Ten - Part 1

by Sin Ribbon

  “This isn’t over!” Orion persists. He ignores her and closes the door.

  Thane flops onto his bed and stares at the image on the ceiling. The only artwork in the room is a single poster hanging over his bed: a photo of the Andromeda galaxy, a reminder of the grand scheme of life. His room is otherwise minimal and clean. White walls. Black curtains. Small desk and laptop in the corner. Dresser by the closet. Nightstand by the bed. A few tattooing magazines lie stacked on the desk. Two framed photos rest on the dresser, one of Thane, Orion, and Sirius taken a few years ago and the other frame lying face-down. The space is otherwise absent of decor.

  Rubbing his forehead, he notices the phone number and groans. He fumbles a vague attempt to rub it off but resolves his attention to the galactic image above, losing himself in its magnificence. Despite the afternoon hour, he feels his eyelids growing heavy as he gazes at the mix of yellow and midnight blue swirling into oblivion. A nap overtakes him within moments.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  An empty space. Tendrils of fog billow up from the ground. The harsh sizzle of steam fills the air as water vapor settles on the hot surface. The grey landscape is barely illuminated by the minimal light.

  Thane stands alone staring into the infinite limbo before him. He tries to step forward, but when he lifts his foot, he finds the rubber soles of his shoes have partially melted to the heated slab beneath him. A faint sound starts to build, audible enough to distract him before he can pry himself free.

  Whispering. He whips in the direction of the quiet, indistinct voices.

  Ahead, four unknown figures stand together in the distant haze. Three are tall—two with broad shoulders and lean waists and the third of slender, feminine frame. The fourth figure is short, small. A child? He can’t be certain.

  In the middle of the group, one of the taller, masculine silhouettes steps towards him. Thane immediately tenses, tentative of what to expect.

  The unknown man approaches. The fog dances away from his path as if afraid to touch him. The whispering grows louder, harsher tones emerging from the chatter.

  “... Ours!”

  “... For us!”

  Fragments of sentences, nothing more. Thane feels his breath quicken, as the irises of the mysterious man begin to glow a pale grey. They burn with cold confidence, intense and mesmerizing.

  He draws closer.

  Thane tries to step back, but again the hot floor poses a problem. He fumbles for balance, anxiety swelling within him.

  The man smiles. His pace quickens.

  Thane gains a stable foothold. Just as he begins to move backward, the man is upon him. Thane throws up his arms to defend himself, but nothing happens. He takes a relieved breath. The figures have vanished.

  Thane’s heart rate begins to settle until he winces. His hand slaps over his left arm in response to the jolt of pain.

  He cries out involuntarily. Inspecting his arm, he notices the flesh is not right. It’s turning pale, drying out as if decaying. Thane grows frantic. He rubs his arm, but the sickness is spreading across his skin with increasing speed, consuming him.

  Lightning bolts of pain shoot across his body, the worst of it concentrating in his chest. He falls to his knees. Eyes squinted shut, he clutches at his sternum hoping to fight back the agony, but it’s overwhelming. His thoughts start to go blank.

  He opens his eyes to see the man from before bent over him, a black shadow with a similar decayed appearance. Thane’s hands grapple at the man’s wrist, trying to pull out a hand that is plunged through his ribcage in a swirl of dark vapor. Thane struggles to get away, to breathe. He can feel the man squeezing down on his heart.

  The remaining three figures stand around Thane, observing the horrific scene with captivated interest. Thane’s eyes plead for help, but they remain unmoving, stoic. He continues wrestling with the dark man, but the decay is swallowing him whole. He is helpless.

  The only thing he can do is scream.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Thane! Thane, are you okay?!” Orion’s voice calls from the other side of Thane’s bedroom door. She knocks with urgent concern.

  Thane’s eyes shoot open to find his hands still clawing at his chest, even as he regains consciousness. It takes him a moment to get his bearings with Orion persisting all the while.

  “Coming! I’m coming!” He pushes himself out of bed and to the door, opening it for his redheaded roommate.

  “Jesus, are you okay? You’re white as rice.” She touches his forehead. “God, you’re sweating!”

  “Yeah, I’m okay ... Had one seriously fucked up dream.” Thane takes a breath. The trauma of the experience hasn’t left him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be fine. Still coming down.” Thane props an arm on the doorway. The sight of the phone number comes into view. He stiffens, a chill rippling down his spine.

  “What is it?”

  He’s transfixed by the numbers scribbled on his palm, the words of the young woman echoing in his thoughts. “I, uh ... guess I need to make a phone call.”

  “All right. You wanna tell me about it?”

  “Later.”

  Orion nods, no less worried, but she resides herself to the living room. “I’ll be here!”

  Thane smirks in gratitude as he closes the bedroom door.

  For several moments, he sits on his bed staring at the phone number. Lost in introspection, his face is a wash of stress and incredulity. He holds his cell phone in the other hand. The number and message have already been entered, but a hovering thumb hesitates to press send.

  He hangs his head in defeat and groans.

  Send.

  Phone tossed on the nightstand, he makes for the door, but as his hand reaches for the doorknob, he hears a buzz in response.

  “We should talk,” the message reads.

  He purses his lips at the glowing text on the screen. “Fine. Where? I could use a drink,” he types.

  With his mobile phone holstered in his pocket, he exits his bedroom and notices Orion on the couch snuggled up with Sirius. She has her arms wrapped around her furry companion, popcorn bowl centered on her lap. As the killer is revealed on the television screen, Orion jumps and sends the popcorn flying. Sirius immediately rushes to eat his newfound treats off the floor. After her wails subside, she notices Thane.

  “Feeling any better?”

  He grabs his wallet from the coffee table and a black leather jacket from the closet. “Well enough I guess. Heading out.” His response is flat, monotone.

  Orion opens her mouth to speak but seems lost for words.

  Thane relents. “Sorry. Having a ... very weird experience and not sure what to think. Seems I met a psychic today.”

  “You mean the phone number?” The redhead perks up, her interest piqued.

  “Yeah.” His phone dings, and he begrudgingly pulls it from his pocket to read the new message. “Guess we’ll see what happens.”

  Orion nibbles on her lip, dissatisfied. He knows she’s concerned but won’t investigate further. She understands him well enough to know when he needs space.

  “Have fun then?” is about all she can offer.

  He chokes a sarcastic laugh before heading out the door.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Thane walks into a familiar music venue, Diablo’s. It’s not a frequent spot, but he knows the place. A local glam rock band performs on stage—the opening act. It’s a cramped, hole-in-the-wall establishment hopping with devoted regulars despite the minimal expenditure on the upkeep. Thane’s height permits him a decent view over the congested crowd, but it’s difficult to spot the mysterious cellist in such a dimly lit space. The blaring music leaves no room for a verbal inquiry.

  After a quick visual scan, he loses interest and makes for the bar. He orders a bourbon, and the first taste can’t come soon enough. With hunched shoulders, he props his elbows on the countertop and sips with a pensive expression on his face. The tendons raise in his hands as his grip on the glas
s tightens.

  He ruminates, vaguely aware that the crowd has begun to dull. Everyone and everything seems to slow into a hazy blur. Behind the bar, Thane notices a bartender pouring liquor that trickles in a leisurely stream from the bottle into a shaker. He knows his alcohol tolerance is way above this, and his mind searches for an explanation even as the air strains to pull into his lungs. An unknown force tugs on his body, constricting every movement.

  A slap on his back snaps him out of the trance. “Are you all right? You seem to be zoning out there,” a familiar female voice declares.

  Thane turns to see the brunette from earlier, Siha, standing behind him. Same vintage clothing. Same warm smile. Annoyed, he downs the rest of his drink in a single swig and shifts to face her. His demeanor is less than welcoming.

  “Want to tell me how the hell you knew about that dream?”

  She doesn’t flinch. “I have a knack for predictions.”

  Thane leans towards her, eyes glaring. “Cut the crap. It feels like a pro boxer punched me in the chest, and it’s not going away. What the fuck is going on?”

  Empathy washes over Siha. She attempts to place a hand on his pec, but he snatches it in an instant. “I’m sorry,” she remarks, withdrawing. “Strange things are about to happen. My power is clairvoyance—that’s how I knew—and I thought I should warn you.”

  Thane deflates and turns back to the bar. He waves for a second drink.

  She pulls up a stool beside him. “It would have happened with or without my intervention. I can offer some comfort at least.”

  He scoffs. “And how is that?”

  “Would you rather deal with this alone? With no one to offer insight?”

  “I don’t even know what this is.” His second bourbon arrives, and Thane gets right to work drinking it.

  “I’ll explain everything that I can but not here.” She gestures at her ears. “Too loud.”

  Thane shakes his head. “Then why choose this place to begin with?”

  “I thought you’d like the headliner! They’re similar to the band you picked up today.”

  He stares at her bewildered, unsure whether he is more impressed or disturbed. “You either have a photographic memory or are deeply troubled.”

  She rubs her forehead, exasperated. “Clair-voy-ance.”

  He cocks an eyebrow, still unconvinced, but opts to drown his protests with a swig of bourbon. “Bought that album for my roommate, actually. Guess your power wasn’t strong enough to see that.”

  “It’s enough to see your sense of humor needs some work. I was messing with you, okay? I saw the album from the window.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  She softens. “Understood, but I’m honestly just trying to help. I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ve got time before the next band goes on. Tell me about your roommate.”

  He frowns, skeptical if this is a subject he wants to broach.

  “Thane, listen. I know that dream left its mark on you. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s not going to stop. You don’t have to believe me, but can’t we at least enjoy the moment? If you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. Deal?”

  Her attractive face does little to strengthen his fortitude, and he relents to her earnest pleading with a sigh. “Fair enough ... Her name’s Orion. She’s a longtime friend. Surf punk is her favorite thing on this planet after sushi, EDM, her pet scorpion, and our dog.”

  “Pets, huh? ... Wait, her name’s Orion, and she has a scorpion and a dog?”

  “She does, and yes, their names are Scorpio and Sirius.”

  The brunette giggles. “That’s clever.”

  “Yeah, she thought so too.” He staggers a shameful laugh.

  Siha smiles. Genuine kindness radiates from her being, somehow unaffected by the strangeness of their encounter. He cannot match her carefree demeanor, but it occurs to him that, if her ability is authentic, she may indeed know him well enough to be so at ease.

  “C’mon. The headliner’s about to go on!” Siha tugs on his arm. He gulps the rest of his drink and follows, albeit with some resistance from his conscience.

  Several moments pass as the next band sets up and sound checks are performed. Siha sways side to side to a silent melody, presumably Brahms, and watches the crowd. Thane glances at the petite cellist, noticing how engrossed she is. She observes the people with careful intensity. Bits of conversation flitter around them. A couple in front of them kiss. Two friends nearby share a beer and a good story. The young brunette appears immersed in these happenings, appreciating every detail of the moment. Consequently, Thane finds himself absorbing into these minutiae as well, the mundanity almost satisfying.

  The headliner enters center stage. A roar of cheers erupts from the crowd. To Thane’s surprise, Siha is enthralled; she cups her hands to woo as the band members take their places.

  “C’mon! They need the support!” She nudges Thane with her elbow, but his mind remains fixed on the residual pain lingering in his chest. He claps a few times and leaves it at that.

  As the music starts to play, Thane realizes Siha was right about their sound—a classic nineteen-eighties punk vibe. She turns to him, bouncing up and down with fervent enthusiasm. “You should take Orion to their next show!”

  Thane barely hears Siha’s suggestion but nods in agreement anyway. He feels torn; a part of him longs to embrace the moment as a simple night out, but a foreboding sense of fear hangs like a stubborn raincloud over his thoughts. He sways a bit to the music but remains rigid, unable to relax.

  Several songs roll by, and each one is eaten up by the growing mass of people. Bright lights flash in the darkness over the stage and into the crowd, pulsing with the thumping percussion. As the music throbs, the gnawing sense of dread at Thane’s heels builds into something he can no longer keep at bay. He rubs his face in an attempt to shake it off, but as he lifts his head to the stage, instead of the band, a woman hangs suspended from the rafters. Half-naked, she’s hoisted upside-down from metal hooks, on display like a piece of meat at a butcher shop. Trickles of blood slide down her legs. Her glazed eyes match the fading life within her.

  Thane stumbles backward, horrified by the sight of the crowd reaching for her, begging for blood. As they do, her skin decays—just as Thane’s had in his dream—withering the youthful beauty into a mummified corpse. Siha notices his distress and reaches out to comfort him. He smacks her hand away and shoves his way through the crowd towards the exit in a terrified dash.

  Concern washes over Siha as she watches him disappear through the mass of bodies. Again, the music dulls, and the emotional roar of enthusiastic fans fades to a drone. Siha stands alone amongst them, somehow outside of their world. The music warps to a crawl like the wounded wail of a beast, and the people wind down until they stop motionless.

  ~ THREE ~

  Riya

  Spring buds are breaking open on the trees in Boston, Massachusetts. Sunset encroaches with fiery reds, yellows, and purples staining the clouds on the horizon. On this particularly chilly day in April, a cold breeze rattles the windows of these charming suburban brownstones on the outskirts of the city.

  Outside, two college students share stories and laugh as they walk down the sidewalk. Both underdressed, the young women cling to the warmth of their paper coffee cups. At the base of the stone steps of a brownstone, they exchange a hug. One of them heads inside as the other waves good-bye.

  “Sorry, sorry! I know it’s past curfew.” The young woman opens the large wooden door and steps inside the foyer with apologies abound. The historic home exudes class—crown molding, high ceilings, tall windows, segregated rooms, and a quaint fireplace in the living room. Indian décor overshadows the few pieces of contemporary furniture. Intricate wood carvings, unique patterns, and colorful geometry fill nearly every inch of the space. Every room is env
eloped with pastel walls, a different color assigned to each room. Various depictions of the spiritual master, Sai Baba, litter the home.

  “Dinner has been ready for ten minutes, Riya,” a stern voice calls from the dining room. Riya winces at her father’s sharp tone and drops her messenger bag and jacket by the stair landing. She hurries into the dining room with her head shrunk between her shoulders. Avoiding her parents’ chastising glares, she glances to the altar beyond the table where a statue of Sai Baba rests—a testament erected to honor and offer prayers.

  “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

  Her father sits at the head of the eight-seat table—a broad-shouldered man with rigid sensibility and commanding presence. Even the straight lines of his white collared shirt, grey slacks, and black belt permit little flexibility. Her mother sits to his right, dressed in a colorful but traditional sari. The robes have a way of overwhelming her mother’s small frame. Her ten-year-old brother, Aryan, pokes at his vegetables across the table, immune to the tense air centered over his older sister.

  “Sit down please,” her mother insists.

  Riya nods and sits at the vegetarian plate already set for her.

  “Who were you with?” her father asks.

  “Cass,” Riya responds. She investigates her rice with her fork, appetite gone.

  “No one else?” he presses.

  Riya stiffens, defensive. “No! Why would I lie about that?”

  “I thought you were meeting with Reyansh,” her mother interjects. “Aditi’s son.”

  “Ugh, mom.” She rubs her forehead. “I told you, I don’t like him.”

  “Aditi called to ask if you were all right. She said you told Reyansh that you couldn’t see him because you were sick.” Her mother’s passive aggressive tone prompts an eye roll from Riya.

  “Okay, yes, I blew him off and went for coffee with Cass. I concede. Now take me to jail.” She continues playing with her food. “You need to stop setting me up with your friends’ sons, okay?”