A Necessary Harm

         Charlie is weak and we all know it. Because as full moons come in dozens, each with many days in between, energy is precious. The force that makes our hearts beat, the thick plasma that flows through our veins and the catalyst that casts sparks in our minds fly. But there is a process, a method, one that requires an exchange of sorts.
         Many people pass by, oblivious to the moments when they are giving us life, makings sacrifices. Causing them in small increments is like being polite, asking gently with the eyes. There is a brush against a shoulder. While opening a door, there is a casual placing of the hand over someone else’s. It is these daily tasks that keep us alive.
         Charlie does not take these steps. His mind wonders too far onto the side of compassion and he cannot overcome his conscience. I have seen him falter; I have seen his thoughts flailing in the light, teetering away from the darkness that echoes the art of survival. I watch his round eyes as they skip over a perfectly good donor. He is noticing the man sitting across from us on the metro train, how he is suddenly overcome with a numbing migraine.
         I had touched that man. I put my cold hand directly onto his left shoulder, mumbling “excuse me, pal” as I slithered past. I had taken what I needed. Now it is Charlie’s turn. He slouches over in the seat next to me. His knee cap is dangerously close to the thigh of an elderly woman in glasses. His brow is wrinkled.
         I sense it—Charlie’s heart is sinking at the man who is fumbling with the paper, fingers trembling, removing his glasses to massage his throbbing temples.
         “This ain’t right, Bee,” Charlie says under his breath. I’m not sure if he really wants me to hear him. I do anyway. I notice that he never touches the woman’s thigh. We get off at the next stop and trudge up to our place.
         At first I wasn’t sure if I had noticed Charlie becoming weaker or if perhaps he was growing depressed instead, but now I am sure. He is losing energy and it’s happening fast. As we climb the dark stairway in our building, I hear a tumble behind me, like he had missed a step. This is going too far.
         “You can’t starve yourself like this, Charlie,” I tell him, my eyes focused on pushing the key into the lock.
         “I’m not.”
         I swing my face towards him, determined to catch the lie as it flutters away like a bat caught in the light.
         “I’m just tired of hurting people, Bee.” He is looking at the gnarled wooden floor.
         I don’t reply. I just push the door open with him trailing behind me.
         I had saved his life once. Hardly anyone would do that for a friend; risk his life for someone who didn’t even share common blood. But he was broken when I found him; he was dangling by a thread. So I put my arm out for him to hold on to. I gave him what he needed. In my heart, I knew that it was precious. The least he could do now is maintain a will to live, a will to sustain the gift.
         “Energy doesn’t grow on trees,” I say, knowing where his mind is going.
         “Exactly,” he replies softly, following me to the kitchen. “I’d rather take it from the willing, not the unsuspecting, not the weak.”
         I shake my head, pulling a beer from the fridge, snapping off the cap, shifting over to the stack of piled up mail and junk flyers. I don’t want to hear it.
         “A full moon comes once a month. I may not be able to walk straight in the meantime. But I’d rather wait until they can at least cope with what I’m taking from them. They’re stronger once a month. At least I’m not doing as much wrong.”
         The others who are like us might fall for it, give in to his begging. We would all reluctantly extend our hands, palms up-facing, just as long as Charlie asked periodically. We would all suffer the loss for him because we knew we could find energy elsewhere, and with a free conscious—I more than they.
         My nostrils flare up, my neck getting warm. It is the weak who are perfectly comfortable with living as a parasite, something they were never meant to be. I wonder how Charlie began to lose his gut, how far he had fallen. Perhaps he had always been what he is now—weak.
         I once thought Charlie had a different set of morals than the rest. Now I’m sure. Now it is rearing its fiendish head inside him. It is no longer a simple lack of energy. It is a lack of will. It is a matter of feeling sorry for survival. If this kind of sickness can spread, I worry for us all.
         “No, Charlie,” I say flatly.
         Charlie starts picking up pieces of mail too. “Come on, Bee. Just this once.”
         I shake my head. “You can’t do this anymore. Go out there and get what you need.”
         He puts his hand too close to mine, trying to tempt me. I watch him. He’s growing desperate. I won’t budge, though his finger is getting closer. I swear, if he tries it, I’ll snap. After what I saw on the metro train, I am beginning to see. I’m his crutch.
         “Please,” he whispers. “I’m fading,” his voice cracks. He brushes my fingernail with his thumb.
         Before I can catch myself, I wrap my entire hand around his wrist. He screams out in agony.
         “Bee, stop! Please! I’m sorry!”
         I am as stoic as a statue, holding him until he lands hard on his knees, crumbling on the floor. He is in tears. I am not.
         “I’ll go out there, I’ll do it. Just stop. You’ll kill me!”
         It takes a few more minutes. I feel the rush with every second, watching him fade. His shouts turn to slurs. His slurs morph into mumbles and then silence. His eyes are closing.
         The life I gave him that night, I take it back.