by Kristen Day
I shrugged, "Not many people truly deserve to die, do they?"
Daman grunted, "I did. I ruined my mother's life."
I was immediately speechless. I hadn’t pegged Daman as the self-hating, mildly suicidal type. Until that point he had just seemed slightly depressed about being dead and being stuck sitting next to a random, and probably boring, girl.
"I'm sure you didn't deserve to die," I protested weakly. It seemed an odd thing to say to someone I had met less than ten minutes ago, and way too personal a subject to be discussing with such a young relationship.
"Can we not talk about it? Being dead is depressing enough." Daman said. I was again surprised at how touchy and defensive he had suddenly become, "Tell me about your life instead."
"It wasn't that great," I said. I was hoping Daman would drop the subject of my life as he had my death, but he remained silent and pressed into me with the glowing, magnificent orbs of his eyes.
"I had an older brother, James,” I found myself saying, almost against my will, “but he's dead too now, he's the one who brought me here. A younger sister, Lacey, she was fifteen when I died. I never had a boyfriend, never went to a school dance. I only had one friend, Maria, and I died the day she committed suicide.”
"Are you mad that she did that?” Daman asked, “If she hadn’t, would you still be alive?”
I was taken aback by Daman’s straightforwardness, how could he have inferred something like that? It seemed as though he already knew my entire life story and was just asking me questions to keep from sounding like a dead, and admittedly very attractive, stalker.
“No,” I said, “I mean, yeah, I‘d still be alive, I died on the way home from her house. But no, I’m not mad because I‘m dead, I‘m mad that she killed herself, it was selfish and stupid. She could’ve figured it out, she had two little brothers, and her dad was already widowed. My parents have Lacey still, and each other. They have the support they need, soon they’ll move on and everything will go back to normal for them. But Maria’s dad will never be the same."
"You know it will never be normal for them again. And what about your little sister?" Daman responded.
"I know," I said, and unexpectedly tears were in my eyes. I pushed my palms into my eyes and rubbed until my head hurt and stars flirted with my eyelids. I hadn't wanted to die! It wasn't fair that I had to! I was only seventeen! And I was so sick of crying! I had repressed everything for so long that my control had finally cracked under the pressure and I was providing water works to rival my mother’s at sappy romance movies.
Daman sensing my distress reached over to pat my back. The second we touched the strangest feeling I've ever had washed over me. It wasn't like when we had shaken hands, which had been formal and awkward; this touch was different, slightly more intimate. Whoever or whatever was controlling the happenings of the door seemed to understand that. The moment we touched a connection was formed that we couldn't break.
A rush of images flew past my eyes, but they weren't from my own life, they were from Daman's. I saw a little kid with a mess of dark hair and bright blue eyes playing on a cardboard box that was sitting in a patch of dead grass. I saw Daman at seven years old, watching from a dark hall as a man beat a frail young woman. Daman became increasingly depressed; I watched two suicide attempts, and many self-punishments. Followed by fights at school, fights at home with the violent man; always ending in Daman losing, running, tail between his legs, to lick his wounds and hate himself in privacy.
Each day was agony; I could feel the inhumane amounts of pressure that had been crushing Daman since his father left him. With every blink he wished his eyes would never open again; every sneeze left him hoping his heart would stop beating permanently. My skin was irritated from the constant anxiety that accompanied the show, I wanted to break away, chills raced up my back and terror prickled the back of my skull.
Then, finally, I watched as Daman was sitting in a science class. No one was paying attention, heads were down, glassy eyes stared at the chalkboard, and informative words fell on deaf, uncaring ears.
Daman was the first to see that the kid entering the room had a gun. As if in slow motion, the gun was raised.
"Jack, what are you doing?" Daman asked. He stood up, arms tensed, stance firm and demanding; ready for a fight.
The boy with the gun, Jack, flicked the nose of the weapon at the girl next to Daman, "She doesn't belong here; she's worthless. Have you seen what she wears to school, no one owns that much black without being evil. I'm saving everyone by doing this," Jack pointed the gun at the girl once more. Daman reacted quickly by stepping in front of her, shielding her from the danger intended for her.
"Daman, move," the girl whispered. She was much shorter than he, dressed head to foot in a high collared, floor sweeping, lacy black dress. Her nails were black; gauges drooped from both ears, along with many other facial piercings. I didn't want to admit it, but I would have avoided her like the plague, the white blonde hair alone would have frightened me off. To me, and I’m sure to Jack, it appeared the she belonged better with a coven than at high school, "Jack is right, I don't belong with the rest of you."
The girl made to move out from behind Daman, but a strong arm stopped her from moving, "No one is going to die, Angelica," Daman said, "Jack just needs to cool down. He’s not thinking straight, he’s drunk."
As Daman said it I knew it was true. The smell of alcohol had diffused through the room, it would have been an excellent object lesson on how molecules travel if the teacher hadn’t been so paralyzed with fear.
I looked at Jack again; his upper lip was sweating with anticipation. A wicked glee lit up his soulless eyes as he began to speak again, "I'll send a bullet through both of you if you don't move," Jack threatened.
"You don't want to do this, Jack," Daman warned, "Think about your family, think about your life."
"I have no family!" Jack screamed psychotically. The gleefulness had disappeared from his face, it was replaced with savage, killer desire, "She killed them, I know she did. She's a witch!"
"You're family died from carbon monoxide posisoning,” a small girl in the front row said bravely.
"Shut up!" Jack screamed, his face turned red and the girl dove under her desk, "She killed them! She killed them!"
"Jack, calm--"
Daman never got to finish his sentence. A loud bang sent students diving for the floor; Daman pulled Angelica down with him and shielded her with his body. Jack had not been expecting the kick of the pistol he was holding. It flew behind him and a football player tackled the lanky, disturbed boy to the floor.
Angelica rolled Daman off of her and gasped when she saw the blood oozing from a hole in his shirt, just above his belly button. Another student rushed over, ripped open Daman's shirt and applied pressure to the wound with a borrowed sanitary napkin, but the damage was done. Daman didn't want to live. His blood was flowing like ichor from his mortal wound. Dozens of scarlet rivers flowed along the creases of his abdominal muscles and onto the floor; ultimately converging into one sickeningly beautiful lake reflecting the fluorescent lights above. It was disturbing and so like Maria’s death I couldn’t help but feel connected to Daman more than ever.
Daman coughed up blood, it sprayed Angelica's hair, and he apologized before gasping out his last breath and finally giving up. The last thing I saw was Angelica turning ghostly white as she took in the look of the blood spatter in her long hair and on the alabaster flesh of her hand.
Then I was watching something that had obviously never happened.
I saw Daman again, waiting at the end of a church aisle. Wearing a tux, smiling. He looked whole and happy, like he'd never been hurt. Although he looked happy and expectant, there was something in his stance that revealed he was uncomfortable with the setting. I could feel his hesitation at being inside a church, but whoever he was waiting for was more important than his discomfort. I looked around, searching for white silk and taffeta, or at least a girl holdi
ng flowers. Then I realized everyone was looking at me expectantly. I looked down at myself to make sure it wasn't one of those terrible dreams where you're in your underwear in public. I wasn't in my underwear. I was wearing a wedding dress. Dropped waist, three quarter sleeves, beaded bodice, ball gown taffeta skirt, and I was holding flowers. My head whirled and had it not been for my father standing behind me I would have dropped into a large white puff ball on the ground.
My father took my arm and began to lead me down the aisle. Panicked, I looked behind me to search for an escape.
I came out of the vision gasping. In the time it had taken me to see Daman's life the sun had risen above the horizon.
I looked to my right to see Daman staring at me, bewildered. I knew he had seen my life and what would have been our future had we both lived to see it happen.
"Did you--?" I started to ask, it wasn't necessary to finish the question.
"Yeah," Daman said, "Do you think it's true, that if we had lived that's how things would've worked out?"
"I don't know," I said, "I don't know anything now that I'm dead. I feel like I know less now than I did when I was alive."
"Me too." Daman said.
I really looked hard at Daman for the first time then, and I could see even more what would have attracted me to him if I had still been alive. As mentioned in the previous mathematical equation, Daman was attractive. That’s why I couldn’t believe that if we had lived, he would've actually noticed me. I mean I'm not bad, but guys never looked at me and thought: 'Oh! I want to date her!' It was more lik:, 'Who's that red-headed babe with the short chick?'
Instead of sitting next to Daman in the growing awkward silence, I got up and walked over to the actual playground area of the park and took a seat on one of the swings. I half expected Daman to follow me, but he stayed sitting.
"What am I doing here, James?" I asked quietly under my breath.
"Exactly what you're supposed to, Alice," James replied from behind me. I jumped and fell off the swing. Immediately, I looked over to see if Daman had observed my fall. He hadn't, or at least he wasn't letting on that he had. I hoped the slump in his shoulders was just a natural slouch and not an attempt to hide his laughter.
"What do you mean I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to?" I asked, turning over on the ground to face James.
"You're here because you haven't experienced love, you're making him fall in love with you, just like he would have if you hadn't both died," James replied.
"How do you know that’s why I’m here?" I whispered fiercely, "Wait, how do you know he’s supposed to fall in love with me? He doesn’t even know me, he probably just thinks I’m obnoxious!”
"That's how it started with Rebecca and I," James said. Rebecca, his wife, they got married when I was fifteen, James was twenty-one then.
"Jamie," I started, "how did you die?"
"Fire," James said, "Rebecca was stuck inside with our little girl, and I went in to get her. We were almost out of the house when the roof caved in. Rebecca and I didn't make it, but Alice did, somehow all the debris missed her and the doctors were able to save her,"
"You named her Alice?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah, Alice Linda," James said, with a sad smile, "being here is almost as bad as being alive with her dead, and I have no idea where Rebecca is, but at least I have one Alice left."
I stood up and hugged James tightly; I thought my death was bad. But James had died a hero, just like Daman, and now he wasn't just missing his daughter, who had lived, but his wife who hadn't. I felt rain on my head, and looked up into a storm seemingly brought on by James’ pain.
"How did you find me?" I asked.
"I walked through a door." James said.
"Which door?" I inquired.
"The one that appeared as soon as I died. I was hoping to see Rebecca, but something tells me I won't be seeing her for a very long time." James lamented.
I let go of James, "You'll see her again, James, and you'll be able to help Alice from wherever we go after this."
A genuine smile twitched up the corners of James' face at that idea, "You should get back over there, that boy needs you, and you may not know it, but you need him."
"Stop always being right and go to your hallway." I said to my brother. James patted me on the shoulder as I turned to look at Daman again. He was standing now, but still staring blankly out at the land in front of him. I turned back to hug James one last time, but he was already gone.
I looked longingly back at the slowly swaying swing I had fallen off of. It took every ounce of willpower not to sit back down and wait out my afterlife on the uncomfortable rubber seat. I didn’t like the idea that someone needed me as badly as James had implied Daman did.
Chapter Seven
“Was that your brother?” Daman asked when I returned. Weak knees, hot cheeks, swimming thoughts, Daman had seen me dive off the swing.
I tried to keep my voice level and nausea at a minimum as I answered, “Yeah, that was James, he brought me here.”
“So I’m not the first one you saw after you died?”
“No, you’re the second.”
“Well, you’re the first I’ve seen,” Daman said. He wouldn’t look at me as he said it. I rolled my eyes and realized that for as attractive Daman was he wasn’t nearly as charming.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself!” I muttered, Daman wasn't supposed to hear but he did, so I had to dig my foot out of my esophagus, “You can’t change what happened to you in life. You can’t do anything about how you came into the world and you can’t change how you left it. Everything’s that happened is behind you, look at your future and stop complaining about your past!”
Daman stared at me with cold eyes, my pep talk had been a little short on pep apparently, “I have no future, I’m dead.” Daman turned on his heel and started to stalk away from me.
Before I died I was shy, I wouldn’t have even talked to a guy like Daman in the first place, let alone chase after him when he walked away from me. But things change when you don’t have to live with the consequences of your actions. I grabbed Daman by the arm and swung him around to face me.
“Explain to me how you’re such a terrible person again. Because you haven’t done a very good job so far. You protected your mother against her abusive boyfriend and saved a girl’s life. That’s not being terrible, that’s called being an extremely modest hero!” I argued.
Daman stopped, “I’m not a hero, I’m a guy who defended the only person to ever care about me, and took a bullet from a gun pointed at an innocent human being. Who wouldn’t do that?”
“You are a hero!” I protested, “Most kids when they see someone, even their parents getting hit, just sit in the shadows and wait it out hoping it will get better. And most kids definitely wouldn’t stand up to take a bullet for someone they didn’t even know!”
“I should’ve known her,” Daman said, “I sat next to her in that class for a whole semester and I barely even knew her name. Maybe if I had tried harder people wouldn’t have thought she was such a freak! I was semi-popular, I could’ve been her friend, and none of this would’ve happened!” Daman yelled, “I ruined my life and my mother’s life, and nearly ruined that girl’s in the process. At least I did something to redeem myself.”
That was an argument I hadn’t expected, “Apparently, you wouldn’t have ruined my life,” I said. Daman pulled in his lips and looked at me thoughtfully. He sat down on the ground and looked up at the sky, squinting in the bright sun.
“I would have ruined it eventually,” Daman replied.
I sat down in front of him, and looked him straight in the eyes, something I used to only do if forced, “I don’t think you would have. I think the only reason you’re blaming yourself for everyone else’s problems is because you can’t think of anyone else to blame, and I think if you figure that out and accept it you’ll be just fine.”
Nagging, somewhere in the back of my mind, was the thought th
at I was walking into a trap. My mom had always warned me about being a fixer, she told me to watch out for the kinds of relationships that would take more from me than I got back. But I pushed the thought back, somehow I knew that this wouldn’t be one of those relationships, I was certain, I wouldn’t let it happen to me.
“It’s really too bad you died, Alice,” Daman said, “you would have made a great mother,”
That sentence panged me. The only one who knew how badly I wanted to be a mom one day was Lacey. I wouldn’t be able to raise a family and watch my kids grow up. It hurt my heart to think about, so I stopped. I changed the subject.
“What did you see when I was watching your life,” I asked.
“Enough to know that you were a wild child who should have done time,” Daman said sarcastically. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t known he was capable of cracking jokes. It didn’t fit with the brooding brow and the angry personality. The tone seemed a rare anomaly akin to lightning storms in space.
“Oh yeah,” I said, with a wave of the hand, “My parents didn’t know what to do with me, I was just too crazy.”
Daman actually laughed at this. It was a good sound to hear, but I was surprised how quickly he went from depressed to jovial. It almost felt like he was trying too hard to be forlorn, like he was trying to win me over by appealing to my sensitive side. That was irritating, I felt manipulated, but I was somehow still intrigued by him.
“Really,” I said, “What did you see?”
Daman sobered again and looked at me, “I saw exactly what I’m seeing now. A girl who cared so much about everything else around her that she forgot about herself. A girl who didn’t understand her own worth and never noticed how many guys were always following after her, even if they hadn’t forgotten about her since the sixth grade.”
Butterflies, cotton-head, blah, blah, sweet words. I felt so stupid! Daman Carter, I should’ve remembered, I should’ve seen that shy little boy in this broken down man, but I didn’t. Daman was in my sixth grade class. He stuck up for me on the playground when a bully tried to tell me where to play. He got a black eye for me, and I couldn’t even do him the courtesy of remembering who he was.