Michael Jacob
The girl lay on the hospital bed, her gown soaked through with sweat. The medication dripped slowly into her veins through the IV tube, but it could not ease the tidal waves of pain crashing through her. Her breathing was rapid, throat catching on hoarse moans. Her brow was furrowed, her face scarred with the marks of struggle.
At her bedside, her grandmother knelt, her aged hands tightly gripping the girl's icy ones, fingers whitening from the strain. Her eyes were closed, lips moving in weak, trembling prayers.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped in. His shirt was clean but worn, hair slightly unkempt, stubble shading his face. He carried an air of exhaustion, like a weary traveler. Without a word, he walked over, gently helped the grandmother up, and looked her in the eye.
He reached out, softly touching the girl's forehead. In that instant, the tortured contortions on her face eased. It was as if she'd fallen into a gentle dream.
The grandmother sobbed, clutching her granddaughter, whispering words of comfort. The man said nothing, slipping away as quietly as he had come.
His name was Michael Jacob.
He was an unseen presence in the hospital, a tolerated anomaly in this private clinic—a man who could take away pain.
Everything seemed normal.
Michael returned home, shrugged off his jacket, popped open a beer, and sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the television. On the table beside him sat a jar of six-colored capsules. He grabbed a handful and swallowed them with his beer. Routine.
Suddenly, the TV flickered with breaking news.
"The Return of Jesus? The Savior Messiah?!"
On screen, a handsome brown-skinned man named Gabriel Diego was giving an interview, talking about the moment he discovered his "supernatural ability" and how he used it to help the sick and suffering.
"I grew up in the largest favela in Brazil, and one day discovered I could erase others' pain..."
Michael's heart stopped. He had never imagined that someone else in the world might share his power. Erasing pain? Unthinkable.
But he didn't act. The shock faded. Life went on.
Months later, a journalist visited Michael.
"You're not like those overhyped saviors working for the rich. You're real. You comfort the poor. You're the true Messiah."
Michael only smiled faintly. "Messiah? I'm just making a living. Compared to Mr. Diego, my power's nothing. I'm no Jesus."
The journalist left, dissatisfied.
Time passed. Michael's life remained quiet.
Until the phone call.
"Hello, Mr. Jacob. This is Gabriel Diego. I've long admired your work. Would you meet with me?"
Michael hesitated. "Mr. Diego... it's the other way around. But I fear you might be disappointed."
Gabriel was radiant in the sun, skin glowing, charismatic. Michael looked nothing like him—messy curls, stubbled cheeks. No one would imagine they were peers.
Still, they talked. Gabriel invited Michael to visit the heart of his grand project.
Above the gate hung a sign: "Pain is God's gift."
As they crossed the threshold of the farm, Gabriel stumbled. Michael instinctively reached to steady him.
Gabriel recoiled. "You didn't take it, did you?!"
"What? Are you okay?"
Gabriel touched his neck, exhaled. "Sorry. I thought your power triggered on contact."
"No. I can choose. Touch doesn't mean transfer."
Gabriel looked puzzled, then smiled. "Got it. Sorry for overreacting. Let's continue."
Worlds Apart
Back from Gabriel's facility, Michael couldn't shake his unease. How could anyone want to do something like that? Could society really accept such a thing?
Though he had refused Gabriel's offer, the man was confident. Michael couldn't help but doubt. Would the world allow this?
Staring at the jar of pills, he hesitated. Then swallowed a few and fell asleep.
He dreamed of his grandfather, who moved in after his wife passed. Michael remembered massaging the old man's aching back in the garden, surrounded by flowers his grandmother once loved.
"You always make me feel better, Michael," his grandfather would say.
Michael had first realized his strange ability then—an inherited trait, maybe. His scientist parents studied iOS technology, but this was beyond science. Still, he wondered if easing pain shortened life. When his grandfather died, Michael blamed himself.
His parents reassured him: "He was already ill, grieving. Your power helped him."
But guilt lingered.
Then came the killer.
Start of the End
One morning, over breakfast, the TV blared a familiar voice:
"Gabriel Diego's 'Perfect Redemption Project' launches today in our state's prisons."
Michael froze.
"Terminal patients' pain will be transferred to willing inmates, who in return will receive sentence reductions and psychological support."
A tattooed prisoner smiled to the camera:
"This pain comes from a girl with bone cancer. I'm proud to carry it for her."
Michael dropped his spoon.
"They're really doing it? And those men... they seem happy?"
Justice Unbalanced
Michael was torn.
He had always refused to give pain to innocent creatures. But these inmates were guilty. They volunteered. Was that wrong?
Was he wrong?
While Gabriel ascended to fame, Michael drifted through life, questioning his meaning.
Final Reckoning
The phone rang again.
"Michael Jacob? Gabriel Diego. Please, come. I want you to meet someone."
Days later, Michael stood in the prison visitation room.
Behind the glass: a face from his darkest past.
"That's JR," Gabriel said. "The man who murdered your parents and sister twenty years ago."
Michael trembled.
"He agreed to receive all the pain you've stored. You always said pain should go to those with cause. He qualifies."
JR looked up.
His eyes, once cruel and mocking, now reddened, weary, and pleading.
"I know I deserve death," JR rasped. "But if I can do anything—anything—to atone... I want it. All of it."
Michael's fingers shook.
He had never imagined facing this man again. Never thought someone would beg for all his burden.
Gabriel whispered, "You said you're not a savior. But he wants to be saved. Let him."
They entered the treatment room, sterile white.
JR sat still. Michael placed his trembling hands on his shoulders.
He closed his eyes. The floodgates opened.
Twenty years of agony, absorbed from countless others, poured into JR.
His face contorted—guilt, pain, regret, then tears.
"Thank you," he choked.
Michael left in silence.
Illusion and Regret
Back home, he curled on the couch.
"How could he... face me?"
He dreamed of his sister.
"Big brother, it doesn't hurt anymore, right?"
"No," he whispered. "It still hurts."
At dawn, he opened the dusty jar of capsules.
Swallowed a handful.
Sat before the TV. Didn't turn it on.
Michael Jacob, aged 38.
Police found no signs of struggle. Just a note on the table:
"It's not the power. I'm just too weak. I'm sorry. I can't be your savior. —MJ"