The Rising

by L F Seitz

  “You are being such a baby right now,” I said. “Just change, and I will wash your clothes. I need to wash my things before the blood stains. I don’t have money to just buy new clothes.”

  He grumbled under his breath and turned into the bathroom, smearing blood on the floor with his shoe.

  “Really?” I said as he shut the door. I felt like a mom cleaning up after a child.

  When he stepped out again, he’d managed to get blood on the jogging pants. I took his dirty clothes from him and threw them in the hamper.

  “Grab me the hydrogen peroxide under the sink in the bathroom,” I said. When I was 13, I got into a fight with a boy named James Green. He was picking on a kid for having braces. I got stains all over my shirt from a bloody nose he gave me, and one of the women who worked at the foster center, Ms. Faith, taught me how hydrogen peroxide gets bloodstains out.

  Once Micah was behind me, we moved down two sets of stairs to the basement laundry room. We passed an older Latino couple, nodding politely as we passed. We nearly ran into a young guy with dreads coming up the stairs from the basement, distracted by his phone with his earbuds in. Aside from that, the apartment building was pretty quiet for a Wednesday.

  “Trying to hide my knife in sweatpants is impossible,” Micah said. I glanced to see him nearly dropping his blade in its sheath as he tried to hook it to the side of the loose sweatpants, using the metal hook on the back side that was made for something sturdy like a belt, not elastic. I tried to contain my laughter. Seeing him in my clothes made my abdomen flutter with butterflies as my imagination ran wild. Wearing clothes I’d once worn – the thought of what it would be like to be in a relationship with Micah was rabid in my thoughts. I wonder how kind he could really be when he let his walls down completely.

  I heard him huff in defeat as he shoved the blade into the sweatpants pocket and crossed his arms. He wasn’t going to be as badass in sweatpants, but he still looked good. I pulled out the first thing in the hamper, Micah’s pants, the smell of blood overpowering the vanilla that lingered on the fabric. I pulled out my soap and hydrogen peroxide and began scrubbing, hoping this would work. I had never done a stain this large before. The peroxide bubbled as I put it on the stain.

  We talked as I kept working at it. I was curious to know what other things I could do. I had made a few discoveries on my own since I saw him last, but I wanted to learn what he knew. According to him, I could heal, withstand heat, had supernatural perception, understood and could speak Latin, and could regenerate. I could understand practicing withstanding heat, for example, but what about regeneration?

  “You can essentially grow back parts of your body, to an extent,” Micah told me. “Fingers, toes, hands and feet. If you don’t die from anything else, you can regenerate in a few months.” I thought about a lizard growing back its tail and compared the cold-blooded creature to Cambions: was I like a lizard now? I wonder if demons in their original forms looked like lizards.

  I turned to Micah, his shoulders were hunched and tense. He was fixated on the laundry room doorway, with arms crossed watching intently.

  “Are you OK?”

  He met my gaze as I asked, then shook his head without answering. I continued scrubbing, noting the damage the blood created in staining the fabric. His clothes were going to be the worst. “I don’t think I’m going to get all this out,” I murmured.

  Micah still stared at the doorway. Perhaps I was missing something. I listened for any noises, but it was silent. It was the middle of a workday, after all.

  “Why are you so tense?” I asked.

  His ignoring me was starting to be irritating. I finished scrubbing the huge blotch on his pants then removed the stains from my own clothes and put the load of darks in the washer. After the clanging of the washer began, I walked over to stand beside Micah beneath the window.

  “No one can hear us talking now,” I told him. “These machines can be heard all the way up into my apartment sometimes.”

  His eyes found mine again, and he was so uneasy it was palpable. He tilted his chin up at the door. “As far as survival tactics, what do you notice about this room?”

  I took a moment to glance around. “One door,” I answered.

  “One exit, one way to get out. Knowing I have limited options bothers me,” he said. He acted as if a demon would pop up any second and trap us in here.

  “There is a window,” I said, pointing above our heads.

  “Yeah, look at the size of it,” he said. “I could most likely squeeze out, barely, if I could get my shoulders through, but you couldn’t.” I peeked up at the tiny window and chuckled. My wide hips definitely wouldn’t fit through there.

  It was weirdly amazing to think Micah had already thought of all possibilities of escape when entering this room. That’s why he positioned himself where he did, why he was so on edge. That was his training, though, to understand all ways of protecting and defending one’s self – a dream I couldn’t help but have. No one knows what I am or what I can do, and there might come a time where I can only rely on myself. I need to be stronger.

  The urge to put him at ease rose in me. “You’re right, but if anything were to happen, you could go get help. I can handle myself.”

  He let out a loud ha. He didn’t believe me.

  “If there were a fire, I could withstand the heat. I’d be fine,” I shrugged.

  “You would die from smoke inhalation before you got to the front door, but that’s not what I’m most concerned about down here.”

  Micah watched the entrance intently. Maybe it was demons he was afraid of catching us here unguarded. He pulled out his hair band and readjusted his hair, running his fingers through it as the sun caught some of the strands, making it shimmer.

  “If someone trapped us here, planning to kill us, there would be nowhere for you to go.” He sounded annoyed by the unlikely event.

  What was more unsettling was that Micah was genuinely worried about this event, and about me and my safety, which was not something he’d stated so obviously before. I felt it very unlikely that a demon would suddenly show up now, in the daylight, but maybe he knew something I didn’t. Still, I felt the need to make him feel better.

  “Well, I’d distract the demon, or whatever it is, so you could go get help,” I said.

  “You’d die before I could make it to the street outside.” He began tapping the inner skin of his elbow with his fingers. “As long as you're out, what regard is there for me? I’m doomed to die anyway.” It was meant as a joke.

  He gave me a piercing look, scolding my soul for the cynical comment.

  “You only joke about death because you have never known what it feels like to nearly die,” he snapped back.

  “How would you know that?” I demanded as the memories of my childhood rushed to the forefront of my mind.

  “No accidents in your governmental files or medical records.” He was so arrogant, acting as if I were inferior to him because of my blood. I was new to this life, but he knew nothing of my past. He didn’t know how many times I thought I was going to die as I was getting stomped on by a group of kids, blood spewing from my mouth. How I’d gasped for air when they’d throw me on the floor. The pain I felt when they stepped on my fingers, broke bones, and kicked me in the head. He knew nothing.

  “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t nearly beaten to death more than a dozen times, choking on my own fluids. I might have never wielded a blade, but I’m no newcomer to cracked bones and blood.” The venom in my voice matched the animosity in my features. “You might have read my files, but don’t assume to know me and my struggles.”

  He cleared his throat. “I only looked in your files to deem if you were a threat or not when I first met you.”

  I sucked in my bottom lip as I took a deep breath through my nose, calming myself down once more. I knew he was doing his job by reading my files. “At least you had files to get somewhat of an idea about me. I don’t know anything about you.”

/>   The washer’s clanking filled our empty conversation, and I wondered about another skill I might have. I asked if he was sure I had no other abilities other than those he’d listed. He said he was positive.

  I exhaled heavily. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

  Micah watched me intently as I took another breath and tried to think back to that night. The last time I did this, I imagined Cindy in my mind, for a moment, and her voice just naturally came out of my mouth.

  “My name is Micah,” I said. It sounded as if Micah were the one talking, but it was my lips that moved. I did it. “I can mimic people’s voices.” I grinned at the triumph.

  Micah didn’t seem as delighted. He paled and gawked at me. “This is serious, Lamia,” he said. He acted drawn and distant, as he did whenever he was about to leave me to do “research” or some other excuse.

  “It’s just an imitation. It’s not that serious,” I grumbled.

  “This is serious. I’ve never heard of a Cambion with an advanced skill like this. Changing your voice the way you did. ...”

  “Great, everything about me is screwed up,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “I know this is probably overwhelming, but just don’t run off.”

  Micah looked pissed off while I checked on the washer. “I don’t run off. I told you what –”

  “I really don’t care, Micah. I don’t want to know where you go or what you’re doing when you’re not here. You go at the wrong times, when I need you, and I’m sick of it. I’m asking you not to go.”

  I knew he was uncomfortable, and honestly, I was, too. I shouldn’t care when he comes and goes, but I guess my feelings for him forced me to act. If I didn’t already know what Micah would say, or how ridiculous this swelling emotion for him was, I’d ask him not to leave – or rather, to stay with me. This was new for the both of us, but I wouldn’t have thought having a little compassion would be so hard for him. We’d been working together for a while now, he slept at my apartment, and I didn’t know anything about him. He may not care, but I do; I’d like to know him.

  Micah ignored me, focusing on the doorway again, like he hadn’t heard a single thing I said. Annoyance shook my bones.

  “I don’t know why you get robotic and distant when it comes to me pouring out my feelings, but don’t bother with saying anything back. You’ll only hurt yourself.” I sat in the chair by the laundry room door. It was hard not to throw dust-covered magazines at him.

  I wondered if I would still be doing laundry today if I hadn’t met Micah. What would I be doing if he weren’t here, and I was still in my normal, boring routine? Dying slowly, is the best guess. I wanted more from this life. I wanted to go to college and discover myself as many others did, but instead I fell into this hole of self-loathing and haven’t be able to climb out since. Living every day exactly the same because stepping outside of my comfort zone would probably end in disaster, and I am terrified of failure, with no one there to help me along the way.

  “You can go back to the apartment. I can wait alone,” I told him. I didn’t want to look at him anymore.

  I folded all my dry clothes and stacked them in the hamper before handing Micah his. All the while, Micah didn’t say a word. Once back in the apartment, he shut himself in the bathroom with his clothes. I ate an apple from a bowl on the counter, rolling my eyes at the baby in my bathroom. Sometimes, like earlier, when we worked together, I felt like we were one step closer to friendship. Then, we had arguments like this, and it dragged us ten steps backwards. He’d probably leave after he got dressed.

  At first, I was just like him: all I wanted was information from him, and I didn’t care to dive deeper into whatever this relationship was. The more I saw and worked with him to find myself, though, the more connected I was to him. Now I found myself wanting more. I wanted a friendship with him. I wanted to know I could confide in him through all of this. I didn’t dare let myself think of anything else more than a friendship; the hope would be too much to bear.

  Micah came out and set the clothes he’d borrowed on my bed. I waited for his excuse to leave. Instead, he, too, took an apple and plopped on the couch across the room. “What do you want to know?” He got comfortable on the couch, half reclined, as he bit into his apple.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you don’t know anything about me, so I’m giving you a chance to ask me something,” he said.

  I surveyed him for a long moment as his expression didn’t change. Did my words really have this much sway?

  “What’s your full name?” I asked. He squinted, and I shrugged. “You said I could ask anything, friend.”

  “Micah Thomas Anderson,” he said between bites. “As you know, I was named after the angel of Divine Plan. I don’t know the history of my middle name, and Anderson was my mother’s surname.”

  I took in what he’d given so freely, almost gleeful as I sat on the opposite end of the couch. Though I had this chance, my mind drew a blank as to what I should ask next.

  “Your turn, name,” he said.

  With my luck, he’d probably tell me my name means something like hideous demon baby. “Lamia Mathea Relictus,” I said. “I know nothing about my name. I think someone was playing a very sick joke, though.” I mean, my name did come from a sex serpent demon who steals children in the night – most likely, the demon who seduced and bedded my mother.

  “Forsaken,” Micah said, bringing me back from my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Your last name. It means forsaken in Latin. Your middle name sounds Hebrew, so you might look it up sometime.” I bit into my apple and thought maybe my middle name was my mother’s name. If my first and last names were demonic in nature and Mathea wasn’t, maybe it was a sign.

  “Did you go to college?” I asked.

  “For one year,” he said, leaning forward and adjusting the cuffs of his pants as he shoved them into his boots.

  “Why only one?” I asked. I could feel the little, insignificant questions starting to flow like water. Things that were pointless but gave him no reason to lie.

  I wanted to know more about him, what his opinions were. I knew it would be a lot for Micah. Answering these easy questions alone was probably be exhausting for him. He wasn’t the type to open up to people, or at least not to me. Maybe seemingly irrelevant questions would be the best to ask, if only get him to trust me more.

  “There was a death in my team. There used to be six of us. After that happened, I only ever wanted to focus on my job.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Foreign languages. Knowing Latin makes it easier to learn other languages,” he said, adjusting his shirt before leaning back against the couch again. He wore a v-neck black t-shirt that hugged his pectorals and settled just above his hips.

  I was surprised he studied language, since he didn’t seem like the talking type. I tried to keep from showing my amusement. Micah finished his apple, offered to take my apple core, and threw them both away.

  “I tested out of the basic classes and took the most advanced so I could be considered fluent. I speak Italian, and Spanish, and I’m pretty decent at French.” There was lightness in his voice as he spoke about it. Like he was proud of the accomplishment that one year of schooling gave him.

  “Say something in Italian,” I said.

  His eyes suddenly gentle, he said, “Sarò sempre tuo amico.4” The words rolled right off his tongue, his lips curling around the sounds as they came out.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  He snorted, catching me off guard. “Learn Italian, and you’ll figure it out.”

  Figures, I thought. He probably called me an ugly goat herder or something.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  I began fidgeting with the hem of my shirt as I thought about the answer. As weird and hypercritical as it was, I didn’t want to answer any of these questions. I wasn’t as interesting at Micah.

  “We are friend
s, aren’t we?” His voice was in a whiny, higher pitch, obviously attempting to mimic my voice. I rolled my eyes with dramatic annoyance, but really I was completely giddy at the lightness of this conversation.

  “High school was as far as I got,” I stated.

  “Not planning to pursue college?”

  I felt offended and pitiful at the same time. “With what money? I barely have enough to feed myself.” My response was harsh. It wasn’t his fault, and no one was pressuring me to go to college.

  I tried to continue keeping it light at first, asking him his favorite color, which he stated was blue. Figures, since that was the color that looked best on him. Surprisingly, he asked what mine was, and I replied without missing a beat: black. There were so many questions I wanted to but couldn’t ask. I couldn’t ask him about his friends; it would make him clam up. If I asked him about his past, he’d be uncomfortable. He said I had freedom to ask things, but we both knew that freedom was severely limited. An odd question came to mind, and my neck grew warm.

  “Who’s your favorite poet?”

  “Walt Whitman,” he answered in the span of a breath.

  I regarded him with raised eyebrows. Micah’s face was neutral, a smirk slowly appearing as he watched my expression.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “My dad would read it to me every night. My parents loved him.” He watched me while I listened. “I haven’t heard or read any since I was ten, but some of his lines I memorized.”

  He’d led me through a door in his heart and just from those few steps, I could see how fragile the fragments inside were. I was fearful of saying the wrong thing, that I might break something or get shut out again. I was grateful we’d had this time, so I could know something so personal about him. Micah drifted and became distant, as if he’d disappeared somewhere deep in his head.

  “Keep your splendid, silent sun. Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods.” The words came from him as if he’d read them right off the page.

  When I was 15, I listened to Gramma Beth tell me a story at Christmas about when she worked on a farm, how she and her friends would ride the cows as they came in at the end of the day. She was in her wheelchair and I sat on the floor beside her, both of us facing the fire, taking in its warmth. While she spoke over top of the soft Christmas music, I fell asleep. When I woke, I found my head leaning against her knee, and her warm hand stroking my hair. It was the only time I had ever felt truly cherished and taken care of because someone wanted to, not because they had to. All my other memories were miniscule, and a lot of them were bad, but Micah’s were worse. Having loving parents, people who took care of him for years literally ripped from his life. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.