Omar was laboring, although no one would have guessed it by observing the prone figure lying perfectly still. Occasionally his eyeballs would turn up, showing only white, and then he would be comatose again.
The room complemented Omar's dark appearance theatrically. It was decorated entirely in sterile white and black. The accent pieces were of chrome, appearing like unpolished hunks of silver. Large abstract paintings adorned the walls, with the same motif of black and white with occasional splashes of bright red and blue. A sky-light provided bright morning light, which would cast the room in gloomy shadows when clouds passed overhead.
Omar opened his eyes, concentrating on a particular spot near the ceiling. A feminine image appeared. The conception was so clear it was almost as if an effigy was projected on the white wall; a tall woman with black hair and yellow eyes. Lucifer's eyes. The devil's eyes. But the colors surrounding her were brilliant, unlike anything he had seen in his long life.
When Omar had been a young child, walking the streets of Osaka with his mother, he used to tell her about the vivid colors he saw. His mother was always indulgent. She would smile and gently reprove, saying the person was wearing grey, not pink or yellow or any of the shades Omar saw. He would tug on her skirt, insisting, and she would smile and say that imagination was a wonderful thing. But Omar gradually learned not to mention the colors to anyone else. His tiny classmates just said he was lying.
As Omar grew older he found that the colors he perceived around his friends and relatives changed in intensity with their emotions. He now knew they were halos, or auras, these luminous radiations. Mirrors of the soul. Red usually signified anger. The lighter colors typically went with tranquility; the dark colors he learned to shy away from. What little he saw of his father was always a dark purple/black.
When Omar was almost eight, his mother contracted a terrible illness so that her color changed from the usual bright pink to a watery and nearly transparent dirty brown/grey.
One day she took him with her to an herbalist's shop in a seedy part of downtown Osaka. The place was almost hidden in a filthy alley. That was the first time Omar saw an emanation that was pure white. The tiny man was thin and very old, with eyes like black raisins in skin so blotched white and wrinkled he looked like an animated, shriveled mushroom. His hands were so thin they appeared transparent, his limbs were like sticks. Omar could see a white light shining around this ancient personage like the mystical pictures of saints in the Catholic church he passed on the way to school.
"The war is within you, lady," the herbalist had said, when he peered at Omar's beautiful mother. She had nodded. Omar understood then that his mother would die. Besides the colors he saw radiating around people he could also understand the thoughts and emotions of certain individuals. This truth about death was projected from both his mother and the ancient man.
"You can do nothing?" Omar's mother had asked.
The old man sighed and shook his head.
"I don't want to leave him..."
Suddenly, Omar felt the old man's concentrated attention. He was so angry that the herbalist would not help his mother, he willed the old man dead on the spot. He wished it with all his strength, despising the old man like he had never hated anyone before. He hated his father, yes. He loathed his classmates because they laughed at his size and Occidental features. He hated his teachers because of their barely veiled contempt that he was a half-breed, but he had never felt so fierce a malignancy as he felt toward this man.
"Ah. Your son loves you very much."
That made Omar abhor the ancient healer even more and he said, "You're just a nasty old white man."
"Omar!" His mother was shocked at his bad manners.
The frail herbalist shrugged. "He is only angry that I can't make you well. Your son has a great gift."
Omar's mother did not understand. The herbalist explained that her child could detect the electromagnetic fields that surrounded all living creatures. Manipulating these fields was an ancient Oriental method of healing. Omar, her son, could be a great healer with his natural gift.
Both Omar and the old man knew this was not true. Omar saw it behind the herbalist's eyes. He was lying to give comfort. Omar knew the old man was sensing a bad seed, something dark that projected from him even at this young age. Omar didn't know what this meant, only that the old man was repelled.
Omar vowed at that moment that he would never become what the old man foretold. He would be the opposite. He would use this useless gift that could not heal his mother in another way. Something dark, to oppose the old white man with his fusty worthless bottles that cluttered the dusty apothecary.
When his mother finally wasted away a few months later, Omar was angry at her, too, for leaving him, for her weakness, and for forsaking him to a father who despised him. He renewed the vow that this contemptible gift, seeing auras, would be used as power over those he hated.
In the years that followed his only friends were the many pets his mother had allowed him, and he found he could manipulate animals easily. They did his bidding when he projected an image of his desire. His dog bit his father. His cat savagely scratched the despised nanny.
Now, as Omar lay on his couch, his mind was revisiting the night before, touching the beautiful woman, Michelle, and perceiving the recoil and fear with a satisfying sense of domination and power. Fragility drew him like a magnet to his prey. But he had to be careful. He had weakened her previously. Alcohol had also done its devil's work, but she was a naturally powerful woman. She was gaining in strength each day. He had to eat away at her defenses until she was more susceptible. Her job. Her friends. Everything must be stripped for his purpose, which he had understood the first time he had seen her in Las Vegas, and stopped motionless, all his senses alerted.
When Michelle walked past him through the lobby of the Luxur Hotel, he had seen a brilliant aura like no other. He understood immediately that she was the one, in all the millions of women, that he had been searching for. The interesting thing about Michelle was that she seemed totally innocent, with no understanding of her own powers, which had been so obvious when Omar saw the amazing, illuminating rays projecting around her.
The wall where Omar's eyes were now fixed did not have a painting or any object to concentrate on, only the grill for the building's central heating system, which was seldom used in Hawaii and high up near the ceiling. He lay supine and concentrated for about five minutes before anything happened.
Finally a black segmented stalk protruded from the grate where he was staring. He watched as several thin appendages wiggled through the grate, and a large insect made a waveringly awkward exit through the grill. Some of the legs were not working and were held high in the air, as though touching the wall would be painful. It moved slowly down the wall, hesitantly, almost like it was tired and sick.
Omar watched the performance expressionlessly as the large insect finally made it to the floor and laboriously crawled over the bumpy white carpet to his feet. The black insect stood there as if in defeat, until it finally reared up, using it's tail for extra leverage and tried to climb on Omar's slipper, still holding up two useless legs.
A small kitten bounded into the room and went for the interesting object, bent on feline destruction, sadistic and thrilling death. Omar frowned at the kitten and the small white cat stopped abruptly and lay down very still, watching the insect with unblinking blue eyes.
Omar finally shook his head and sighed. Then he reached down and picked up the insect with his extremely long fingers and examined it minutely.
Omar walked out onto the balcony which surrounded his entire apartment. He went over to a boxlike cage enclosed with mesh screen. There he dropped the insect inside with the others.
In the insect world, only the strong survive.
Omar decided to take a trip to the beach.
Heather was both pissed off and apprehensive as she stood on a promontory of rocks beside blow-hole at Hanauma Bay, a state underwater park in East Honolulu. The scene was breathtaking and she tried to concentrate on the sparkling ocean and be in the correct position the next time a large wave came. She could squint her eyes, but had to open wide when the wave came. She counted when she heard the crash of the surf and opened wide, feeling as though her eyeballs were being seared by the sun, which was still low on the horizon.
"Great shot," Franklin shouted as he touched the automatic button to film faster than he could press. "Open the coat wider next time."
The photographer was above her on another ledge of rocks. They were waiting for the next water spout, which would come a few seconds after an enormous wave would crash on the beach. Then the wave would fill an underground tunnel in the rocks below with enough pressure to push air and water, forcefully mixing the two, through the tunnel to a hole in the top of the rocks. A magnificent plume of spray would burst forth to a height of twenty to thirty feet in the air.
This natural waterspout was famous all over the island of Oahu, and the bay, with a beautiful sandy beach below, was distinguished for its tame tropical fish. There were colorful butterflyfish, goatfish parrotfish, surgeonfish and sea turtles. Since it was early morning the snorkelers and amateur sea photographers had not yet arrived to explore the underworld of the shallow inner reefs.
Heather had gone inside the blow-hole several times and ridden the ocean up and down in the natural small pool in the rocks, a dangerous and exciting pastime. It was perfectly safe when the surf was tame, which was about ninety percent of the time. But Franklin was insisting she to go into the pool today and it was just too unpredictable. The same surf which made the fantastic displays from the blow-hole was the kind that made riding inside it dangerous. Heather had never seen the geyser spout as high as today. There had been storms in Australia, which was making the surf in Hawaii pound.
The force of the water could either suck her down into the rocks below, she was a very small person, or it could yank the bathing suit right off her if it got really rough in there. Another possibility was that she could be thrown by the water's force out of the blow-hole and land on the uneven and sharp rocks. It was against the beach rules at Hanauma Bay to jump into the blow-hole and ride the surf, but the regulation was ignored by tourists and natives alike.
"Just a bit more shoulder, darling," Franklin, the photographer, was saying.
Sure, a little more shoulder and you'll get a good shot of my right boob, Heather thought, as she adjusted the fur coat she was sweltering in. She could feel her hair sticking to perspiration on her cheeks and dampening her forehead. She flicked her hair back. Fur in the islands. Fashion photography was ludicrous. And they were insisting on two for the price of one. Shots of her in a white, full length ermine coat in front of the blow hole, and then a sequence of her jumping inside the hole clad in a bikini.
Heather heard a loud crash on the beach, and opened the coat, twisting back and forth. She was wearing a natural colored body stocking under the coat, which conveyed high-fashion nakedness. The body stocking was cut low on top, scarcely concealing her chest and high on the legs, barely see-through. She wished Franklin would hurry up and finish so she could put on some clothes.
"Wow. Perfect. That one was beautiful," Franklin enthused. "Just one more time to make sure."
It took five more shots. Five more waves. Then Heather went into the silver truck standing by to change into a bikini. She used body glue in strategic areas to keep the suit on, knowing that the water would erode the glue quickly and probably leave abraded spots on her skin.
When they went over an arm of rocks which surrounded one side of the natural bay, and looked down inside the depression of the blow-hole, Heather decided her fear had been groundless. The water was filling the hole and then receding, but it didn't look nearly as dangerous as she had anticipated. Maybe the surf was quieting down a bit. She sat on the edge of the pool with Franklin taking pictures. Then she stood up and jumped in, feeling bubbles whirl around her, her hair swirling like seaweed, the sudden cool salt water making her feel alive and invigorated.
Heather moved to the side and caught hold of the rock rim to hear Franklin's instructions. He knelt in front of her, his back toward the bay. "Great wet look, with the hair slicked down, ...push it back from your forehead...Yes! Now just paddle around and look natural..."
While Franklin was speaking Heather was suddenly transfixed by the sound of a gigantic crash. Behind him she saw an enormous wave hit the beach. The biggest she had ever seen on this side of the island. She had only seconds before it would crash through the tunnel and hurtle her in the air.
Heather scissored her legs, pushed with her arms, and leaped out of the pool, practically on top of Franklin, who, prissy himself of getting wet, backed up hurriedly.
Never at a moments loss for a great picture, Franklin ran quickly around the pool and stood ready for the display. He got more than he had bargained for. Heather turned around on the other side of the pool. When the water came flying out of the blow hole he took shots of Heather jumping up. Her arms were spread high over her head, her legs apart. She looked like a sprite orchestrating the translucent plume of water, which showed her clearly on the other side of the hole from him, with the beautiful bay behind her. Her face, full of glee, reminded him of the sequence in Fantasia when Mickey Mouse starts using the Sorcerer's magic, which quickly gets out of hand.
Franklin was on automatic filming and there was a shot of Heather on the edge of the pool inside the waterfall that came down from the gigantic waterspout afterward. She was drenched and laughing. Then she turned and ran. That sequence won him a prestigious photography award.
The soon to be famous sequence of photos did not display Heather slipping on the wet rocks as she ran, or the fact that she fell and hit her head on a sharp rock.