Designed with a Destiny (28 page)

“Can I have a hand?” I ask Ronan, going
right over to the soldier with the most severe injuries. It never
even occurs to me that he might be opposed to helping
them—after-all he’s completely unscathed and they’re in serious
trouble.

“You are seriously not going to heal them?”
he incredulously questions my actions when I kneel on the ground
next to a kid not much older than us, and place my hands on the
side of his face. He moans in pain, and looks at me with eyes full
of hate and fear.

“We have to Ronan. We can’t just leave them
like this—Lawrence would never approve,” I remind him, holding out
a hand for a donation of energy.

“The hell with Lawrence! He doesn’t have to
worry about constantly being shot at with a bounty out on his
head,” he growls, his face darkening with anger. He folds his arms
across his chest in a gesture that lets me know he has no intention
of contributing, and my temper flares.

“We’re designed to do things differently.
How can we make a difference if we fight using violence like
everyone else?” I say quietly, trying not to come across as
self-righteous. His jaw tightens and we lock eyes in a silent
battle of the wills. With my energy and focus unintentionally
averted, the group—no longer being guarded with tree branches—
takes advantage of their temporary freedom, and one reaches for
Chord, while several more go for the pile of weapons on the ground.
Neither Ronan nor I react quickly enough, and the soldier that I
was trying to help, grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head
back, bringing a large hunting knife to my throat.
There goes
your chances of getting that jaw healed buddy
, I think to
myself as I influence him to relax his grip on my hair just a
little. I can live with a knife at my throat temporarily but the
gun pointed at Chord’s head has to go, and the soldier holding it
has my full focus of energy and thought influencing him to aim it
at something besides my brother’s head.

“You make one wrong move and we’ll pump
every single one of you full of bullets,” he warns us, now pointing
it up at the sky.

“
Everyone hold tight—Natalie and Kennedy
are on their way. As soon as they’re in position I’ll give the
signal and we’ll make our move,”
Ronan says.
“Cat get that
knife off your throat please,”
he adds, not even looking my
way.

“
If he drops the knife now they’ll know
something’s up. He’s not hurting me,”
I respond
reassuringly.

“They’re witches—let’s just shoot 'em all
now before they put another spell on us,” someone with a Southern
accent shouts. A tall, wiry soldier pulls his pants on and steps in
front of the group, five feet from where Chord stands. “Do you hear
me—they’re evil, Satanists and need to be destroyed now!” he
screams, waving a pistol around.

“Hey Jimmy—put your gun down. We’re not
going to execute them unless we have to. Let’s get them back to the
base and let the General decide,” the one standing next to Chord
says cautiously. Jimmy tells him to shut up. His gray color
screening and the crazed look in his eyes is enough to convince me
that it’s a serious threat but it isn’t until he turns around and
raises his gun taking aim at Ronan that I act. A sudden rush of
energy leaves me as I shout the one word mental command, “Turn!”
and he does, showering his comrades with bullets as he
simultaneously pulls the trigger on his automatic weapon. I feel
like I'm now experiencing the world in slow motion. Chord reacts
with the reflexes of a Designer, tackling the one next to him to
the ground—a maneuver that saves them both from stray bullets. One
of Jimmie’s comrades shoots him in the head but not before half the
group is dead or injured. Kennedy takes care of the rest, holding
them prisoner with an automatic that I’m sure she’s skilled in
using judging by the way they obey her. I don’t give much thought
to the sharp pain in my throat until I hear Ronan’s scream and see
the look of horror on his face. Then I see it, out of the corner of
my eye, a pulsating stream of blood. I feel disembodies as a bloody
knife falls in my lap and the soldier that was holding it lets go
of my hair, making a grunting sound before slumping to the ground.
It's hard to move, and with effort I turn around to see Natalie in
his place, and the look on her face isn’t the least encouraging.
Ronan’s at my side in an instant, covering my throat with his large
hand, commanding Natalie to tear a strip of his shirt. I try to
talk but nothing comes out except a gurgling sound.

“You have to stop the bleeding Cat. Stop the
bleeding—do you understand?” His face is inches from mine and I
lose myself in his beautiful golden wolf eyes. His blood soaked
hand is trembling when he reaches for mine and places it on my wet,
warm, sticky throat. “Concentrate Cataryn. Concentrate on stopping
the bleeding. Focus all your energy to your throat.” Darkness
starts to close in on me and his face gets blurry. “Come on
Cataryn—don’t leave me. God please don’t leave me.” I feel him lift
me in his arms and I hear Chord calling my name. A hand on my arm
sends a stream of energy through me to my throat, but I can’t say
for sure if it’s doing any good. They say that hearing is the last
to go when you die and I wonder now if it’s true. Suddenly I’m in a
mental chatroom with my Designer family and I hear every single one
of their voices. Alisha instructs me on how to stop the bleeding
using medical terms that I don’t recognize. Elizabeth encourages me
with love. Claire says she needs me home alive and I can tell she’s
starting to cry. Then there’s Lawrence. His voice is calm compared
to the others and he’s telling me something completely
different.

“Chord has the ability to heal just like
you. Give him your energy—all of it and let him take over,” he
gently commands. He must give the same instructions to Ronan
because I hear him shout to Chord, “Hold one of her hands and put
your other on her throat!” I transfer every last bit of energy I
have to my brother—just like Lawrence ordered—and then I simply let
go, moving towards a light that I instinctively recognize as the
source of my creation.

***

Love—peace—harmony—a thousand times greater
than the most pure of human thoughts. A light with a vibrational
frequency so high and fast that things become invisible when in its
presence. An energy of pure unconditional love and kindness. An
energy of divine power and forgiveness. An energy of infinite
possibilities and intelligence. Lawrence was right all along—energy
is the core of who we are and who God is.

“Cataryn Avalon Cascadia McCullough.” My
full birth name is spoken, but not out loud. It’s more of a
thought, but not my own thought—a blend of two voices—one female,
one male, and I know in an instant who they belong too.

“Mom—dad.” I don’t feel the need to look for
them—I just know that they exist in this incredibly beautiful and
loving state, no longer on earth as physical beings. This knowledge
is neither upsetting nor sad to me—it’s as if I’ve always known—and
the moment that I acknowledge that I’ve known it, greater things
are revealed. I still have individual thought but my awareness is
expanded and united with everything else—past, present, and future.
I am one with the supreme creator as are my parents, and as is
everything that ever was or ever will be in existence. There are no
boundaries of time here and everything that I experience has an
opposite to it—a fast but slow, a here but there, a now but then, a
one but all. It’s incredibly peculiar, yet completely
comforting.

“We are here—but you must go back. There is
truth in your work and there is strength in your love. You must go
to the darkest places and shed light.” Once again the message is
delivered to me by the voice of my parents in the form of thought
or understanding. However, this time I hear or understand it in
every language ever spoken, by men, women, and children. They are
simultaneously one voice—yet distinctly individual. Hundreds of
scenes from all over the world begin flashing before my eyes like
twinkling stars, yet it’s as if I’m seeing the details of each of
them in slow motion—individually—and with my heart, not my eyes.
They’re scenes of intense violence and hatred. The thoughts and
feelings of the participants are understood and felt by not only
me, but my parents, and every soul of this collective whole,
including the supreme creator. I finally get it. I am just as
connected to those participants full of hatred and violence as I am
to this entity of pure love and unfathomable joy, and when I
acknowledge this truth, a burst of light like an exploding star
encases me like a cocoon, breathing unconditional love over me,
around me and through me—an indescribable love that instantly heals
and breathes life back into my body. I know I’m in the arms of
God—whose vibrational voice is as gentle as a summer breeze, yet as
powerful as a hurricane. The voice is felt and understood without
words or language and questions are answered before they're asked
in a perfectly synchronized exchange of information. The mysteries
that pertain to my life’s purpose are revealed, and will forever
change the way I think.

***

Ronan’s face, hands and clothes are covered
in my blood, as are my brother's. I see my body as they do—pale,
bloodied and lifeless. Ronan’s face contorts with fear, pain and
anguish. Our energies are so connected and intertwined that a part
of him is dying along with me. I try to make a telepathic
connection to let him know I’m coming back but my vibrational
frequency is still too high—the residual effects of being in the
presence of something that far exceeds human energy fields. For the
first time, I feel conflicted about returning and hesitate above
the scene, clinging to the peaceful afterlife, until I’m given what
can only be described as a gentle nudge, and am swallowed into a
black tunnel that transports me to my physical body. Almost
instantaneously I hear Ronan’s voice inside my mind—calling,
begging, and demanding me to live.

“
Ronan I’m here. I’m alive.”
I repeat
over and over again, fighting to open eyelids that feel twice as
heavy as they should. I can feel the warmth of energy from Chord
being streamed over the gash across my neck, but it’s no longer
necessary.
“I’m okay—everything’s okay.”
I want desperately
to comfort and calm him, but he can’t hear my words.
“Chord can
you hear me?”
I try my brother next and get an immediate
reaction.

“
Yes I can hear you Cat—are you
okay?”
I feel him squeeze my hand.

“
I can’t move yet but I’m alright. Please
tell Ronan to just take hold of my hand.”
My hands are like
conduits for energy flow, and I rely on them above anything else to
change situations. Chord conveys the message and Ronan’s hands are
trembling when he takes mine in his.

“
I thought I’d lost you again,”
he
says, his voice raw with emotion.

“
I’m not that easy to get rid of,”
I
try to reassure him, even while knowing it won’t do any good. Once
I’m able to keep my eyes open his face relaxes slightly, and I hold
his gaze as he uses his shirt to wipe the blood from my neck and
face. His eyes are troubled and I wish I had time to tell him about
my trip to the other side—it’ll change his perspective on so many
things—including death.

Where are we?”
I look around at the
surrounding gray walls, trying to correlate the sound and movement
with the last thing I remember before departing. Chord is across
from me, sitting on a red bench seat and Ronan is sitting next to
me, his body protectively draped across mine. It’s familiar yet
foreign to me.

“
Back of a helicopter.”

“
Who’s flying?”
I grasp Ronan’s
shoulder to pull myself up and catch a glimpse of Kennedy sitting
behind the military pilot with a machine gun pointed at his back.
The movement triggers intense pain in my throat which provokes an
uncontrollable vomiting reflex. He’s fast enough to redirect my aim
to the floor but for some reason doesn’t.

“That’s adorable,” he whispers in my ear,
when I’m finished barfing down his back. He tightens his arms
around me to hold me up as I mumble a feeble apology. His body
feels so warm and good against mine that I don’t attempt to break
free even though another wave of queasiness threatens the
moment.

“
Tell Kennedy that she needs to put the
gun down Ronan—we can’t use violence anymore.”
I finally manage
to say. His body shakes with silent laughter.

“Good one, Cat. I think you better lie back
down—get some blood flow to your brain,” he replies. A comment that
would be insulting coming from anyone else but him. He lowers me
down on the bench and studies me with a concerned expression when
he sees that I’m serious.

“
I’ll explain it all later, but I need to
talk to the pilot now,”
I plead, when he doesn’t make any
attempt to carry out my request.

“Okay, but just wait a few seconds—he’s
going to be landing to pick up Alisha and the others. I’ll bring
him to you—you’re in no condition to get up and walk around right
now,” he says firmly. Almost immediately we feel the helicopter dip
in a quick descent, followed by a slight jolt when it lands. Ronan
leaves to secure the pilot and I catch Chord silently watching me.
My eyes unexpectedly fill with tears.

“
Chord there’s something I need to tell
you. It’s about mom and dad…”
I privately begin, trying to
convey the transcendental experience in such a way that he’ll glean
as much peace from the news as pain.

Just when I think my life is heading in the
direction I want it to, I find myself on the brink of losing the
only thing that really matters to me. I have to force myself to
stay calm when my wife, barely alive and covered in blood—begs me
for a chance to speak with the Air Force pilot whom I believe would
just as soon finish her off than listen to anything she has to say.
In spite of her objections to me using threats and violence, I wrap
my hand around his throat and warn him that if he attempts to hurt
her in any way, I’ll snap his head off his neck—then lead him to
the back of the helicopter where I stand by ready to carry out the
threat. Kennedy, having already disarmed him looks offended when
the weapon is ripped from her hands by Cat using telekinetic
force.