Chapter 4
Lazarus~
It wasn’t often that we had walk-ins, but it did happen.
Sometimes, people were able to recognize that they needed help, and those were the best success stories that we had.
Just like alcoholics or drug addicts, if someone with mental or emotional issues wasn’t ready to get help, then it rarely worked out.
It was also a good thing that we took most insurances here.
While there were a few places that were publicly funded and would take you without insurance, The Knights Group wasn’t one of those facilities.
Every doctor here got paid for his or her work, and we got paid very well.
Most of us were also top of our class, justifying our salaries.
Our qualifications and salaries aside, The Knights Group was also very particular about their reputation in the health care field, and so we were expected to take every case seriously, and so that’s what I did.
However, this case was a little different from my usual ones.
Apparently, this walk-in had asked for me specifically, and that definitely wasn’t normal for me.
Walking into the intake room, I was immediately struck by how tall the man was.
I was six-foot-three, and this man easily had a good three inches on me.
He also looked to be around my age, forty-five or so, and he had dark brown hair, matching brown eyes, and it was easy to see that he was rather fit, his t-shirt and jeans showing off a very dedicated physique.
“Mr. Salmen, I’m Dr. Copeland, and it’s my understanding that you requested to speak with me,” I said, greeting him as I took a seat to lessen any sense of threat on my end.
“Yes, I did,” he replied, and his voice had an odd quality to it, almost as if someone were pressing on his larynx.
“Would you care to have a seat?” I asked as I gestured towards the empty chair across from the table.
Now, while the offices in the building were high-tech and very modern, the intake rooms were rather plain, designed not to overwhelm the newcomers.
It was important to make a person feel comfortable when coming to a place like this, and more so when they were about to divulge their darkest demons or most painful insecurities.
So, the intake rooms were all designed in taupe and white hues, had one elongated table in the middle, one chair on either side of that table, a small desk in the corner, and a plant or two placed aesthetically in the room.
I watched as he took a seat, and he sat in the chair as gracefully as I’d ever seen, especially for someone of his size. He reminded me of a large cat, comfortable with his movements in a way that you didn’t see often.
As soon as he was seated, I said, “It’s my understanding that you checked yourself in voluntarily.”
“Well, I had no choice,” he replied smoothly. “Though normally we aren’t permitted to interfere, exceptions can be made when...well, when things become dire.”
While he wasn’t making any sense, it wasn’t anything that I wasn’t used to.
Patients often spoke in riddles, and it was up to us to solve those riddles.
The mind was complex enough when you were sane, but when you were touched with mental illness, then that’s when communication became really complicated.
“And why do you consider things to be dire?” I asked, my tape recorder running, my pen and notepad readily available.
“They’re not yet,” he clarified. “But they will be soon, and you are nowhere near being ready.”
Just then, I noticed that his eyes were no longer brown, and I had to blink a couple of times to rid myself of the impression that the color of his eyes was shifting like a swirling smoke that was impossible.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Mr. Salmen,” I suggested, making a mental note to check when my last eye exam had been.
“My name for these purposes is Bodhi Salmen, which translates into a safe awakening,” he replied easily, and while I was going to do my due diligence and look that up, he sounded confident enough for me not to doubt him. “However, my real name is Ramiel, and I am an Archangel.”
Professionally, my initial instinct was to dismiss his claim, but I couldn’t ignore the personal reason why I wanted to hear more. Granted, it wasn’t like I was taking his claim seriously, but I was curious as to why he believed such a thing.
“You’re an Archangel?” I echoed.
He nodded, his eyes swirling a bit again. “Yes. I am Ramiel.”
“And why would an Archangel make himself known to a human?” I asked carefully.
“As I’ve said, because you’ve left us no choice,” he answered. “We are running out of time, and that has left us little options.”
“How?” I asked as I cocked my head, studying him. “How have I left you no choice?”
“Three months ago, you were in a place of opportunity, and you ruined it,” he replied, and there was only one thing that had happened three months ago that I regretted and couldn’t stop thinking about.
Knowing that he couldn’t possibly know anything about that, I asked, “If what you are saying is true, why you? Why wouldn’t God send Gabriel or Michael to show me the way?”
He looked amused by my question, but he answered anyway.
“Gabriel is only dispatched when all else fails. He is The Lord’s direct voice, and that is something that His Greatness takes seriously.
As for Michael, he is only dispatched during times of turmoil.
However, I can see why you’d ask about them since they are the most popular among us. ”
“And who are you a patron for?” Now, while I didn’t go to church every Sunday, I’d been raised Catholic, so I knew a thing or two about The Bible and its Archangels.
“I am dispatched to offer wisdom and to assist in one’s spiritual journey to manifest a mastery in what a person is capable of,” he answered seriously. “I offer guidance for intuitive insight, and I am the keeper of all the secrets that we hold within.”
“And you’re here to do that for me?”
He shook his head, that touch of amusement back on his face. “No, I am not here for you. I am here for Elisheva.”
My back immediately straightened in my seat. I knew that name, but if he was talking real-time, then there was only one person that I knew of who even came close to being called Elisheva.
“How do you know that name?” I asked, my voice wavering a bit.
“The question is, how do you know it?” he countered, his eyes swirling again. “As a matter of fact, how have you been sleeping at night, Dr. Copeland.”
There was no way that this man could know about my nightmares. In fact, no one knew about them. Though I’d told my parents about them when I’d been younger, they hadn’t taken them seriously, chalking them up to a young boy’s active imagination.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, taking him a little bit more seriously than before, though I still didn’t believe him about being an Archangel.
“I want you to bring her to me,” he ordered, and even though it was impossible, I knew exactly who he was speaking about, and that had my protective instincts screaming.
“For what?”
“As I’ve said before, because you have forced us to interfere with your ineptness,” he replied smoothly, not caring that he was insulting me to my face.
“What does she have to do with whatever it is that you’re planning?”
His brows rose with a touch of condescension. “I am not planning anything. I am merely following orders.”
“From God?” I retorted, leaving professionalism at the door, angry that this stranger was mentioning Elisabeth in any capacity.
“Yes, from God.”
“Give me one good reason why I should bring her anywhere near you,” I said, my blood warming to a dangerous level.
“Because if you do not, then all of humanity will be lost, and it will be your fault,” he replied with a conviction in his voice that made him sound believable.
Yeah, but this wasn’t real.
I didn’t believe him.
Mr. Salmen let out a deep sigh before he said, “For reasons that I am not privy to know, this cannot be done without you bringing her to me. Honestly, given the choice, I’d rather go directly to her for this, especially considering who she is, but I cannot. You must be utilized for this to work.”
“For what to work?”
“I’ve registered as a patient voluntarily, so I will wait as long as I can for you to bring her to me,” he replied evenly, refusing to answer my question. “Until then, you will know nothing.”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe any of this?” I asked, the psychiatrist in me forgotten.
“I expect you to make amends,” he smirked. “After all, that’s all you’ve been thinking about lately.”
Motherfucker.