Then late, the third night, the girl spoke again, “She wanted me to be someone like you; smart, ambitious and disciplined.”
“What happened?” Sarah asked.
“I became a rebel, living wild. The night I died, was the night you were given a chance to live.”
Sarah drew in her breath sharply, and put down her pen, understanding now why this was happening. The girl who had been speaking to her was the donor whose heartbeat within her. Sarah stayed calm, praying in her mind, “Please God, don’t let this be something bad for me.”
“Why,” she asked of the girl, “Are you telling me this?”
“I want you to take care of my mother, be the person I couldn’t be to her, and let her know how sorry I am, and that I loved her, so I can move on.”
Sarah travelled to the city the next day to the girl’s home, as directed, but the mother was not there, nor at the church. She found her at the cemetery, kneeling at her daughter’s grave – a sad, broken woman. Sarah touched her on the shoulders lightly and said, “Mrs. James, I’m sorry for your loss. Christine was an old school friend.”
The woman turned to look at Sarah and tried to smile, just a hint, and shook her head.
“She was my baby, my only child.”
She broke into tears and Sarah hugged her, trying to give her some comfort.
“Let prayers heal and comfort you, for in your heart you know she’s in a better place, and she wouldn’t want to see you sad.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Christine’s mother said as she continued to cry, “If only she had listened to me.”
“I’m sure if she could say sorry now, she would.”
Sarah helped the girl’s mother to her feet and said, “Come on, I’ll help you find comfort and closure. Together we will pray and I will time with you for Christine was a special friend.”
A soft, cool breeze touched Sarah and only she heard Christine’s voice.
“Thank you. Now I can leave, for my mother is in very good hands.”
Sarah smiled, “Thank you too, for your precious gift.”
And as the angels guided Christine home, ‘The Wild Things’ continued to ride – a culture, a legacy.

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