Passion of the Different Read Free Page A

focused. “What’s wrong?” she asked quickly.
    “You said a word,” his voice staggered out. He leaned his head back and put both hands on each side, his long brown hair spilling over the back of the couch.
    “For crying out...” she tested slowly, and her hands shot out to steady him as she realized the word 'crying' had done something to him. He writhed as if in agony and she had no idea what to do. “I’m sorry!” she added louder, hoping it would reach him as she started to feel responsible for his pain, and also frustrated in not knowing what or why this was making him thrash.
    He gave no notice he heard the apology. He couldn’t. Something about the word thundered through his mind, something close. There was no physical surface pain, but a horrible shifting pressure as if something wanted out, a deep pulse pushing forward from the center of his head. A mental squeeze that was high in pressure. He knew what that something was, and even as he fought it, he hoped it would win.
    It was a lost memory trying like hell to break out.
    A deeply buried and powerful memory was drilling through the cold black barrier in his mind. Hands pressed each side of his head and they tried their best to squeeze it out. Realization set in that they were his own hands, as he thought for a crazy moment that is was Myra who was doing the squeezing. He barely felt her long cool fingers on his chest, pressing him back and trying to steady his thrashing.
    Crying. That word was so close to the front of his thoughts. Why? What was special about it? He mentally repeated it to his striving mind again, and the barrier in his head heaved again. A damn common word as far as he knew. What was it? What! There was an internal popping sound only his ears could hear, as if he was adjusting to a different altitude. A good change.
    The pressure was off instantly and he felt better than normal. He found himself sitting on the couch with hardly any recall as to how he sat down there. Then he became aware of Myra and her beautiful eyes, filled with fright now and a small tear about to fall from one corner. Her light blue hair was in disarray around her pale shoulders and her hands remained palm down on his wide chest, as if expecting him to start thrashing again without warning.
    Love for Myra exploded throughout his entire being like some star in the night sky going nova and turning the darkness into new and unexpected daylight. Skills he didn't know he had at masking his thoughts clicked into action and his expression smoothed. He felt, not knew, just felt that there was nobody more caring than this gentle woman before him. The fact that she was physically pretty was enhanced into a serene beauty by the force of her caring spirit. It pulled him like a magnet. If the situation had been normal and he was one hundred percent certain she felt the same about him, he would have taken her into his arms and kissed her with every fiber of his being. He knew better however, to not act on it. Especially during this moment of near personal crisis.
    He knew why the word 'crying' affected him like it did. It sounded close with her musical accent. So very close to something he had tried in vain to recall when he first woke up. His calm finally reached her and she started to search his face for an understanding. Though he was deeply in love with her, he had to guard it. Hide the emotion as much as he could until the time was right to let her know such things. Now however, she needed an explanation as to why he struggled with himself so hard.
    “You said crying,” he explained, voice calm as he lowered his hands to hers and politely took them off his chest. “With your accent, it’s close. Almost sounds just like it. It hurt my head coming out and I don’t know why. Because you said crying, I know my name.”
    Her hands reversed themselves in his and she clasped his palms and squeezed as she asked sotto voce, “What is it?”
    “My name is Ryan,” he replied.