The Host

Overbeared

The voices were soft and close and, though I was now aware of them, apparently in the middle of a murmured conversation.
"I'm afraid it's too much for her," one said. The voice was soft but deep, male. "Too much for anyone. Such violence!" The tone spoke of revulsion.
"She screamed only once," said a higher, reedy, female voice, pointing out with a hint of glee, as if she were winning an argument.
"I know," the man admitted. "She is very strong. Others have had much more trauma, with less cause."
"Im sure she'll be fine, just as I told you."
"Maybe you missed your calling." There was an edge to the man's voice. Sarcasm, my memory named it. "Perhaps you were meant to be a healer, like me."  The woman made a sound of amusement. Laughter. "I doubt that. We seekers prefer a different sort of diagnosis."
My body knew this word, this title: Seeker. It sent a shudder of fear down my spine.

"I sometimes wonder if the infection of humanity touches those in your profession," the man mused. "Violence is part of your life choice. Does enough of your body's native temperament linger to give you enjoyment of the horror?" "We do not choose violence. We face it when we must. And it's a good thing for the rest of you that some of us are strong enough for the unpleasantness. Your peace would not be shattered without our work." "Once upon a time. Your vocation will soon be obsolete, I think."
"The error of that statement lies on the bed there."
"One human girl, alone and unarmed! Yes, quite a threat to our peace."
The woman breathed out heavenly. A sigh. "But where did she come from? How did she appear in the middle of Chicago, a city long civilized, hundreds of miles from any trace of rebel activity? Did she manage it alone."
She listed the questions without seeming to seek an answer, as if she had already voiced them many times.
"That's your problem, not mine."