Imposter Syndrome

Firenze

"How is he?"

The monitor continued to beep, meticulously tracking Karlo's vital signs; so far, his body showed no sign of wakefulness, as she sat inches away, holding his hand in her own.

"Recovering, but it'll be a slow and arduous process," answered the physician.

Normally, Sofie understood herself to be hospital-intolerant—allergic—if the term served her right—

Screams, memories flitting past, tiny vulnerably newborns' spirits flying this way and that, sometimes holding hands or jostling themselves between elderly folks whose cantankerous nature melted into one of sweet adoration for the young souls. Adolescent groans from the young, anguished, prematurely departed, so many voices, far too many to count—

Somehow, she realized with a start, she was no longer allergic. At least, to this facility in particular. Possibly because physician-empaths practiced here? It would make sense—they would have the medical acumen and the subconscious skills to tamper down on high emotive tension that caused such severe allergic reactions.

"How so?" Sofie asked, not without trepidation as the physician lowered her pince-nez bifocals.

"Your friend Karlo here took a concentrated dose of aqua capsule. Based on my analysis, he's particularly sensitive to the substance, and what seems to have occurred is something just short of anaphylactic."

Anaphylactic? Karlo—NO! She wanted to scream—yell—shake her fist in fury at the powers that be—why? Why him and not me?

She felt the physician's hand on her shoulder. "Sofie, this isn't your fault. He's in a medically induced coma is all. But—" the older woman sighed. "When he comes out from it, he may not..."

"....Not?"

"He may not be the person he used to be."

Hours turned to days, turned to nearly a week as Sofie kept vigil, morning to night, until she found herself summoned to a different room—tropical pink, with an ethereal abstract painting of eyes upon eyes, lamp sconces a deep serpentine green to match peacock-feathered fabric accents, a gold chandelier overhead—

Helena's chamber.

"You must resume your studies—"

"But—" Karlo—I have to be by his side—if—no, when—he wakes up. Please, I'm begging you—

Helena shook her head. "You've already learned portraiture personality reading, anti-cloaking, weaponry vis-à-vis the heat rings. It's time you practiced spatials. Again."

"Please, Helena—" Just give me this. One chance. Let me be by his side—

The older woman raised an eyebrow. Are you contradicting me?

Sofie inhaled sharply. No. Fine. Ok. Spatials. I get it.

"It's for your own good—and Karlo's!" Helena called out after Sofie's fast-departing, forlorn figure.

The next morning, the raven-haired lady paid a quick visit to Karlo's bedside. "Please let me know when he wakes up?" The physician assented. Of course, before she departed for her assignment.

She crossed several corridors until she found the room which was surprisingly modern, with raspberry-rose walls and palm fronts taller than her, large corner windows adjoining but not touching. She circled around the spot, noticing pale damask floor-to-ceiling curtains and a scalloped mustard chair. What's all this? Finally, seeing nothing particularly untoward or suspect, she sat upon the chair, visualizing, as she opened the crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

Florence, Italy. 

Sofie uttered the barest of gasps. Had Helena somehow known? About her and Karlo's future meeting spot?

Was her own mental wards that shoddy? But then again, it was Helena, leader of Goddess League. If she couldn't penetrate mental wards, who could? Closing her eyes, she began to imagine...

A pink and blue striated sky, warm seasonal climate, tan buildings from centuries upon centuries ago, perhaps a bell tower chiming in the distance, pedestrian traffic light but not overwhelming. An aged castle. A cathedral. Cobblestones, as far as the eye could see—

Hearing the Italian language, her eyes flew open. She had indeed transported herself there—here. Glowing lights filled the distant café seating further away, twinkling and effervescent. Before her were multitudes of checker-patterned tables for two, each identical to the other, empty and awaiting late afternoon's turn to dusk.

This should have been us.

Wiping a tear from her cheek, she remembered a Terri St. Cloud quote she'd perused earlier. "Here's to making the whole, beautiful..." she murmured, as she bravely stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, making her way into the unknown.