by Mon D Rea
This is how broken-hearted men feel all the time. And even if Sephtimus tries to sleep it off like a human, he’ll only prolong the drowsiness and meld one false dream into the next. With no concern for time in the mortal realm because it feels like everything has dropped dead on their tracks, he’ll chase dreams of her disappearing into a crowd - not staying in one place no matter what he tells her - then the pillows will be stained with a moistness he has never really understood and will never understand. He will fill every minute, every second with the thought of her. Every small thing and sign will remind him of her while, on her part, she isn’t able to care any more than her nature or the combination of chemicals inside her brain allows her. And this will literally kill him.
The Grim Reaper wishes he were a monster again with ashes and swirls of abysmal matter for a heart. Or if only his scalp could be opened like a hinged door, he’d take out all the bits of memory he had of her – so she’d just be another plain passerby, a typical soul for him to harvest, intriguing but no more than that because she hadn’t crossed the line yet when she’d mean anything to him and cause him this much pain. He keeps telling himself that this event will come to pass but it doesn’t ease the pain one bit. It’s still as real as it gets.
It’s like the rollercoaster, Cyhyraeth has described to him as well as he could. A bitter-sweetness that happens constantly, moment by moment. It’ll teach you to scream at the top of your lungs and let go of the handle. But no matter how high or low it takes you, don’t forget it ends right where it started. You’re there just to enjoy the ride.
****
Nate?
As if responding to some sense the average human doesn’t have, Sam stirs on the bench and emerges right out of a dream she’s having, calling out my name. And right here is the first stone in a landslide of mistakes. My instincts are also blunted by the tears now blurring my vision, and they’re too sluggish to cut off the words that naturally slip out of my mouth:
“Go back to sleep, Sam. I’m right here.”
Contrary to the soothing effect I wanted to induce, my voice jerks Sam wide-awake. She lets out a moan and her eyelids flutter open, followed by a frightened gasp. “Nate? Is it really you?”
My chimeric form proves it has a mind of its own and reflects the battle raging over me. It’s no different from the scales of the bottom-dwelling cuttlefish that can shift even in total darkness. Thankfully, the only thing Sam sees at the moment is the shadowy, normal figure of a man.
“Nate, there’s so much I need to tell you.”
This time I choose not to respond. Tears are flowing down my cheeks in the dark. She gets up from the bench with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. To my alarm, she takes a step closer.
“Stay right where you are, Miss!” I adopt the first plan I come up with, trying as hard as I can to alter my voice. I pull it off with my morphing abilities; perhaps too well. The words stop her in her tracks.
“Who are you?”
I cry in silence.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demands, suddenly fearful for her safety.
“I’m the night watchman… miss. It’s dangerous for you to be here. You best go home.”
She’s still squinting at the shadows trying to make out my shape, fresh out of a very realistic and suspiciously-generated dream she has just had about me. Now surfaced but for the tip of her foot still dipped in the flawed logic of the dream, where it’s possible for comatose patients to rise back up like Lazarus. And I’m a fool to think for a minute that I can disguise myself from the woman who has loved me for more than three years. Her sunken, sleep-starved eyes bulge.
“Nate,” she says breathlessly. “It IS you.” A single long tear stabs down her cheek like a tiny spear. So effortlessly. “Nate, I’ve missed you so much. I…”
That single tear is the scout of a whole torrent. It’s like a dam burst open and all the emotions she’s been holding in pour forth as huge, chest-heaving, and heart-wrenching sobs. All this is also too much for me. My shoulders start shaking at the intensity of the feelings I’m trying to hold back and my scales multiply in response to my agitated state. It’s only a matter of time before Sam notices something amiss in my form. I wipe the tears hard off my cheeks.
“Listen, Sam. Samantha. Listen to me very carefully please… I - I’M SORRY. This is what I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you… I’m really, really sorry, Sam.”
Her tears are now streaming uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry I was cruel to you the last of my days. I was deliberately mean to you. I ignored you and drove you away. I wasn’t the Nate you knew as your partner and best friend. I…”
Both of us are crying separately at a distance of only two yards.
“I did all those things because I wanted you to forget me. To move on and make a new life. I should’ve told you this before, Sam. But the real reason I couldn’t say the words ‘forever’ or ‘love’ to you, why I never could commit… it’s because they sounded trite and fake to an orphan like me. I had to see them for myself first. So I went low. I bottomed out. I went away to a place devoid of time or hope, where no man would dare go. There had been something broken inside me for a long time. And I - I couldn’t be around you anymore.
“You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world if it weren’t… absolutely necessary. But what you’re doing now to yourself. Turning your back on life the way I did. This is not what I wanted for you, Sam. This – it makes me sad.”
WHERE ARE YOU, CYHYRAETH?
The telepathic message invades my consciousness like a rifle shot. A slug travelling with two thousand foot-pounds of energy. The communication has made me jerk my head like a deer that still hasn’t realized it’s been shot.
“I- I have to go.”
Up to this point Sam has been attentive and meek, but my last words jolt her out of her trance and she’s suddenly back in her recurring nightmare, reaching for my fading presence.
“No. Stay. Please! Don’t lea—”
Her careless lunge catches me by surprise. For a second that feels like eternity as it plays over and over in my head, I shift back to my full fershee form with its slime-covered scales. I can picture myself through Sam’s eyes: body poised to move like a coil spring but fish eyes wide and expressing fear.
Sam’s frozen on the spot. And I just can’t bear to witness the transformation of that treasured face into one that’s horror-struck. As soon as I get myself together, my camouflage ability kicks in and I vanish like a filefish in the face of danger. My scales have turned silver and glittery in the moonlight.
I turn, push off with my leg, and run like hell.
Chapter XX: The Appointment
Everything becomes so surreal and hypnotic it’s hard to tell if they’re actually taking place. Chester rises in a fluid and graceful movement, but in reality, his body’s cutting through time like knife sliding through butter. The whole place, the small universe of the diner – from every unsuspecting customer to each tiny corner of tissue cowed by the ceiling fan, from the twitchy second hand of a wall clock to the rollerbladed foot of a waitress raised in a push – all these freeze in mid-action. Or not so much freeze as slow down into a clotted tempo.
Lessa and the rest of the customers sit like wax sculptures except for their eyes, most especially hers, which glimmer with awareness and concentration. It’s like an isolated object (Chester) is moving at hyper-speed while leaving the rest of the world behind. Like a character in dreamland doing away with the line between point A and B while the sleeper’s mind fills in the gap. The effect is both spell-binding and nauseating. One moment Chester’s sitting across from Lessa; the next he’s standing below the diner’s overhead TV, which has been droning on for most of the evening unnoticed.
“I was a fool to think that I could be loved,” Chester speaks in Sephtimus’ I-am-Legion voice, his eyes as glossy black as eight balls. “This time you have to listen to what I
have to say, Celestina Conti. You have no choice in the matter. Try to remember everything I will tell you. Your life shall depend on it.”
A few forlorn, long-drawn sighs from the wax museum collection.
“The truth is, I am evil. Like an apple, my soul at first had only one small spot; now it has been overrun with black rot. Outside the fruit might still appear firm with that crisp, crunchy bite but inside it is nothing but dust and spores – spores that infest everything around it, all the other apples in a bushel. I am the exact opposite of a light.
“But… I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you, Celestina. This was in another life and another time, when I was still a mortal like you. And from a memory that has been extinguished from every ridge and fissure of your mind.
“We were too young then. We held on to each other the best way we knew, as drowning people would to a lifeline. But love is so long and life so short. The tides of fate pushed you farther and farther away from me. When I found you again, a millennia and a half later, you had a whole new life as another person. But it was you most certainly. I suppose it was your vitality, your thirst for life that spoke out to me from the great sea of souls.
“Because of this – pay close attention to what I am about to tell you – because of this, I killed all the people dear to you, one by one, for the singularly evil purpose of making you feel alone.
“Ms. Conti, I… am… a monster.”
Based on Lessa’s reaction, there’s little assurance that the truth is sinking in. But the whole thing’s like a dream working deep down on a subliminal level. She might not fully understand when she surfaces out of the experience but the idea’s already implanted in her consciousness. A proof of this is the single drop of tear that rolls smoothly, flawlessly down her marble cheek. Someone cries in their sleep in a similar way.
“It’s true there are rules that prevent me from directly interfering with human fate. But there are other ways to make it happen. The Book of Life and Death is full of general conditions that I find my way around. For instance, as a prank I can cut the brakes of a car that I calculate will be at a certain place at a certain point in time. It’s not an exact thing, mind you. More like trial and error. But it is one way to effect the claiming of a life.
“Another ingenious method is to place mysterious cigarette-sticks around a human dwelling to tempt a mortal of weaker resolve. It matters not if the bait is thought to be a gift of Providence and thus accepted. The prank’s as innocent and ordinary as when a slipper or an earring mysteriously disappears. On the day the doctor reveals the X-ray of your tar-coated lungs, Death will be there smiling over your shoulder.
“These little deeds may be what you’d call ‘sneaking,’ but they get the job done. I get to ridicule the rules that have kept my powers in check over the centuries. There are many roundabout ways for one who thinks long and hard. And in case you haven’t noticed, time is all I have.”
Death gazes over all his petrified audience. Then he reaches back to the top of his spine and tugs at something like the zipper of a costume. As everyone lets out a silent scream, the whole of Chester’s head cleaves like a latex mask.
Because Sephtimus appears to be peeling the skin off of Chester, everyone expects to see a gory, anatomical apparition underneath. This scene is more realistic than any FX in a horror flick so some eyelids flutter as though their owners are trying desperately to wake up, but all souls are presently banished from the real world and their bodies are nothing more than empty husks.
When Sephtimus has shed his Chester costume like python skin, he nudges aside the shapeless man on the floor with his coat’s billowing, feetless bottom. Now Atropos is revealed in his full goth splendor, from the sweeping skirt of his trench coat to the colorful flowers of his Dia de los Muertos mask.
“Ahhh… that’s better!” he exclaims like your average white-collar loosening his tie after a rough day at the office. A faint, smothered cry escapes Lessa’s frozen lips. These lips are set like they’re taking forever to decide whether they should smile or frown.
“Now, if Nate had been listening closely…”
I have. Because everything Sephtimus said has been transmitted to me telepathically. At this precise moment, I’m running back to the diner as fast as my heavy, webbed fershee feet can carry me.
You know that dream where the faster you try to run, the slower you get? Just when I need it most my invisible tsunami has abandoned me. But I receive an explanation for this soon enough.
Leave it alone, Nataniel Cuervo. This is not your fight.
Out of nowhere, a different voice enters the psychic channel like crosstalk on a landline.
Who are you? I ask.
Do you not know the answer to this question?
It’s true. I feel like I’ve known all along. This rumbly yet feminine voice with its many layers overlapping. Its owner is a shadow that has constantly loomed over us, moving the pieces across the board with her three pairs of hands. She has been the one responsible from the start, who orchestrated all the events with cold calculation. She created the Lachesis computers in Death’s office and sent the crow man for me at the orphanage. She gave me my second form as a fershee and influenced Sephtimus to adopt me as his tutor. She was there on the banks of River Acheron the moment I arrived in the underworld. She probably manipulated Sam, too, to be at the park on this exact night.
Spinstra. The Fate Weaver. The last piece of the puzzle, the third of the Wyrd Ones.
… he would understand the implications. Sephtimus continues orating at the other end, still unaware of Spinstra’s masterful touch. There was no October 31st appointment made. Because right from the start I have had the scalpel, no matter how imprecise, to take the life of fair Celestina here…
Sephtimus’ voice grows soft and sentimental as he turns back to Lessa in the diner.
“There is no appointment. It was true love I felt, Celestina. And I took the lives of your grandmother, uncle, and mother for it. Yet when I was about to deliver the coup de grace to your father, the merciful snip at his shriveled umballicus; at that moment when you were about to be left completely alone and orphaned into the streets, something stopped me. A completely alien emotion had taken hold of me and stayed my hand. I suppose that was when love had overtaken my reason.
“There was no deal made. No appointment waiting to be kept. I extended your father’s life out of my own feeling of clemency, the first ever from the Grim Reaper. And I regret none of it. To see you recover the roses of life in your cheeks and cast away the first creases of old age from your brow.
“I had moved through eternal existence with no eyes, Giulia. The world held no hidden surprises for me. And then there you were. As dazzling as the first light. You chased away the nothingness and gave me what no one else could, the vulnerability of a mortal. As cliché and paradoxical as this may sound, you brought me to life.
“Thereafter I watched you grow from a distance. I was glad that you lived the life of a normal human being, not jaded, cold, or despairing.
“I was there, too, at every landmark in your life, at every tumble. I shared all your dreams and fears. I watched you laugh and sigh, fall in love plenty of times and break your heart even more. Before I knew it, I had begun to cherish life. Precisely what I had before detested and indifferently brought to an end.
“When I sensed your deathdate finally come up on the Interweave: Celestina Conti– October 31st, 4: 28 a.m. – there was no end to my sorrow.”
Now the flapping of gargantuan wings can be heard outside. The wall clock in the diner reads: Ten minutes to four.
“It’s begun,” Sephtimus whispers to the lifeless room. “They’ve revolted.”
****
I can’t believe it. This is in fact the story of a Death Angel who has fallen for a mortal. The part about Sephtimus coldly picking off members of Lessa’s family is unspeakably heartless, but I for one can attest to the complete transformation he has undergone.
&nb
sp; I’m still in shock from my face-to-face encounter with Sam but there are far more pressing matters at hand. I wish my surfing abilities would come to my aid now but, as it turns out, the waxing and waning of my powers is dictated by the Fate Weaver.
You owe him no allegiance, Nataniel Cuervo. You are henceforth free from your contract. I grant you the freedom to roam the human world and mingle with the living once more. Run back home to the side of the one you covet, Samantha Angeles. If you so desire, I shall arrange that you both belong in the same realm once again.
I slow down at the mention of Sam’s name. Panting heavily, I prick my webbed ears up.
****
Lessa’s back to normal on her seat in the diner, looking at Chester. At this point she seriously considers either one of two things, to sleep with him or to say that she has also fallen for him. But the words she finally chooses to say are these: “Thank you for this. This is really… special, what you’ve given me. But I need time. You’ve given me plenty to think about. I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for you.”
Because she knows that if she looks back she won’t be able to leave, she walks off and out the diner without so much as a glance over her shoulder. There’s nothing wrong with it though. It’s perfectly all right. She’d be lying if she said something she wasn’t sure she really felt, and if she slept with him on their first date, she’d ruin a perfectly good chance at a sincere and quality relationship. All in good time, she happily thinks to herself.
It’s only a couple of steps into the parking lot when she remembers they have left her car at Brew Bear and the fastest way back to it is through a back street. Lessa’s instincts for self-preservation, normally in good working order, are down at the moment. It’s memorable after all; this night full of pleasant surprises. She promises herself she’ll be at Brew Bear again later in the evening.