“You got it,” confirmed Mason.
“Great. I’ll call you Monday.” Clayton reached into his jacket pocket and then handed him a card. “In case you need to get in touch beforehand.”
“Thanks.” As he slid the card away, Mason felt his fingers brush against the note he’d used to kill four men only a couple hours ago.
The car began to move. “So, are you a student here?” asked Clayton.
“Yeah,” replied Mason, who would have preferred to skip the small talk.
“What are you taking?”
“Not sure yet. Probably philosophy.”
“Oh yeah? I majored sociology myself, but I took a few philosophy courses.” Clayton flicked on his turn signal. “You know, back when I was going to Carwin. I’m actually dating a professor here now who, believe it or not, teaches philosophy.”
“Is that why you were driving through campus?” asked Mason.
“Yeah,” said Clayton. “We had a date tonight. Then the rain started being all… weird. She got stranded inside Sherwood Hall with her students. I was coming to surprise her and, well, I guess she’ll be surprised when I tell her about tonight.” They were leaving campus now. “Alicia Rutherford— you know her?”
“You’re dating Alicia Rutherford?” Mason was taken aback.
“For about a year now,” he replied. “She’s great. She’s one of your teachers, I take it? How do you like her— as a professor, I mean? Don’t worry, I won’t say anything if it’s bad.”
“Honestly,” said Mason, “she’s my favorite.” He was warming up to this cop. If Alicia approved of him, he couldn’t be all bad.
“I had a feeling she was a good one.” Clayton appeared genuinely pleased. “What about you? You got a special someone in your life?”
Mason shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. I mean, there’s someone. I don’t know where we’re at, but I really like her. Although I may have just screwed things up.”
“But you really like her?”
“Yeah. More than any woman I’ve ever liked. Granted, that’s not saying much.”
“Well, then you gotta unscrew things,” Clayton said matter-of-factly.
“That may be easier said than done,” replied Mason.
“What I’m saying is don’t give up without a fight. You’re young, I get that, but believe me, as someone who’s got a good decade on ya, things don’t get any easier.” Clayton had apparently left his police-officer facade back in Mason’s cul-de-sac. “Women that make you feel that way, that make you feel like they’re the best thing that could ever happen to you— they’re rare, man. Sometimes I think it only gets harder as you get older. You don’t meet as many people. You get more… jaded.”
Mason watched the downtown skyline shimmer by in the distance, dimmer than it had been an hour ago. “You’re probably right,” he said after a moment. “I just need to figure out what to say.”
“That’s the hard part,” replied Clayton. “The part I always fucked up.”
Mason was surprised by his nonchalance— in a good way. It made him more at ease.
“But Alicia,” Clayton continued, “she just kept giving me chances. I still don’t know why, but I’m sure as hell grateful. Take tonight…” He struggled to find his next words. “It could have been a lot harder to get through. It’s still hard, don’t get me wrong. I shot someone. I killed someone. To tell you the truth, man, I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it yet. But knowing I have her— it just makes all the dark stuff a little less dark, you know?”
Mason nodded. “I think so, yeah.”
“I used to be a pretty fun dude,” said Clayton. “I went out a lot, made friends with everyone. Real extroverted and all that. I was one of those guys everyone liked.” He paused for a moment, merging onto the empty highway. “Then something happened a couple years back. Something that changed me. Suddenly, I wasn’t enjoying the things I used to. I didn’t feel light anymore. I felt heavy. I started seeing a shrink, but that didn’t do me any good. Then I read a few of those stupid self-help books. You know, Ten Ways to Heal Your Soul or whatever— shit like that. And they all said the same thing. They all said that happiness comes from within. And you know what? That’s total bullshit.”
Mason laughed, something he hadn’t thought possible tonight.
“I’m serious, man. Absolute bullshit. There’s a limit,” said Clayton, slicing the air with his free hand. “You can only help yourself so much. But like I said, it’s tough out there. It’s not easy finding a good woman, a good man, whatever you’re into. A lot of us, we never do, or we lose them. And so these books say it’s all, you know, a state of mind. That it’s all about you and how you see the world. But happiness, it ain’t, uh— what’s the word?”
“Subjective?” offered Mason.
“Exactly,” replied Clayton. “Happiness isn’t subjective. You can’t intellectualize your way there.”
“That’s a good way of putting it.” Mason yawned. “I suppose most people want to believe the world is a simple place with simple answers.”
A semi truck rumbled by in the opposite direction.
“Ain’t that the truth. But look, man, I’m finally happy again,” said Clayton. “In fact, I would say I’m even happier than before because now it’s a deeper, realer happiness. It’s no easy task, happiness, but it’s out there. Somewhere. Fight for your lady friend, that’s all I’m saying. We’re not meant to be alone, we humans— we didn’t evolve that way.” He looked back toward the empty stretch of highway ahead of them. “Sorry if I’m rambling a bit. I’m in sort of a weird mood right now.”
“Makes two of us,” replied Mason.
“It’s been a strange night, that’s for sure.”
Mason couldn’t argue with that. Or with sleep, apparently. He was struggling to keep his eyelids from calling it a night.
Clayton noticed. “You look tired,” he said. “If you want to nap for a few minutes, go ahead. I’ll wake you when we get to Sanford.”
Mason nodded, sliding deeper into his seat, eyes already closed. God, he was exhausted.
* * *
It was the next day (although not technically) and Mason couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so long. Twelve hours, uninterrupted. His mother told him he was partying too hard. In her defence, this was because he’d lied to her.
Mason had said he was in town for a friend’s party. Someone from college— she didn’t know him. Sure, he was a crummy liar, but the truth would have seemed far more unbelievable. Of course, that’s not why he lied. He just hated worrying her. And she would worry— boy, would she ever. She might even be justified this time. A man had been shot and killed in his house, after all.
But she didn’t need to know that. Besides, she seemed happy to have him home. Why ruin that? It was the first time he’d returned since moving out. She had even cooked him afternoon breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee— all made to perfection, at least in his biased opinion.
“I need to buy groceries,” she said, walking through the kitchen, keys jingling between her fingers. “Will you still be here when I get back?”
Mason nodded, his mouth stuffed with food. He swallowed. “Until tomorrow, I think.”
She looked happy to hear that. “Stay as long as you’d like. This is still your home. Always will be.”
He nodded again, muted by another forkful of eggs and toast.
She left smiling.
Mason returned his attention to his phone, resting on the counter beside him. Like most men his age, he checked it rather compulsively. Last night, however, its battery died once again— he’d only charged it partially. Of course, he’d been too distracted to notice, but now it bugged him. What if Asha had tried to call?
After scraping his plate clean, Mason headed upstairs to his mother’s bedroom. Her phone was not unlike
his, and he was hoping it used the same type of charger.
Lucky for him, the plug snapped in perfectly. His phone began booting up within seconds, and Mason felt more relieved than he probably should have. He had one missed call from his mother and a text message from Asha, sent three hours ago. He clicked open the latter.
I’m sorry about last night, it read. I was scared. You don’t owe me anything. I haven’t exactly been clear about us.
It could have been a lot worse, thought Mason, feeling relieved. She hadn’t ruled him out, or so he hoped. Quickly, he typed up his response: I’m sorry too. I’m at my mom’s place, but I’m coming back to campus tomorrow. Can we talk about it then? (PS. My phone died again.)
He took a seat on the bed and waited, not that there was any reason to think she’d reply anytime soon. And yet, not a minute later, the phone in his hand beeped and vibrated at once. She had sent back a single word: Okay. It was all he needed to hear.
On that note, Mason abandoned his phone so that it could charge and he could shower. He flicked on the bathroom light and locked the door, even though no one else was home. And for the first time that day, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
It caught him off guard, his own reflection. He stared at himself for a full minute. But not in vain. He stared because the man staring back was exactly that— a man, not the kid he saw a mere month ago, the last time he stood here.
It wasn’t a physical thing, though in some respects he did look different. He was paler— not as pale as he’d been yesterday, mind you. His eyes too, there was a new darkness, a tiredness, that surrounded them. But that wasn’t it either. No. It was this: Somehow, in some way he couldn’t quite explain, Mason had lost his youth.
And that’s when he began to cry. It snuck up on him without warning, without precedence. He just… cried. Cried for the first time since his father’s death. Cried like he had never cried before, his head bobbing up and down, tears tracing his cheeks, snot slinking over his lips. He cried like an idiot, falling onto his forearms, and then cried some more. He couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to.
And then he laughed. Mason slid down onto the tile floor, his back against the cupboards, laughing his ass off. Laughing and crying, crying and laughing. “Stupid fucking emotions.” He wiped his tears with both hands, still chuckling.
Mason picked himself up and took his shower.
Once he was clean, he left the bathroom with a towel around his waist, yesterday’s clothes crumpled on the floor behind him. He crossed the hall to his father’s library, Mason’s favorite room, feeling refreshed, feeling lighter.
Still dripping from the shower, he stood and stared mindfully at the familiar details around him. The classic books lining each wall. His father’s old oak desk, as regal as any desk ever was. The sunlight slipping through the blinds, blotting the floorboards with faint golden hope. He stared and soaked it all in.
Then finally, Mason exhaled.
Chapter 33
I think, therefore I am.
—René Descartes, Discourse on the Method
* * *
He’d been here before.
A black sea of chaos: that was the Spirit Realm. Down here, a million stories were unraveling like dreams, crashing and contradicting— if only contradictions existed in death. The Spirit Realm only had two laws: the first one was that, sooner or later, you would fade. Like it or not, you would fade into nothing, into the Spirit Realm, melding into its collective consciousness. And the second law? Once you were down here, there was no going back.
Unless, of course, you were Rowland.
Rowland had been sent back to the Living Realm once before, but not this time. Definitely not this time.
He was, however, determined not to fade— not to give himself over to the Spirit Realm.
It was beckoning him now, as it had been for some time. For all the millions of stories unfolding in the darkness, Rowland’s was the one to watch. He could feel the Spirit Realm trailing him with its overarching gaze. The Spirit Realm would say that it didn’t take things personally, but Rowland knew better. After three centuries, it had finally gotten him— the one that got away.
Until now, of course. Presently, his only move — the only way he could still spite the Spirit Realm — came in the form of spurning its advances, which even he was growing tired of. The Spirit Realm wanted to talk, and frankly Rowland had absolutely nothing better to do. Not anymore.
He’d been moseying around the darkness for a while now, passing through glimmering fantasies and grim nightmares. The mind was either a kingdom or a prison, and the Spirit Realm was a patchwork of both. Though fellow spirits rarely acknowledged his presence. Perhaps they couldn’t be bothered— perhaps they were simply too far gone.
Except that one: a young boy, nine or ten by the looks of him. He was bald and gaunt, black bags beneath his eyes. Rowland found him curled over crying in the middle of a long, forgotten road. The path wound through an endless forest of dark, jagged crystals, and Rowland could tell they were once beautiful, the crystals, once clear blue, once full of magic. But black lines ran through them now, like cuts below the surface — cuts you couldn’t reach or remedy — branching out further and further, each new limb giving birth to two more, until the lines took over and the crystals grew dull and hopeless.
The boy tripped over his own feet scrambling toward Rowland. “Daddy.” He picked himself up. “I don’t want to die.” He was wearing a hospital gown. “Don’t leave me, daddy.”
Before long, the boy was hugging Rowland’s ankles. Rowland said nothing, but he waited until the boy let go, waited until the kid stopped sobbing.
It bothered him still, that boy in the forest of crystals, even though Rowland had grown used to suffering, immune even. Then finally it struck him, the reason he was so unsettled. He couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined the whole damn thing, boy and all. And that more than anything — more than death itself — scared the hell out of him.
The trick was not to lose track of time, Rowland regularly reminded himself. He knew that was the first step to fading: losing your internal clock. He’d already lost his hours, but perhaps he could hold onto his days. He was pretty sure it had been a week since he’d died. A week that the Spirit Realm had been pestering him, weighing over him like a poison cloud.
At last, Rowland was ready to give in.
After all, it didn’t matter what the Spirit Realm had to say because he had no intention of listening. Might as well get the sanctimonious spiel over with.
Rowland found his way through the darkness with ease, transporting himself to the bottom of a tall, steep staircase, red light lining the edge of each step. Through the archway above, his host undoubtedly awaited him. Rowland took his time walking up.
As he reached the top, he couldn’t help but notice how easy the stairs were; he would have been out of breath had this been the Living Realm. Death had at least one perk, he supposed.
And there, at the other end of its great hall, the Spirit Realm was waiting for Rowland, its eternally emotionless eyes trailing his every movement. Rowland wondered if its attention was divided; the Spirit Realm maintained an aura of omnipotence and omniscience, as if it could be in all places at all times. The Spirit Realm never professed godhood, but it did like to show off its endlessly tall pillars. They were see-through, glimmering columns spinning slowly on either side of Rowland, row after row of them, infinite in number and size. It was a bit much.
“Rowland,” it spoke.
The Spirit Realm’s enormous face melted into the body of no one in particular: just the anatomy of a human being, if humans were eight feet tall and looked like sculptures made of mercury. A person without the personification. Its sunken chest was a maelstrom of silver, subtle waves rolling outward and down the Spirit Realm’s long limbs. Purity incarnate, the Spirit Realm was, unblemished by its
endless existence. After three centuries, Rowland was a skeletal mess of scars and veins, even down here. The Spirit Realm was everything he was not and never would be— that, at least, was the message, and Rowland got it loud and clear.
“I am glad you have finally come to see us.” The Spirit Realm spoke with no hostility. “How are you?”
Rowland looked dumbfound and then angry. “How am I?”
“Yes,” it said. “How are you?”
“Fuck you.” It wasn’t a phrase Rowland used often. “You assassinated me. You sent that… child to kill me.”
“We did what was necessary,” the Spirit Realm replied. “It brought us no pleasure. Even through our collective wisdom, we could not see the future, could not see what you would become. It was our fault for returning you to the Living Realm. We should not have sent you back. In a normal life, you would not have become the man you are now. For some, time tempers their tendencies. For others, the opposite. Time did not temper you, Rowland. Your anger, cynicism, and sense of isolation festered for decades, centuries, longer than any other human’s before you. You grew more extreme, more powerful— too powerful.
“It was our responsibility,” the Spirit Realm said, “to close the door that we had opened, to stop you from wreaking havoc on the world. We wronged you, Rowland, but not last week. We wronged you three hundred years ago.”
“And yet,” replied Rowland, crimson with rage, “you admit you cannot see the future. You have no idea what I might have accomplished. You simply assumed you knew better, as you always do. You are not as wise as you think. Your so-called collective wisdom is as much your weakness as it is your strength. All the brilliant minds you have absorbed are weighed down by the masses of fools who have faded too.
“My mind is pure,” said Rowland.
“Your mind,” the Spirit Realm replied, “is corrupt. And we are sorry for that. Perhaps you will learn to see things differently here. Either way, Rowland, you will fade.”
Rowland stared into its eyes, or rather where its eyes should have been; the vacant mercury gaps in their place revealed nothing. “We will see about that,” he said.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 26