Free Shadow Touch by Marjorie M. Liu

was a torture no living creature should endure.
    But then the puppy opened its eyes and looked at her, looked at her in the way only a small helpless animal could, and she remembered a little rabbit, torn, her mother saying, “God, you are such a freak,” and her grandfather, running, running to hold back the ax. She laid the puppy flat on her lap. She did not look at the doctor or Rictor as she pressed her hands to the animal’s jutting ribs. She tried not to think of them at all as she sank deep within her heart, summoning up the strength that was hers, the essence of beautiful pain that she grappled with every time she used herself for others. Her skin prickled as the power rose—higher, stronger—until her body felt encased by lightning. Cancer was different. Cancer was easy. This required more, more and ever more. She lost her vision, but her hands were still on the puppy and she could feel—could feel that little heart, that broken, twisted body, and she pressed her will upon its spirit and goaded it to heal.
    Just take a little of me , she told it. Just take a little of what I have to give .
    It did, and through the roaring in her ears, through the pain, she heard the doctor whisper, “Thrilling.”

Chapter Four
    In his last moment of consciousness, Artur felt certain he was dying. The explosive pain in his head and chest felt immense as a thundercrash—lethal, final—so that when he fell into the nightmare it was the same as hell, that ready inferno waiting sharp as a kiss of hot iron, burning his mind blind with the furious tide of his sins. It was a nightmare symphony, screaming cries of myriad lives—his own and other’s—sucked back into the past where the world was full of concrete and windowless rooms, dozens of starved, filthy boys crammed together to live and grow and die like animals, unwanted because they were broken, defective, lost beyond help, beyond love…
    Endless and undying. I could trap you in a memory, you know. Choose one, Artur. Choose your perfect horror. Your mother, perhaps? When she left you at the orphanage and you watched her sign the papers, watched her scrawl that lovely name while you screamed and beat your fists against the floor as the men took you away and she never turned around to say good-bye, never turned to say, “I love you ,” or , “ Sorry ,” or, “I’ll be back ,” became no — no — it was forever, and she left you to die, you unnatural son, you burden, you pariah —
    No . Artur pulled himself free of that sinuous voice, so dark and persuasive. He fought for true consciousness. No. You are wrong .
    I am never wrong, Artur. Never. You should have come to me while you had the chance, while you still had a choice, while you still had —
    Artur felt pain. He clung to that discomfort and it led him away from the voice. He savored the rawness of his throat, the spinning of his head, the ache in his chest. He rolled his mind through agony and was happy for it. Happy for the torture of the physical, which anchored him safely away from that voice with its horribly patient certainty.
    He was alive. That was good, too.
    Artur moved his arms, his hands, sliding his fingers over the surface beneath him, which was cool and slick, carrying echoes of another kind of pain. Confusion where am I, oh, God, oh — damn it, I hurt; I — please don’t touch me please I was just going in for a medical study; please —
    Artur froze. Lifted up his hands and opened his eyes.
    He was not wearing gloves. He was not, in fact, wearing much of anything. Except for underwear he was completely naked. Naked to the world.
    Artur shot to his feet, stumbling as dizziness racked his tall frame. He doubled over, gagging, but his throat was so dry that all he felt was pain. Pain, pain… his own and others’—and he could not stop the onslaught, could not control the rush inside his head as his bare feet danced over the cold floor, trying to find safety, a virgin tile, something yet