by Jack Wallen
I shifted my gaze from left to right. Back in the NetherRealm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The woman.”
“You mean Morticia?”
“You reaped no soul.”
“No shit.”
“Hold your tongue with me, child,” Fate rumbled. “You attempted to reap a soul that wasn’t ready. That is strictly forbidden. Such anarchist behavior carries with it grave consequences.”
“I see what you did there,” I teased. “How could I have known she wasn’t ready to cross over? Her aura was—”
“Obfuscated by a penchant for gloom. You were warned of such a possibility.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?” Fate growled.
“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? I’d just reaped a child…an innocent child. Do you have any idea the toll that takes? No, you don’t. Why? Because you remain up…down…wherever this here is, tucked away even from me, your fucking servant. You are so far removed from what I have to deal with. And then, when I inevitably fuck up—as you are always so quick to remind me—you drop the hammer of whatever God you serve on my head to remind me that I am nothing more than your tool.”
Silence.
“Don’t do this to me.”
As expected, Fate did just that to me.
“Send me back so I can fix this mess.”
Within the absolute blackness of the NetherRealm, the regular foreboding tension intensified until it was palpable. Had there been an exit, I would have made for it. But this was a rather Jean Paul Sartre-ian plane…so there were no exits.
“Very well,” Fate finally replied. “You will be returned to the firmament so that you may fix this catastrophe. Fail this task, and the next soul you reap will be…”
“My own. Blah blah blah…I get it. Just send—”
“Do not mock Fate further!” Fate bellowed.
My entire body stiffened at Fate referring to itself in third person. That was go time for suffering.
“Begone before I change my mind and have you cleaning toilets in Dante Hall.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I hissed.
“I would. I hear this year was one of Suicide Station’s busiest ever. Imagine the festering piles of human waste you’d be cleaning…day in and day out.”
There are times in life when your only recourse is to accept defeat and move on. This was one of those times.
“Fine. Send me back and I’ll…resolve this issue.”
“Very well.” Fate paused. “You have one week.”
Before I could protest, the NetherRealm vanished, only to be replaced by O’Halloran’s and my very own Morticia.
“Why are you bringing up my aura, anyway?”
The sound of Gothy’s voice shocked me back into reality. The rigor-like tension eased away from my muscles…the last bit oozing from my jaw so I could finally speak.
“Do me a favor.” I pointed out toward the center of the bar. “Look out there and tell me what you see.”
“Are you kidding me?” She didn’t bother to look. “There’s a gang of douche-bag lemmings getting bro’d up and drunk.”
“Will you please look?” I asked with a full-blown case of annoyance fueling my words.
“Fine.” Begrudgingly, the woman turned her head and looked out over the crowd. Her eyes instantly widened as sanity took a brief siesta. “Fuck me khaki. What is that?” She turned her attention toward me. “Did you slip something into my goddamn drink?”
“The only thing that slipped, was me into you.”
She tilted her head. “Was that supposed to be an absolutely tasteless entendre? Or are you just completely clueless?”
“Let me try that again,” I grumbled.
The server made her way to the table. “Another round, Grim?”
I nodded my approval. The server flitted away.
“You weren’t joking, were you?”
“I never joke. That’s a lie…I joke all the time. But not now. Nothing I am saying is of the humorous persuasion.” My left eye twitched. Nerves. The very idea that one such as myself could suffer from nervous ticks was a play of irony the likes of which the world had never before seen. One might be led to believe that the Reaper was invincible. I could easily stand up on one of these bar tables and shout to the world, “I am Death,” and watch the whole of the mortal race shudder at my cry. But then the crack in my armor would show for all the world to see and the truth would be told.
I had to reboot my train of thought. I turned to Gothy for help. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Christine. My friends call me X.” Christine tossed a wicked glare my way. “You can—”
“Call you Christine?”
X nodded.
“Why X?”
The slightest bit of blush showed through X’s alabaster foundation. “I went through a phase in middle school where I wanted everyone to call me Xtine. Somehow all the cool kids took it upon themselves to tag me with what they called the black letter X. It stuck, and I wore it as a badge of honor. I figured if it was something the collar poppers didn’t like, it must be cool.”
“You do realize, I’m calling you X from now on, right?”
“Whatever.” X shrugged and took a pull from her drink.
“Do you mind if we circle back to what it was that should fuck you khaki?”
X pointed toward the bar. “See that brocephus leaning with his back against the bar, looking as if he could sleep with any woman he wanted?”
There was no mistaking her target. Said bro was clad in a pinstripe suit, complete with matching scarlet red silk tie and pocket square. His hair was perfectly coiffed and his half-sneer practiced and polished. Unfortunately, his aura matched tie. Carpe douchebag would have to wait ‘til another day. I had to press X a bit further on the issue at hand. “See anything strange about the guy?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. He’s dead!” X exclaimed.
Son of a bitch. “You mean…” My words stumbled to a stop, caught in a nervous lump below my larynx.
“I mean, the bastard faked his fucking death to get out of dating me. His goddamn brother delivered the bad news. There was even an obituary. I bought a hundred papers, cut it out, and decoupaged the headboard of my bed with it. I slept under that motherfucker’s dying words every night for almost five years.” X stood, clenching her fists and breathing like a pissed-off bull. “I’m going to—”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” I said calmly, grabbed X’s arm, and gently pulled her back to her seat.
I wanted to be wrong about the situation…was even willing to accept my part in this tragic mishap. There was, however, one undeniable truth that proved X had been reaped and I was fucked.
The oil-black veil that once surrounded X was gone.
Chapter 5
I managed to convince X to leave O’Halloran’s with me, by way of a promise to take a stroll through St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Turns out we both had a thing for the Catholic religion.
“Don’t get me wrong,” X said casually. “I’m by no stretch of the imagination religious.”
A guffaw escaped my mouth. I did my best to refrain, but it was just too much to hold back. “Imagine that,” I said in between chuckles.
“Hey, prick, I grew up Catholic. Spent ten years of my life wearing the uniforms and…”
I held up a hand to silence X. She tilted her head and dropped hand to hip.
“That’s right, I’m going there,” I said with a half-cocked smile.
“Perv,” X replied with the slightest hint of a smile.
“You’re flattered.” I pointed. “Admit it, you like the idea of me perving out on…” I stopped myself short of diving head-first into the deep and creep of ol’ dirty man.
X rolled her eyes up slightly and bit her lower lip.
We reached St. Patties and approached the massive wooden entryway. Tourists and locals alike were passing one another to find their way into
the holiest of inner sanctums New York had to offer. Entering a church was always a monumental occasion for me. While alive, I was a devout believer…some would have called me pious. Soon after my death, my adulation for all things godly quickly vanished…in its place a black, vacant hole. Since then, every time I’ve had cause to visit the house of God, I’ve done so with a fond nod to the young boy that served his faith with a fervency few his age could match.
X and I stepped into the holy edifice together and went through the motion of kneeling, crossing, standing, and continuing on. I averted my gaze to the glorious marble floor and steeled my resolve to avoid making contact with a single living soul. The last time I entered a house of worship, I was greeted by a wash of darkening auras. They weren’t black, but certainly on their way to said fate. That’s been my experience with the church…the grand army of the AARP fearing the eventuality of death and doing everything they could to claim their seat on the post-life train ride to Paradise. However, as a Reaper—the Reaper—I had to look at death through binary eyes. The elderly were still alive and could not be reaped until their grayish-brown auras finally Spinal Tapped out to none more black. Since that incident, I did everything I could to not look long enough to see the colors of my nihilistic rainbow.
Together, X and I made our way to the altar. My usual visits stopped at the back few pews. I hadn’t been this close to a man in vestments since the Inquisition.
To my surprise, X took a knee and prayed. The scene was profoundly confusing; a woman who wore the clothing of mourning as a social statement, renounced God, and was—as far as I knew—no longer counted among the living…and here she was, praying.
I felt the eyes of the world boring into my back. To remedy those burning glares, I knelt beside X and struck a pose of prayer.
X whispered softly. “Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
Strangely enough, X’s words brought a profound peace washing over me. In that tiny fragmented bit of reality, I had no cares, no concern for the millions of souls escaping into the universe on a daily basis…that I was held responsible for, or that I would never find my personal absolution should they escape without my assistance.
Mine was a never-ending burden.
“You look like you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” X’s snarky tone tugged me from my piteous revelry.
“You could say that,” I answered with a surprising truth.
X raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Care to confess your sins?”
“To you?” I answered with far more incredulity in my tone than I’d anticipated.
“Fuck off,” X hissed.
I leaned in close enough to catch the scent of her flesh. The smell was artificial, but very sweet…tender, almost. “You’re in a church; watch your mouth.”
Without warning, X’s skin paled beyond her normal porcelain and her eyes glazed over.
“X?” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
As a reply, X collapsed to the marble floor. To my surprise, not a single person came to the fallen girl’s aid. Such was the life of a reaper. I dropped to my knees and drew in tight. I felt for a pulse, but found none. My fears had just been confirmed beyond a single shadow of a goddamn doubt.
“I killed her.” The words seeped from between my lips in a cautious whisper. “What the hell am I going to do now?”
What I wanted to do was get up and flee from the scene…forget any of this had ever happened. “That’s not the way death works, dumbass,” I said to myself, knowing what I’d done would haunt me, regardless of where I was. Fate’s demand that I fix this problem popped back into my head…the condemnation of its tone all too apparent. “How am I supposed to resolve this tragic fuck-up?” I whispered.
Since Fate had opted to put a Reaper into play, there had only ever been one cardinal rule—do not take the souls of those marked for life. Why was that such a critical factor in the laws of the universe—especially when murder and suicide happen daily? Who the hell could possibly know the answer to such a question? Fate was a fickle bitch and the laws of nature and the universe were far bigger than I. What I did know was that the punishment for my misdeeds—cleaning toilets at Suicide Station—was a fate worse than death.
Pun very much intended.
“W-wh…” X mumbled. “What happened?”
Time out for truth.
“You and I need to have a little talk, Xtine.”
She slowly made her way to sitting and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that, Grim.”
“Welllll…” I drew the word out until it no longer made sense.
“Well what?”
I stood and offered down a hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Can’t you just tell me here?” X asked as she stood on wobbly knees. “Me and balance seem to not be on speaking terms at the moment.”
I shook my head. “It’s probably better that we be away from the Lord’s house when you hear what I have to say.”
“I definitely don’t like the sound of that, Grim.”
We made our way back outside and strolled slowly toward Central Park. The mile walk was given to idle chit chat and me avoiding auras at all costs. Now was not the time for reaping.
Once inside the park, we took a seat on a bench that faced the city skyline.
“It’s so beautiful,” X said dreamily, and then turned sharply back to me. “Now tell me what in the…fffff…”
X’s eyes crossed and her head lolled backward. I spun her on the bench and pulled her to me. I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, but I was fairly sure what was going on.
“How long was I asleep?” X mumbled as she pulled from my embrace.
“About a minute,” I answered, and then pointed toward the green field before us. “I need you to do me a favor. You okay with that?”
X nodded awkwardly.
“I need you to look out over that crowd of people, concentrate, and tell me what you see.”
“Why are you doing this, Grim?” X grumbled.
“Please, Christine,” I opted to take the long route to the end of her name. “Humor me.”
“Fine.” X’s head was still perched on a wobbly neck. She faced the center of the park and watched a small group of hipsters, mid-picnic. The tragically hip always sported gloriously bright auras, so my hypothesis was easily tested. I wanted so badly for my assumption to be wrong, I was willing to risk X losing her shit within the public domain. The resolution to my panic was for X to see nothing and be prepared to make the long journey to her final station in death. Had I been my younger, living self, I’d have been praying with every ounce of faith I could muster.
My eyes were glued onto X as she focused the whole of her attention on the gathering of beards, skinny jeans, floppy caps, bow ties, sun dresses and knee socks.
Three.
She blinked twice.
Two.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and then brought them back to bear on the hipsters.
One.
X’s eyelids widened until they begged for release from their juicy orbs.
“Oh, my God,” X’s voice was barely audible. “What am I seeing?” X whispered darkly.
Hypothesis fucked. The Universe had officially ventured into unknown and unsure territory. This was the God Particle of the astral plane…like two hydrogen atoms crashing together to form something altogether new and dangerous. My world was defeated and deflated. Nickelback would soon be cool again.
“Auras,” I answered. “Only…not the kind you’re used to.”
“What other kind of aura is there, Grim?”
It was about to get real.
“The living are all surrounded by energy. When you’re born, that halo i
s an almost blindingly perfect white…unseeable by all but one. Or so it was. As you draw nearer to death, the aura fades to black. Once blackened, it is my job to release the dying human of their soul and expel it back into the universe for re-purposing.”
X shook her head. “Wait. What?” X responded with a voice spiraling into heretofore unheard-of depths. “Re-purposing souls? That’s Westboro Baptist-level lunacy.”
I’d always wondered what it would be like to explain reaping to a living being. Like any good madman, I had run through the conversation in my mind over and over. Each time, the conversation had seamlessly traversed the thread of thought from point A to point B without a hitch. Reality, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with my inner monologue.
X glanced back out toward the picnicking hipsters. “What is my role in all of this?”
And there it was…the question of questions, the one for which neither I, nor Fate, had an answer.
I had to keep moving forward with the truth.
“To be honest, X, I don’t know. In fact, creating you has me in a bit of a pickle.”
X glared at me. “What do you mean, creating me? What have you done to me, Grim?”
A sigh escaped my lips. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Christine laughed with an ominous undertone. “Don’t you dare change the subject.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” X huffed. “Now confess.”
I responded with a nearly-blank, “I will,” and followed the simple utterance with a drawn-out silence. “When I first saw you, I assumed your black aura was the death mark. Sooooo…” Another elongated bit of punctuation. “I reaped you.”
“You what?”
A chorus of laughter rose from the gaggle of hipsters. They were playing croquet. The sight of the game took me back decades, to a gentler, simpler time—a time of men wearing twill knickers and women donning corsets for sport. One of the females had just become poison and was going after a male in a brocade vest and handlebar moustache that would shame an old-timey piano player. I understood why so many mocked these millennial peacocks, but I had to give them credit for managing to find something unique in a world riddled with lemmings.