The Death and Romancing of Marley Craw

by Brindi Quinn

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” I say, gesturing to the mounted TV playing reruns of a soap opera with acting bad enough to wake the dead. “My life’s super fun right now.”

  Carmen frowns.

  I stare at the screen. “Pierre’s been trying to hook up with Stefano’s mom for a good three episodes. I bet you anything she’s going to turn out to be his aunt or something,” I say, and force a laugh.

  Amy Jo puts her hands on her hips. “You’re awful lively for someone that just tried to kill themself.”

  “AMY!” shouts Carmen.

  “Well, it’s true,” says Amy Jo. “It’d be different if she was all mopey, but look at her! She’s fine! I bet you did this for attention, Marley Craw. Either that, or it was to get out of the tenth-grade writing test.”

  “Yup, you know me, Amy Jo. I’m terrible at grammar and shiz, so I thought, ‘Hey! Why not slit my wrists and see what happens?’”

  Carmen clenches her fists. “That isn’t funny, Marley,” she says through her teeth. Hands shaking, she marches to the side of the bed. “I can’t believe you would do something like this.”

  . . .

  I probably shouldn’t mention that it wasn’t my first time.

  Mouth strong, she wipes away the moisture forming in her eyes. Poor Carmen. I do feel guilty about putting her through this. If there’s anything I regret, it’s that. Telling her so would just make her sadder, though. I’m sure it would.

  “Why, Marley?” she whispers. “I thought you were doing really great lately, so tell me–” She can’t hold herself back anymore. “WHY DID YOU DO IT!?”

  Why?

  . . .

  Who knows?

  “Why don’t you guys just get out of here?” I say quietly. “I’ll be back to school in a month. I’m thinking of dying my hair to celebrate. How do you like red?”

  Minx kisses the tears from my face. The world spins.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  The day is cool. The leaves are gone. The sun is sinking.

  “I got my senior photos taken today. I don’t think they look as good as Mallory’s did. Grandma said I should’ve dyed my hair back to brown for them. But I like the red, you know? It kind of reminds me that I’m different now. That I’m in control of my life.”

  The low sun makes the gravestone shadows stretch.

  “Mom? Have you forgiven Dad yet? I don’t think I can. I don’t think you have either. It’s too bad they put him next to you. I argued with Grandma back then, you know. I told her he didn’t have any right resting next to you, but she wouldn’t hear it.”

  My skin pricks from the autumn chill.

  “I mean, it’s not like you chose to leave us. You fought hard until the end. Even when you didn’t have any hair left. Even when you couldn’t eat. Even when you weren’t making sense anymore, you were strong. A real-life super hero, even. But Dad? Dad was weak. He CHOSE to leave us. After you left, he chose to go too. And that’s why I can’t forgive him.” I rest my face against my mother’s gravestone and let the cold of it soak into my skin. “I can’t believe I almost did the same thing. But I’m stronger now, like you. And I’m going to get even stronger, I swear. That’s why I’m keeping my hair red. It’s a reminder that I’ve changed.”

  A lovely pine scent fills the air – a lingering scent I smell each time I visit my mother’s grave.

  Funny, though. There aren’t any pine trees around.

  The world spins. It spins and spins and spins. Gasping, I pull out of my memories. Disoriented, I push away from Minx. Shaking, I feel around the floor for my dress.

  Oh gawd.

  OH GAWD!

  I didn’t remember.

  I didn’t remember any of it!

  Shirtless, Minx tips his head to the side. “Do you see now, Marley? Do you see what you desire most?”

  I find my dress, ripped now, and hold it to myself.

  “I’m the only one who understands.” Minx reaches listlessly for me. “I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

  With unsteady wrists, I crawl to the concession stand. I need to see it. I need to see . . .

  There, along the bottom, etched in seventh-grade hand:

  Marley + Carmen

  Haunting Buddies 4 Life

  My life . . . it was wretched. I feel it now, the weight of being dead. I’ll never see Carmen again. I’ll never see anyone again.

  I’m dead.

  Dead as a deadbolt dead.

  For the first time, it hits me – really and truly hits me – and as it does, I throw my head back and sob.

  I sob and I sob and I sob, barely even noticing when Minx puts his arms around my bare shoulders. “How’s your tick?” he asks, tenderly, inside my head.

  Gone.

  The tick is gone. But it’s been replaced with a soul-shattering ache deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  “Take me back,” I whisper, breaking.

  “I will,” he says, soft and sweet. Like a lover. “But first,” he whispers, holding me tight, “tell me . . . do you see them?”

  Them?

  . . .

  All around the room I see the shadowy silhouettes of aquarium-goers.

  . . .

  . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . .

  “How was I that person?” I ask as Minx pulls me, flying, through the aquarium. “I don’t . . . feel like that person.”

  “You aren’t,” Minx whispers into my hair. “Not anymore. Now you’re mine.”

  This doesn’t make any sense. I thought I was happy. Heck, I thought I had a great life! I was all excited about the future! Kissing Noah, going on a road trip with Carmen, visiting Mallory at college. I was ready for all of that . . . before I died.

  Minx holds me tighter. Because the world is falling around me, I cling to him. I need something familiar with me. I need something to distract me from the ache.

  Minx is my reaper. The one who’ll reap my soul. The one who’ll help me.

  “We’re here,” says my savior. I lean against him as he conjures his nether-glow and opens the portal to the glass room.

  Inside, the room has changed.

  All traces of furniture are gone. Not even a single bungeed nightstand remains. And the ceiling is raining. Downright, downpouring. Ringing throughout the air is a terrible, awful, cover-your-ears screeching noise.

  I push my palms flat against my ears. “What is this!?” I cry, instantly becoming soaked.

  Minx pivots to my front side and takes my cheeks in his hands. “It’s your soul, Marley Craw. Your soul is screaming. Do you hear it now?”

  Yes, I hear it. Every part of me hears it! “Make it stop!” I insist.

  In the midst of the wailing, something charges through the rain at us. Some sort of mass. When it nears, I see that it’s a . . . guy? Yeah, an attractive one with long black hair, which has become drenched and matted to the sides of his face. He’s wearing an unzipped hoodie and a scowl.

  Who is that? I mean, he looks kind of familiar, I guess, but I can’t pinpoint where I’ve seen him before.

  The stranger, apparently not in the best mood, comes right at Minx, swinging. Minx hops away. “Hello, friend,” he says.

  The longhaired stranger is livid. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” he shouts at Minx. “This is worse than what I expected from you!”

  Wearing a look of innocence. Minx tips his head and puts his finger to his chin. “She asked me to.”

  “So?! You don’t just let her!”

  “But I love her. She has a soul. And she tastes good,” says Minx.

  “Very funny. You know as well as I that we aren’t capable of loving humans. And you know what happens if she becomes attached. Did you forget what happened last time, moron!? Do you want to end up back where you were!? This time they might lock you away for good! There’s no way they’re not going to find out about this!”

  “Even if they do, it’s too late. She’s already realized her strongest desire,” says Minx. He tips h
is head backwards in the rain and throws his arms out at his sides. “It’s loud.”

  The stranger’s eyes turn fiery. “So what if it’s loud?!”

  Minx draws his fingers over his lips. “Even if they send me into confinement, the taste of her reaping will be enough for me to go off of for a long time.”

  “Not if I can help it!” the longhaired stranger seethes.

  Minx shrugs. “Do your best. She’s already mine.”

  In a flash, the stranger wraps his arms around my sopping shoulders. I’m too confused to react. “Calm down, Marley,” he coos as he holds me. “Do you remember me?”

  “N-no.”

  “I’m Zae, your reaper.”

  My reaper? That can’t be right. “Minx is my reaper,” I say.

  “You have two reapers, remember?”

  I don’t remember. Ohmigosh, I don’t remember at all! Memories of my life are pouring into me, overtaking me, suppressing me.

  So-called Zae swears under his breath. “This is bad,” he says. “If you can’t remember me, Marley, what about him? Can you remember him?”

  Him?

  “Think hard. Who was your Usher before I was? There was someone else. Do you remember him?”

  No.

  “He had to leave because you were having TOO much fun, so I came to see you in his place. You don’t remember?”

  Still NO.

  “Think, Marley. He was a reaper – an Usher, like me. He was also a captain.”

  Captain?

  P . . .

  No use. Even though I press my brain to the limits, the screaming of the room is just too loud and the pouring of the rain is just too harsh.

  Zae swears under his breath again, louder this time. He thrusts me away from himself, takes my shoulders in his hands and gives me a firm shake. “Whatever he showed you, you shouldn’t have seen,” he says. “You shouldn’t think about your life. Don’t think about your life; only think about ME.”

  “My life was wretched,” I say.

  Zae shakes his head fervently. “I’ve read your file. You were happy at the end. You had an untimely demise, but you were moving forward. Think about that, Marley. Are you thinking about it?”

  I nod.

  “Excellent.” A crafty gleam enters the supposed reaper’s eye. “Now, what do you desire?”

  “Minx,” I say without question. “I want Minx.”

  Swearing a third, loudest time, Zae releases me. “This is out of my control. I’m going to have to call it in. Who’s your angel, again?”

  I want to answer him. Really I do, but the room is swelling, barreled with rainwater, you see. Harder and harder it comes, in sheets, until I can’t see anything but wetness, and the sound of my soul’s screaming consumes the air.

  “Keep going, Mar-mar,” Minx’s voice is in my head. “This room reacts to the wants of your soul. Think about your life. Think about your pain. Let it out.”

  But it feels wrong.

  “Silly Marley. There is no wrong or right anymore. There is only desire. I understand what you need, better than anyone. THIS is what you need. And only I can give it to you.”

  Only Minx can give me what I need.

  Why?

  “I was like you, Marley, long, long ago. When I died, my soul was loud, too. My mana was thick, almost as thick as yours. I chose what you’ll choose. I stayed attached. I stayed on earth, and my soul cried for a hundred years, until it couldn’t cry anymore.”

  Oh.

  Suddenly, I get.

  Suddenly, it’s all very clear. Clear as a fancy crystal plaque. Or a newly cleaned window. I didn’t know anything, but now I’m starting to know everything.

  Minx used to be . . . a ghost.

  The pressure of the rain is too much. All at once the room bursts and little shattered pieces of the walls go flying.

  Chapter 12: I Believe in a Thing Called LIKE

  Everything is dark.

  And cold.

  And quiet.

  Ugh. It feels like I’m in a cave or something. Cringe. This feels like the kind of place that would be infested with worms or other crawly wigglers. I’ve never really been big on mustiness.

  “You are aware that this is highly unusual.” A guy’s voice, all business-ish, breaks through the darkness. Along with it, a scribbling noise enters the scene.

  I’ve heard that voice before. And that scribble.

  Beck?

  Yeah, Beck, my angel, the lameass.

  I open my mouth to call to him, but nothing comes out.

  “You were warned to stay away from her, Captain,” Beck says, ever with the scribbling. “I won’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

  “Tch,” a second voice responds. “What would you rather happen, lameass? Let her turn? You never should’ve assigned HIM to a case like hers. What were you thinking?” This new voice – the Captain or whoever – is also a guy’s. And he sounds annoyed.

  Scribble, scribble, scribble. “It was a test,” says Beck. “He’s been on mild cases ever since his release from rehabilitation. This was his chance to prove his recovery.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Captain growls. “For that you jeopardized Marley’s reaping?”

  “What can I say? He’s one hell of a Sleeper, and if we were sure he’d be able to restrain himself against even a soul like hers, we could put him out in the field that much more often,” says Beck.

  “Unbelievable. You angels are all the same. Maybe you’d grow a conscience if you’d actually work a day down here. What happened to the world? You used to be warriors. Now look at you.”

  “And look at you, Captain Reaper. Little more than a glorified demon. You lot crave human souls just as much as they do,” says Beck.

  “Piss off.”

  “Heh.” The scribbling stops.

  There is silence and there is darkness. Is this a dream? Or is this the end? Is my punishment for living a wretched life to listen to two guys bickering for all eternity?

  Oh gawd. Make it stop. Give me fire and brimstone! Anything but petty arguing!

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Captain Reaper?” Beck says quietly after a spell.

  Equally quiet, the Captain responds, “I told you, I’ve never wanted anything more.” And though I don’t know him – though I can’t see his face – I can tell it’s the truth. The Captain’s words ring with something so certain it’s almost otherworldly.

  “All I mean to say is that you’re one of our strongest Ushers. We can’t let you be compromised by an unstable soul, no matter how much you, quote ‘like her.’ This whole thing is just ridiculous. I’ve heard of these things happening in the lower ranks, to reapers with their training wheels, but you’re a senior officer, Captain. You’ve reaped thousands upon thousands of souls. How could you let yourself get caught up in this one girl?”

  The Captain doesn’t say anything back.

  “Fine,” says Beck. “I’ll wake her. But know that you only have a small sliver of time. Her soul is already being judged, her desires are being weighed, and the outcome is practically set. There isn’t much you can do at this point.”

  “Wake her,” says the Captain. “Now.”

  . . .

  A light, brighter than the sun or the stars or a nightclub spotlight, takes the place of the darkness.

  . . .

  I’m standing on a sleek metal track, high, high up in the air.

  HOLY POTATO SALAD!

  I’m standing on the top peak of a rollercoaster.

  And the world below is small – tiny, even – downright miniscule. The stalls and rides and light-up games look like something from a toy set. My stomach drops when it catches on to where I am. My knees buckle, and I drop to the rail, left with little choice but to cling onto the metal.

  Overhead, the sun glints off the coaster’s support beams, blinding and baking as I clutch the track for dear death.

  Oh gawd. Oh gawd. Oh gawd.

  How the HELL did I ge
t HERE?!

  Or . . .

  Is THIS Hell?

  I’m no longer wearing the tattered and soaked white sundress. I’ve reverted into the dress I was wearing when I first woke up in death. Yuck. Revenge of the matronly black smock. The wind lashes the bottom of it. My hair, too. Red strands whip around my face with fiery fury, and even though I’m not falling, it feels like I’m falling.

  I curl into a petrified ball. Becoming a rock seems the best, safest option. If only I had a turtle shell, it’d be even better.

  Turtles are pretty lucky, when you think about it. They can live in the water, they can live on the land, and they can just tuck out of danger’s way at any time. Unless that danger happens to be an oncoming car. In that case, they’re screwed.

  I digress.

  “I’ve got you, Marley.” Suddenly, warm hands take me from behind, clamming around me protectively. It’s that same voice I just heard talking to Beck. Captain Reaper or whoever. “It’s okay,” he says, voice collected. “I won’t let you go.”

  “Who are you?” I ask. I’m afraid to turn and look because, if I do, I run the risk of teetering over the edge of the track. Speaking of edge, I make the mistake of looking down the drop. Steeper than steep with a sharp dip at the end. Holy, holy, holy, holy– This is SO not natural. This is definitely not even on the RADAR of normalcy. What are we supposed to do if a cart comes through?!

  The Captain or whoever doesn’t seem to notice. “Remember me, Marley,” he says, just as collected. And as his voice slips into my ear, a scent slips into my nose. A woodsy, piney scent that I’ve smelled before. It reminds me of . . . home.

  Mmm. I remember it now. This is the smell I smell once a week – every Thursday to be exact. This is the smell I smell every time I visit my mother’s grave.

  The person holding me brushes the hair from my neck and sets his forehead there.

  I’m not sure why, but my body hiccups in reply.

  “It’s so peculiar,” he says. “I feel this. Normally, we can’t feel it when we touch spirits, but I feel you. You’re unusual . . . for a dead girl.”