by Scott Baron
She could feel heat and cold. Then there was the issue of people seeing and even touching her. And the icing on the cake, she was apparently unable to take a life. Something was very wrong indeed.
Standing on the sidewalk, dazed and utterly confused, the girl reluctantly accepted the horrifying realization.
No. This cannot be. I am Death. I am not merely a bag of mortal flesh, but what has changed? A look of concern flashed across her face. If I am unable to do my job, what happens when people are supposed to die?
As if the universe heard her query, the piercing sound of skidding tires cut through the air, followed by the screams of bystanders.
They were playing her song.
She turned toward the commotion. Not a random stranger on the street, but an actual traffic collision.
If I can’t cross this one over, then… She shuddered at the thought. Come on, pull yourself together. This is what you do, it’s what you are. Go do this.
The accident had taken place a mere half-block away. A thirty-something man, his full attention focused on the Facebook drama with his possibly soon-to-be ex-girlfriend that was unfolding on his cell phone, had quite obliviously stepped off a curb without seeing or hearing the blue sedan rapidly approaching him.
Who liked what post and unfriended which person apparently took priority over situational awareness, which, in this case, proved a bad idea, especially when a two-ton hunk of metal on wheels was barreling down the road right toward him.
No matter how good your anti-lock brakes may be, no one can force their car to stop on a dime when someone steps in front of it at short range.
Unless, of course, that dime is in that someone’s pocket.
The girl who thought she was Death pushed her way through the gathering crowd, making a deliberate line toward the epicenter of the accident, her hand raised, her face showing the strain as she tried to focus her powers and reap the victim’s soul.
This is someone who should be dead. This time it will work.
Her confidence was building with every step. She was Death, and she was going to take this person’s life.
She finally edged her way through the throng of bystanders, who she noted could still touch her—how annoying—and spotted the injured man on the ground, locking him in her sights.
To her dismay, as she attempted to pull his essence free, the would-be corpse simply stood up, dusting himself off, a bit scraped up and dirty, but otherwise unharmed.
Not what she had planned.
Not at all.
No, it has to work! She strained her hand outward toward the man, but he just stood there, brushing the gravel and dirt off of his clothes.
A concerned woman ran up to him, shocked by the accident but equally amazed that he appeared unharmed after such an impact.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” she asked, her breath catching as she looked at his torn clothes, expecting the worst.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a scrape.”
“You shouldn’t stand up,” the woman said. “You might have internal injuries. You should lay back down until an ambulance gets here.”
“I feel fine, thanks.”
“But… the speed he hit you—how are you not hurt! It’s a miracle!”
The driver of the car, who was naturally quite freaked out at the prospect of running a man down on his way to work, hovered close, wringing his hands nervously.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I call an ambulance?”
“No, really, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
And the girl in black knew he spoke the truth. He really was okay.
Murmurs of, “He should be dead,” and, “How can he be all right?” and even, “It’s a miracle!” filtered to the ears of the girl who thought she was Death.
Yes, he should be dead, she thought, grimly. But for some reason my powers have vanished. This does not bode well.
Distraught, she turned and started off through the bustling crowd, finding herself quickly overwhelmed by the steady flow of people streaming against her as she struggled forward.
Surging humanity was buffeting her like a salmon swimming upstream, and much to her distress and distraction, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
The girl had been walking down the busy sidewalk for a long while with no sense of time. Her distraction continued to grow as the sheer number of people pressing in around her had become downright overwhelming. She felt drained, swaying on her feet from the sensory overload. She managed to push clear of the throng, pressing her back against a store’s façade as she took a moment and regained her equilibrium.
This has got to be a mistake. Someone has to know what’s going on. There has to be a way back.
She looked up, a boiling frustration building within her, when a neon sign just down the street caught her eye. It was gaudy thing, flashing pictures of stars, a pyramid, and the all-seeing eye. Her eyes locked on the words “Madame Bavmorda, Psychic” calling to her in bright red.
The bell jingled as the girl entered the dimly lit occult shop. Crystals and tapestries adorned the walls and counters, and new-age music quietly filtered through the incense-tinged air. Watching from a plush chair, decked out in flowing, mystical attire of rich fabric, with what appeared to be very old tarot cards spread in front of her, sat Madame Bavmorda. She gazed casually at her new guest, a hint of a bemused smile on her lips.
To the girl, the psychic appeared to be in her fifties, though with her elaborate outfit and makeup, it was hard to tell for sure in the dim light. For all she knew, the woman could have just as easily been one hundred.
The woman’s intense eyes looked at the cards spread on the table then focused again on the girl, studying her.
“You come seeking answers, yes?” The psychic’s accent was notably Eastern European.
“You see me?” asked the girl who thought she was Death. “You can actually see me?”
“I see all,” the mystic replied. “Come, sit.”
She gestured to a cushioned divan across the table from where she reclined. The young woman hesitated for a moment.
If she can see me… could she help get me home?
She lowered herself onto the cushion.
“You must know, I am not meant to be here. I must cross back.”
Madame Bavmorda furrowed her brow as she sized up the girl now seated across from her. With a flourish, she scooped up her deck and shuffled the cards with well-practiced hands, slowly fanning them out in front of her, pausing as the tarot cards’ images revealed themselves.
“Ah… yes, yes… You are so very far from home.” She watched the girl’s reaction closely.
“Yes!”
The psychic turned over a card.
“But there is a way. A way back!”
“Tell me!” The girl slid to the edge of her seat as she anxiously watched the old psychic.
Another card turned, and Madame Bavmorda paused dramatically, then raised an eyebrow as she fixed her piercing gaze on the young customer seated across from her.
“Hmm, interesting,” she mused. “Very interesting.”
The girl stared at her intently, waiting. “What is it? How do I get back?”
“Madame Bavmorda can help you—for a nominal fee.”
“I am Death, Reaper of Souls, and I must return to my rightful place! People must die! It is my purpose!” the young woman blurted.
The cards that had been slowly turning one by one stopped suddenly as Madame Bavmorda gave her an exasperated look.
“You what, now?” she groaned. “Oh God, not another one. Okay, you know what, you need to get out of here, all right? I don’t do crazy.”
Madame Bavmorda’s accent had disappeared, the girl noted, as she started scooping up her cards.
“But you—”
“I said OUT!”
The woman lurched from her seat with surprising spryness for someone who had just moments before appeared so old
and wise, and grabbed the young woman by the arm, hustling her to the exit in a rush.
With a yank, she opened the front door and pushed her strange would-be customer out onto the cold sidewalk, slamming the door behind her, the bell chiming an unhappy ding as the door shook in its frame from the impact.
The girl thought to go back inside, but heard the lock slide shut as the Open sign flickered out.
Despondent, she slowly turned from the door and started moving, one foot after the other, distraught and alone. Direction wasn’t important, she simply felt compelled to walk and think. Two things she’d be doing for many, many hours.
CHAPTER 2
Darkness had fallen at some point during her walk, though when exactly, she couldn’t say. The girl hadn’t really paid much attention to the transition from day to night, so deep in thought she had been, placing one foot in front of the other almost mechanically. Now, however, when she paused and looked at her surroundings, she was faced with the uncomfortable realization that she had no idea where she was.
She scanned the area, and noticed the half-lit streets were lacking the hustle and bustle of earlier. In fact, they were rather deserted, for the most part, save for the occasional post-work jogger and a few small ragtag groups of homeless huddled together against the night’s chill.
The old-school, high-intensity sodium vapor streetlights that had once illuminated every nook and cranny of the somewhat historic boulevard had recently been replaced with high-tech, low-energy LED fixtures during the neighborhood’s transition from seedy slum to hipster haven. While perhaps better for the environment with their lower energy consumption, they were far less efficient at their principal job of actually illuminating the streets and sidewalks. The resulting long shadows and dark patches made the girl’s path one that led directly into a murky patchwork of inky-black spots. The type of darkness in which the things that go bump in the night might lurk.
Normally these types of shadowy places would have been inviting to the girl who thought she was Death, but for some reason, on this most unsettling of days, she found herself experiencing a rather foreign sensation; a visceral discomfort tightening her gut. Accompanying it was a slight tingling of the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention, causing an involuntary quickness to her steps as she walked past the dark alleyways and building entrances.
What is wrong with me? she thought, noticing the chill in the air that accompanied nightfall as she hurried along.
Have I really been walking all day? No wonder my feet are so sore, she mused.
The afternoon sun that had previously warmed her slender body as she wove through the neighborhoods had been pleasant. Now that the sun had slid below the horizon, however, and the evening chill had taken over the streets, she found herself once again experiencing a sharp cold that cut right through her all-too insufficient clothes.
Across the empty street, a shifting flicker from a small mom-and-pop television and audio store caught her eye, the light emanating from the several TV sets on display behind the heavy iron security grating protecting the store’s windows.
Huddled in their ratty coats, bundled against the night air, stood a couple of neighborhood winos watching the free entertainment through the glass. The men slowly swayed in their inebriated state, thoroughly enthralled with the flickering screens, laughing drunkenly.
What could possibly be so interesting?
She crossed the street without even looking, as was her habit. It didn’t matter; there were no cars for blocks in either direction.
It wasn’t until she got within a few feet of the two men that she was hit with the eye-watering smack of alcohol wafting off of them.
Good thing they aren’t smoking, she thought. These two would probably burst into flames with just a spark, though that would at least make things a little warmer.
The sound was either off on the TVs or just turned too low to be heard through the thick glass, and most were showing cheesy talk show reruns, reality TV, and old action movies (edited for television, of course). It seemed they were all set to one form or another of what could be considered the lowest common denominator entertainment for an undiscerning audience. All but one.
One of the smaller screens was tuned to the news.
Though the sound was inaudible, the closed captioning subtitles provided a running narrative, albeit one with occasional typos from the imperfect speech recognition program accompanying the images in the box offset on screen next to the square-jawed anchor’s smiling face.
She watched for a moment, unimpressed, but just as she was beginning to turn away, the anchor wrapped up his ‘news’ report on some C-list celebritard and the reckless paparazzi drivers stalking her, something made her pause.
The story had shifted to a breaking news event.
The screen was filled with a helicopter shot of an overturned commuter bus, along with several crashed cars piled up around it. Smoke could be seen billowing from the engine compartment as emergency personnel swarmed the site.
The news anchor turned serious as he shifted his gaze from camera one to camera two. He even dialed down his smile from full-toothed and gleaming, to the slightly reserved one saved for tragedies and politics, which were often one and the same.
As his lips moved in silent commentary, the text captioning scrolled at the bottom of the screen;
“…Amazingly, despite both the speed of the accident and the ensuing fire, all passengers managed to escape with only minor injuries. The driver, though in critical condition, is expected to pull through, according to hospital staff.”
Oh no, she thought, staring at the screen. This is not good.
She noticed that the drunken men standing beside her had paid no attention to the broadcast whatsoever, so fully enthralled were they in whatever they were watching. She glanced over and caught a glimpse of what her very inebriated viewing companions were so engrossed in, and found herself totally unsurprised.
A really bad 1980s action movie.
Naturally.
Oddly enough, thanks to an unexpected twist of luck, the schlocky movie was actually better without sound, the silence sparing them from truly horrible action film dialogue.
The fight scene underway bordered on ludicrous, but ridiculous as it was, the drunken men seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it. The fight climaxed as the on-screen hero kicked the villain in the groin, the inebriated pair chiming in with a chorus of “Ooooooh!” as they instinctively bent forward to protect their own groins.
Funny that anywhere in the world, men will all have that same reaction, she thought with a smile. Drunk or sober, it’s always the same, although I think this particular pair’s reaction time may have been a bit diminished.
A shiver ran up her back. The nighttime chill was setting in deeper. A discomfort that motivated her to start moving again.
The girl who thought she was Death walked and walked, until she eventually found herself in one of the more historic parts of town. As it hadn’t been completely bought up and renovated yet, some of the older restaurants and buildings in the neighborhood still vented their steam to the streets and alleys through gratings and exposed ducts. Welcome warmth.
While the nests of pipes and trash piles were perhaps not the most appetizing of locations to pass the time, the girl had discovered that while her fashionable black coat may have looked good, it was quite ineffective at fending off the night’s chill, which was surprisingly adept at burrowing right through whatever layers stood in its way.
In the face of the biting cold, it was a very easy decision. The heat was well worth tolerating the smell.
She hunkered down next to a large dumpster, which provided her some protection from the breeze, and huddled against a warm pipe emerging from the building. It took the edge off, at least a little, as the night grew darker and the air temperature dropped. Fortunately, she had chosen to seek refuge in one of the nicer alleyways in the area, if one could call a dirty alley nice. At least this was one where t
he garbage was collected regularly, though it nevertheless still had that universal alley smell of rotting refuse and the occasional whiff of old, or not-so-old, urine.
She sat there quietly, grumpy and most certainly non-thrilled by her situation, when out of nowhere, a bag of trash came flying past her, right over her head and into the dumpster with a loud crash.
She jumped to her feet in surprise, the fight-or-flight flush buzzing in her cells an as-of-yet undetermined response.
The sandy-blonde waitress in her early fifties stood in the open alley doorway of the twenty-four-hour diner, likewise startled at the unexpected, and quite sudden, appearance of the young girl dressed in black.
“Oh my God, you scared the shit out of me!” the waitress said, putting her hand over her fluttering heart as she looked closer at the shivering girl. “Hey, are you okay? I’m so sorry about that. Did I hit you? I didn’t see you there.”
“It-t-t… itsh allll right. I know it wassh unintensshonal” What the hell? Why can’t I speak properly?
“You must be freezing out here,” the waitress said, rubbing her arms briskly against the cold air that had already started to chill her skin.
“I f-f-f-f-eeeeel…I am…” She paused, confused. “I d-d-don’t know w-w-why I f-feeel.” Standing up had distanced her from the warm pipe, and her teeth had started to chatter from the cold.
Of course, my lips are going numb. That’s just great, what next?
“Why you feel?” the woman said with a questioning look. “You mean why you feel sad?”
“N-n-no,” she replied. “W-w-why I f-f-feeel.”
The waitress looked her over head to toe, and after but a moment’s thought, she decided the slender girl in black didn’t look like a junkie or crazed vagrant, just a girl down on her luck, much as she’d once been, though that was a long time ago.
“What’s your name, hon?”
“I ammm D-d-d-death,” she said, shivering.