by Brhi Stokes
I groaned; first things first. It took some fumbling around in the kitchen cabinet until I found what I needed. The small bottle of black capsules rattled as I popped it open. With a grimace, I swallowed one and drank deeply from a nearby bottle of water. The liquid washed down the taste of charcoal and iron and I closed my eyes as the headache receded. It was only when the pain in my joints and the awful flashes of memory had disappeared that I opened them once more.
The world was… smaller, somehow. I put the pills in a drawer that looked much lower than it should have, before turning on the kettle. No, not lower... it was as if the worktop was further away. I looked down to see whether the floor had somehow dropped a metre or two, and saw that I stood on thin air.
Promptly, I nearly fell off thin air as I staggered in surprise. Luckily, the air held and, though I dipped, I managed to remain upright a good half-meter above the ground. I could only hope that the side-effects disappeared more quickly than the last time I had taken the pills. My vision had been colourless for two days straight. Unfortunately, the bottle gave no indication of what side-effects may occur. It simply said, in hand-written marker on the sticky label:
Morsridone
Take one to two when symptoms occur
“What a nice trick,” said a voice from behind me, causing me to lose my balance again as I jumped. Higher than I should have been, my head slammed into the cupboard above me and I swore loudly. “But do you not think that levitation’s a bit trite?” the voice continued as I turned, one hand to my head, to glower at the intruder.
A sleek black cat sat neatly on my worktop, its tail twitching at the tip. I scowled; cats were the worst. “What?” I asked it. “Levitation and hallucinations? I’ve never had two side-effects at once.”
“Charming,” it said. “But I am here to collect the weapon, Page. Not to listen to your banter.”
“You started it, cat. Besides, I’m not giving the gun to a hallucination,” I replied, placing a hand protectively over the pistol. I had met with messengers before, it was the main way I received instructions for my job. None of them, however, had been in the form of talking cats. Unfortunately, I had no idea if it was the drug or not; the side-effects of morsridone were rarely the same. The drug was effective at dealing with the pain and the horrid memories, however, and I would take its strange effects over the waking nightmares any day.
“I do not have time for games, Page. The gun is to be returned to the Masters posthaste. You were informed of this.” In a condescending mutter, it added, “It is not as if you can use the weapon well enough, anyway.”
I ignored the insult from the cat and lifted the gun in one hand. “How do I know you’re-”
“Oh, for the love of God,” snapped the cat, rearing up on its hindquarters and hissing at me. As it did so, something on its chest shifted and warped until a small sigil had burned itself into the flesh of the cat’s underside, like a brand.
The sight of it sent a familiar shudder down my spine and dried my tongue. Suddenly, I could taste ash.
“I’ll get you a bag,” I told it quietly, turning to fish out some newspaper and a plastic bag from under the sink.
Pistol successfully wrapped and sealed, I handed it to the cat. The creature took the time to eye me before it spoke.
“I was expecting better from you, you know. How disappointing.” It took a thin part of the package in its mouth and stood, tail erect behind it.
“All right, I know it wasn’t particularly flawless, but I got the job done. Dead is dead, after all,” I responded, reaching for my tea.
I could have sworn I saw the cat roll its eyes before it hopped neatly from the counter, up to a nearby window and out into the daylight. I tromped over to close the window behind it, trying to remember whether I had left it open myself or whether the cat had somehow pried its way in.
That done, I resolved to have a shower and a smoke before finding breakfast.

As I finish the first part of the story, I can see that the lad does not quite believe me. He is hooked on every word by the looks of it, but he has retained some incredulity. I can hardly blame him. I sound insane.
“A talking cat,” he says, quirking a brow at me.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him, “I’m still pretty sure that was a hallucination.”
“And morsridone… What sort of drug is that?”
“One given to me by things like talking cats,” I say, standing to place both our cups in the sink.
“Wait a sec,” he begins as I start ushering him out, “what happens next? You said you’d tell me the rest of the story if I wanted.”
“I sound like a crazy person. A crazy person who told you they see talking cats after taking pills. Is that really the type of person whose flat you want to stay in after midnight?” That aside, I was hardly used to male company this late.
“But none of that made any sense. Where was that place? You had to jump from a building to get there?”
“Well, I woke up in a morgue, so surely you can hazard a guess as to how I travelled.”
“That… that doesn’t make any sense. You… killed yourself? But you’re sitting right here. How would you even do that?” He looks around suddenly, inspecting the contents of my flat as if searching for something. Drugs, probably. I had already mentioned the pills, after all, and it is not too much of a leap from there.
“If I’m really honest with you, I’m still figuring a lot of it out as I go. All I know is that if I have the name of the plane and think hard on it as I... ‘travel’, then that’s where I end up. But that’s enough of that. You heard the story, now off into the night with you.”
He shakes his head at me, arms crossed. “You said you’d tell me the first part of the story and I could ‘see how I felt’ about the rest.” The air quotes are a bit abrasive, but he is not wrong.
“Well,” I tell him as nonchalantly as I can manage, “I lied. It’s a fun little story, but that’s about it.” I step towards him, pointing at the stairwell with what I hope is a serious look on my face. “Now, out of my house.”
Connor mutters something too quiet for me to make out, but he lets me show him reluctantly down the stairs and to the front door. The chilly night air seeps uncomfortably through my front door as I let the boy out.
“You’ll get home all right?”
He grimaces. “Yeah.” Then, he is out the door and no longer my problem.
I make another cup of tea and head up to the tiny balcony on the roof to sit and think for a while. It is icy cold out there, but I had given up the habit of smoking inside a few years ago, and I was not about to start up again just to avoid a little cold. The kid must have headed out the back towards the other street because I do not see him leave down the front set of stairs.
It is only when the cold wakes me that I realise I have fallen asleep up there and manage to drag myself down to bed, instead.
**
I plunge into the freezing water, my head catching on the rocks nearby. This time, it does not knock me unconscious. Instead, I lay there for what feels like hours, unable to move, unable to even think as the icy water slowly seeps into my bones. My eyes are held in their wide state, only able to stare as the surface of the water begins to crust over with ice. I want to scream, but I cannot move…
I am awoken from the dream by hunger rather than sunlight, but it is not as if I sleep that much these days anyway. My body aches as I pull myself from my bed; the spare morsridone that I keep in the car had done its job yesterday evening, but I know I will probably need more in a few hours. The kitchen cupboards show me tea, whisky, and the charcoal-coloured pills but nothing that resembles food. Not even a single can of beans.
Pulling on some clothes, I head out the door in search of breakfast. My eyelids flutter rebelliously against the bright light but I manage not to trip over the body curled up against the wall next to my door. I catch myself on the railing and glance back as a young man blinks blearily up at me.
Across the way, I can see Mrs Anderson peering over the courtyard at us with a disapproving frown. I am convinced she also checks my mail, which would be much more concerning if I ever received anything other than bills.
“It’s fine, Mrs Anderson,” I call to her, vaguely wondering if she even had a first name, “he’s with me.”
Without looking to see just what she thought of a man - no matter how young - sleeping outside my door, I turn to face a bashful-looking Connor. He is staring at his shoes, hair falling around his face as he tries to avoid my gaze. From the looks of him, he never left.
I stare him down as I say, “I was going for breakfast, you can at least follow me downstairs so she doesn’t think I’m exploiting teenagers and calls the old bill on me.”
Connor does not raise his head, but I can see that his lips are quirked. “She’d do that?”
“She does it about once a month.” I lead the way along the outdoor walkway to the stairs. Mrs Anderson stares at us the entire way, mumbling to herself under her breath. “I can’t really blame her, though. I’m a bit of a nutter.”
“I’ll say,” mutters Connor, trying to neaten his sleep-mussed hair; it does not take long. By the time we reach the ground, he is somewhat presentable. I nod to the cafe directly beneath my flat - it is small and dim and decorated predominantly in black and grey, everything is sharp edges and hard lines. I have never liked the interior, but being below my home makes it the closest source of food aside from my usually neglected cupboard.
“I’m surprised you didn’t freeze half to death,” I say, approaching the cafe. He follows me in and we take a seat inside. I eye him across the small table, brow quirked. “I guess we’re breakfasting together, then…?”
His dark eyes go wide. “Oh. I mean… I just thought you meant-”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, waving away the concerns of our young waitress as she arrives. “Two fry-ups. Extra beans and tea with one.”
“Erm, coffee for me, please. With cream, if you have it,” Conner tells the girl.
She smiles sweetly at him, cocking her hips slightly to the side; she looks about his age. “Any extras, sweetheart?”
Connor looks squarely at the table, shrugging. “No thanks.”
In the awkward silence that follows, he glances at his surroundings, back down at the table, and then up at me. “I’m surprised you’re not after a coffee.”
I pull a face at him in spite of myself, before remembering that I am supposed to be the adult. “Over my dead body.”
“You don’t like coffee?”
“Didn’t make it clear enough?”
“Christ, you really are barmy.”
I think about rebuking him, but there is a smile on his face for the first time this morning, and so I leave it.
“Was any of that real?” Connor asks as we wait for our food. The tea and coffee are much quicker, and soon I am adding a teaspoon of honey to mine.
I watch for a while as Connor drowns his drink in sugar and cream. I suppose if I had to drink coffee, that would be the way I would force myself to do it, too. “Was any of what real?”
“Your story?”
“What story? Have we met before?” For a moment, I have him. He shifts nervously in his seat, frowning at me as he studies my face.
Finally, he finds whatever it is he is searching for, and he laughs. “Good one.”
“I’m really regretting leaving that tape around.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” He sounds so genuine that I stare hard at him as our food arrives. “What?” he asks. “Real or not, it’s interesting.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
He smiles at me, toying with the food on his plate. “Would it help if I said yes?”
I divert the conversation to small talk: the weather, music, why he was sleeping outside my door. By the time we finish breakfast, his smile is still firmly in place. I ignore his attempts to pay for his own breakfast as we leave. Don’t get involved, I tell myself. Send the boy on his way. But I stop at the alley leading to the stairs up and hold out a hand to keep Connor from departing.
“Hang on a moment. You’ve been dodging the question all breakfast. Now tell me: why were you sleeping outside my door?”
He looks at me, resentment forming in his eyes. Nervously, he glances around as people walk by on their way to work or school.
“Erm…”
I sigh. “Come on, then.”
Meekly, he follows me up the stairs and across the landing. By the time we reach my kitchen, he is shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“No home?” I ask, leaning on the kitchen side of the counter. “Drugs?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“So I can satisfy my curiosity and get back to my day.” Not because I am concerned. You cannot have stray kids hanging around your doorstep without knowing the amount of trouble they will cause, however.
“Not going to try and ‘save’ me?” Connor counters. His hackles are rising; this is clearly a sore topic. His eyes are too clear for it to be drugs, though.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
He makes a disgruntled sound, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t like it at home.”
“Oh,” I drawl, “a runaway.” Harmless enough.
On the other side of the kitchen counter, he bristles. “I’m not a kid.”
“But you have a home.”
“…yes.” He is no longer looking at me.
“And you ran away from it. Hence, ru-”
He slams a hand down on the counter so abruptly that I stop talking. “I don’t want to go back. This isn’t a cute little game.” His cheeks are flushed now, red rimming his eyes. I decide to lay off the back-talk. Or any talk, for that matter. After a few seconds of fuming stillness, Connor continues on his own. “It’s not like they give rat’s ass, anyway. My family, that is. They don’t want me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think it, Page, I know it.” He shifts from foot to foot, clenching and flexing his right hand.
“Surely that’s not it.” The words are niceties, though. Call it a lack of faith in people, but I am already believing the kid has a good reason to think like this.
“It is.”
“Why wouldn’t they want y-”
“Because I’m a big fucking faggot.” He spits the word with such venom that I forget what it means for a second. In the quiet that follows, Connor turns his head to glare watery-eyed at a Rorschach-test-style painting on the wall.
I want to say something helpful, something nice, but all that comes out of my mouth is, “So, what, that painting looks like dicks to you?” He is glaring daggers at me as I add, “It’s nothing to get worked up about, Connor.”
For a moment he just stares at me, then he laughs bitterly and slumps down on a stool. “Tell that to a family of Chinese Anglican zealots.”
“Ah. Did you tell them recently?”
“Tell them?” He stares at me, dumbfounded. “Do you seriously think I told them? No. It- it’s a long story, but they’ve known for about a month.”
I had spent enough time as a mediator to know this was not a situation I wanted to be involved in. “You’ll have to go home sometime,” I warn.
Connor averts his gaze.
“Look,” I add, “there’s nothing wrong with being gay and your parents shouldn’t be trying to tell you there is. I’m also sure they love you and-or are worried about you. Most likely ‘and’. So-”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “All right. Okay. Sure. But… look, I really want to hear more of that story.”
Not again, I think to myself, please no more unwanted guests. However, a small part of me revels in the idea of telling the rest of the story. It is a part that cannot be easily quelled.
“Fine. But then you’re going home. Before dark. And listen, if we’re really being honest, that painting looks a lot like dicks to me, too.”
I wait for
his wet chuckle to quieten down before I continue with the story.
• • •
My eyes opened to the sound of music. There was no pain, no discomfort, only a strange sense of floating as my faculties returned fully. Turquoise sunlight streamed down from above me, shot with magenta and gold as it cascaded over my body. Or whoever’s body this used to be, anyway.
As I staggered to my feet, my movements were swift and sure of themselves. There was none of the adjustment or stiffness I normally experienced during the reanimation. Between that, and the tranquillity of the place, I had to try hard not to panic.
The small chapel in which I had awoken was covered in exquisite stained glass windows. The murals depicted all manner of mythical creatures and beautiful people with skin varying from ebony to ivory to more unusual palettes. In the images, they knelt on a turquoise surface.
The chapel was little more than a long room, completely devoid of furniture save for a single red rug that decorated the stone floor, and an altar. There was only room enough for the altar on which I had awoken and a place to kneel in front of it. A reflective basin was placed before it, filled with a golden liquid that shimmered like mercury. It was reflective enough for me to make out that I had ebony skin and a strong, aquiline nose before I took better stock of my surroundings.
I was fairly certain that I had never been anywhere this nice before.
I realised the choral singing was a hymn only as it came to an end. In the stillness, I could make out the sound of rushing water from somewhere nearby. As I tentatively stepped from the tiny chapel, the source of both sounds became clear.
Nearby, on a field of grass so pale and vibrant it looked as though someone had applied a bloom effect on this world, was the most beautiful cathedral I had ever seen. Its spires were woven from black-and-gold marble, yet it did not look even remotely as menacing as images conjured by the words ‘black cathedral’ should. The gold coils within it caught the light and gave the entire building an ethereal glow. Behind the tiny chapel in which I had awoken was a sheer cliff. I could make out the shimmer of stunningly clear water some ways out, but it must have been quite a drop down to the sea.