ISBN: 0-7443-0169-6

Copyright 2008 by Ryan Sherwood

All Rights Reserved

Published by SynergEbooks

http://www.synergebooks.com

PART ONE

Mural

Chapter 1

MURAL'S reflection shone in the butcher knife and revealed more than his image. He saw, finally, what his brother had been trying to tell him for years. In the polished blade resting on the table before him was his boyhood face. Round childlike features pushed past his adult visage and glared at him with big round eyes that harbored an innocence that Mural hadn't sensed for years. He had never thought of himself as pure, yet he had a few scattered memories that told him he once had a normal childhood. That there were once better times, back when he had a family untouched by the stain of violence.

But there was no time for these jumbled thoughts. Mural had finally found a focus, a purpose that built him a stable bridge between the past and present. He was ready to choose his first victim.

"Til death do you part..." Mural muttered into his ale as he slid the butcher's knife from the table and nestled it behind him. He leaned his massive weight back in his chair and it protested with creaks and moans. He had always liked this pub, everything was built solid and sure, and nothing broke underneath him. And the people stayed far away from him and that was far different from all else he encountered.

"...and I've come to hold you to your vows," Mural finished.

His favorite spot was a small table meant for two that was pushed into the corner, but his sprawling size negated any chance for company of even the smallest stature. It was perfect for solitude. Wood paneling brushed against his back pulling on the fibers of his black long coat. Mural leaned and stretched as he gazed out onto Boston through the pubs long rectangular window. The crooked light of night peered in. This was the place, the best spot to keep hidden while he heard all the women pass by with their escorts. Mural had been enduring their uninvited whispers for weeks, listening to the slews of their terrible and backstabbing thoughts, all emanating from random, cheating women. Any and every woman that strolled the fire-lit cobblestone streets of Boston could be his target. This night was when he would act on their thoughts.

Dusk had settled beyond the dirty pane he peered through and the insidious whispers slowly came with the shadows, creeping up on him with the impending night. Yet they approached much more leisurely than usual. He shifted his weight in the chair and the thin wooden posts that served as its back jostled the knife that rested under his belt.

He could almost hear the blade cry out to be used. He began to feel rushed. It is one thing to kill in haste, to react to a threat; Mural had done that plenty, it's another thing completely to plan and stalk a random person whose identity isn't known until a few seconds before the kill.

Mural brought the mug to his mouth again and the glass crashed against his teeth, beer and foam pouring down his chin and onto his lap. Wincing with pain, he wiped his chin and gently

placed the glass down in a puddle of ale. The moment had arrived in a jolt. A whisper from the street jarred him into action. He licked his lips and stood, swallowing blood and beer as his chair joyfully moaned in relief to be rid of Mural.

Straightening his coat in an attempt to look presentable, he strolled past the couples, inevitably bumping shoulders with his elbows until he left the pub. Ducking outside the clear night air leapt to his nostrils. He sucked in a deep breath and savored every aroma, committing them to memory. He would remember the charred wood from the lamps on the street, the horseflesh, the salty sea breeze, and the irresistible perfume from the adulterous woman no more than several strides ahead. She had no escort.

Long, blonde curly hair bounced off the back of her silk dress and hypnotized him with its rhythmic movements. She was the perfect first victim, a gorgeous upstanding wife who hid all her indiscretions behind fine manners and an innocent smile. Mural was almost fooled; she looked so pure, yet unmistakable sinful whispers flowed from her all the same. He shook off his doubt and continued his pursuit. The light retreated the more he followed, and she lead him further from the city, to some unknown rendezvous.

Curiosity reigned while Mural envisioned the possible scenarios he was about to experience. He had confirmed the whispers so many times before, but only as a distant observer, watching women cheat on their husbands. But what if his first victim was his first error? He had to make sure that she would follow through on her thoughts. The feelings he received from this one woman were overwhelming and inimitable; it was just a matter of time before the desire in her head made it to her lips. He knew that in his bones.

She scurried like the insect he saw her as, down an alleyway and perched at a stoop, rapping on a door. Mural hid behind a corner, peered past the brick, and could smell the lust pouring off her. It was sickening. How could she do this? The door creaked open and a pale face with blonde hair and a snipe nose pushed into view, beckoning her in. Her head bobbed in agreement and they both smiled as she entered. The door slammed shut and so did Mural's eyes; he was ready to pounce. His pulse pounded with a surge of hatred that stemmed from the past. Flashes from his youth surfaced, carrying with it pangs of love laced with pain. His muscles tensed. Mural slid into the alley like a shadow and pressed his ear to the door. The whispers from her billowed from the building and told him she was already undressing. He could almost feel their breath and it sent shivers into his every vertebrae. The chill made him button his coat all the way to his neck.

Mural slipped his fingers under his coat to his beltline where the knife waited, anxious, nearly screaming to be brandished. He held it under the folds of his black coat; he wasn't going to take the chance of being caught. This had to be flawless. With his free hand, he pushed down the latch on the door. It wouldn't budge. He slid his hand up and across the wood and gave a slight thrust to test the strength needed to break in.

Mural smiled and kicked in the door, hoping the rest of the night was going to be as easy.

Chapter 2

The door swung open and Mural stretched forward to slow it, desperate to keep the element of surprise. He ducked through the doorway and slinked back against the wall, hoping to blend in. He stood out as a man of his great height should yet there were no eyes to testify to it.

Excited thoughts still danced about his head and stole his concentration. He closed his eyes and breathed rhythmically, focusing on the whispers that were flowing to him. Through shaky and rippled impressions his focus returned. Thoughts that were distinctively not his own rushed in. His eyelids crashed closed but he didn't need his eyes to see. In his mind he saw her long curly hair arch back with her head as she bounced up and down. She was nude and aglow, like a flashing target, while the man beneath her was shaded dark, barely seen. It almost looked comical as she grinded atop a pit of darkness in the throws of passion.

Mural opened his eyes and saw a short hallway that ended with a closed door. It beckoned and he followed the call slowly and carefully, tiptoeing along the creaky floorboards.

Under his hulking weight the floor had no choice but to moan, yet he knew no ears would catch the inane sounds.

The closer he drew to the door, the more he pondered about the fool of a man beneath her. Would this lustful man be prepared for an unwelcome guest? A pistol or a knife under his pillow or on his nightstand? Mural prayed for the element of surprise to remain on his side and to ensure that he simply had to work with speed. This was it.

Mural pushed the door open. The couples' naked bodies instantly twisted around and recoiled in shame and shock. Mural absorbed the room in one sweeping glance. A small bed with a nightstand adjacent. A draped window adjacent to that. A full length looking glass standing near the foot of the bed in the far corner.

In near slow motion, the woman reached for bunched blankets for cover as she slid away while the man beneath her flailed about in anger, shaking his fists at the doorway. Once the initial anger stuck the man, he gasped and reached for the nightstand with his right arm. Mural, already moving forward, saw the pistol near the lit candle on the table and smiled as the man raised his fingers too high and burnt them on a flame as naked as he. His legs kicked beneath the covers and shook his cowering lover off the bed. Her head lead her into the standing mirror right behind her. Mural stretched out and slammed the hilt of the knife squarely down onto her lover's forehead. He crashed into the nightstand, pushing the candle into the curtains brushing the floor. He went as limp as a bonefish.

The woman bounced off the mirror and was propelled headfirst into the thick mahogany footboard of the bed. She shook off the pain and flung her head up, blonde curls jiggling about. In that short second she exposed her neck. Mural, already in mid slice, crashed the blade into her jugular and pushed it out the opposite side. Her face froze, mouth agape and eyes wide open. The snapping of bone and the arterial spray caused Mural pause. He had to observe. He lingered over her with his huge head cocked, drinking in the sight. This was no longer a vision in his mind or envisioned potential scenarios. This was his plan, realized, solid and bleeding on the floorboards. Mural stood at the foot of the bed, tall and proud, his head nearly scraping the ceiling.

A pool of blood spread from her headless body like a shadow that had a mind of its own, and glinted in the firelight.

Flames were eating their way through the curtains and onto the floor, heading towards the blood. The already small room shrunk in size even more as the bleak darkness was quickly replaced by a warm and growing glow. Mural peered over the bed and saw the man stirring slowly. He looked familiar for some reason. Mural saw so little of him in his deeply shade form beyond his blonde hair and snipe nose, but he struck a chord in Mural's memory. No mater though, this bastard wouldn't ruin this event, even as he fiddled with the latch on the window trying his escape. He moved at such so slow pace that the flames would happily swallow him in short order. Satisfaction crept across Mural's face in an ear-to-ear smile.

"This has gone perfectly," he chuckled, but he knew he wasn't in the clear yet.

Flames nipped and licked at the wood, curling like orange tongues, craving and consuming everything. He watched, addicted to the cadence of the fire, and was instantly petrified by a rush of familiar memories. His feet stuck to the floor and his mind sat below the heavy weight of past, locked in a forced recollection. The fire warmed his face, blazing from the past and the present. He blinked, shaking off the sensation, and ran down the hallway and out the door.

Bursting into the night air with the warm glow behind him, air began to seep into his lungs and he wondered how long he had been holding his breath.

Mural scanned himself, looking for splotches of blood and other signs of his deeds that could have attached to his coat. After discovering a sweeping splatter of blood across the breast, he removed the garment and slung it over his arm, neat and folded. It covered the bloodied blade in his hand.

Strolling into the street, Mural mingled into the small crowd that had began to assemble. Like moths to the flame, others gathered, as he became just another face in the mob. He slipped away to the other side of the street, slinking into another alleyway. The shadows invited him into their hold again and he replaced his false look of astonishment, there only to play the part in the throng, with a wide toothy grin. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so complete, so free.

As the two-story building was engulfed in flames, Mural recalled one time, maybe the only time, when he felt this free. A time right before a fire just like the one in front of him. He looked down, his coat sliding down his forearm, as he studied his face in the blood smeared blade. The dancing light of the distant fire washed the features of his haunted years away until his soft teenaged face stared back. Behind his youthful likeness stood his mother, smiling and reaching out to him. Her arms wrapped around him with soothing warmth and all the memories that had threatened to distract and destroy that night's mission earlier, rushed over and devoured him.

Chapter 3

Distant gunfire was as common as galloping hooves. It hadn't always been this way, but it didn't take long to accept as normal. Freedom was worth it. At least that was what the Smithe family believed. Their children were born in the colonies after they had sailed from England years ago. Though they suffered the insults of fellow colonists' anti-Loyalist slurs, not a single thought of returning to their home country ever entered their heads.

They swore to keep the family printing press going in the New World - as Americans.

On a morning not much different from any other, the Smithe children played in the kitchen as their mother tidied the breakfast table, careful not to stain her best dress, visibly angry that she forgot to clean up before she dressed. But that annoyance didn't dim her vibrant blue eyes. Even as her cheeks reddened her fair skin wouldn't allow an unpleasant look fall her.

Her family was about ready for church, every one of them dressed in their Sunday best, when the boys pulled their mother away to play. She'd feign poor excuses about cleaning more but always let them fall away as her precise warnings came next.

"Keep clean and stay close."

Her children nodded silently for a moment until little smiles burst from beneath their bowed heads. The trio erupted into laughter as they raided the forest. Before they left for the seriousness of chapel, the children let loose all their foolishness and pranced about the forest. The deep green trees stretched for miles, with each leaf an emerald of joy. But not on this day. The many skirmishes fought here took there tolls. So many trunks lie twisted and cleaved. The stale smell of gunpowder lingered on faint breezes and stained the crisp wooden air. Her husband and so many of their family's friends were out fighting for freedom somewhere in the same serene woods. A backyard and a battlefield.

Clamorous thuds pounded throughout the fringe of the forest as the boys searched for sticks to sword fight with. Stripping the low limbs off any tree they could reach, Mural and Nathaniel fenced with the small branches, as the youngest, Rebecca, sat quaintly in the grass, pulling out dandelions with her gloved hands and blowing the seeds into the wind. Their mother watched them, soaking what innocent bliss was left in such troubled times, yet knowing the fighting wasn't on their doorstep. That was only a matter of time though.

As if fate heeded her fears, the children's laughed was cut soberly off with the muffled din of musket fire from deep into the woods. All she wanted was her husband to return. Worry spun within her stomach, knotting it up even tighter than normal as the horizon rumbled under hundreds of footfalls. From the corner of her eye she watched rows of marching bodies climb into sight. She hated how they marched on a Sunday, bullying decent folk as if they had no honor. The small regiment, lead by a few rigid officers on horseback, marched on her house.

The red coats that draped them screamed out past the lush surrounding green land as the bayonets on their muskets bounced, seemingly stabbing the low lying clouds. The worn hard pack cart path they traveled down couldn't contain the regiment and the troops spilled errantly into the forest.

"Mural, Nathaniel, Becca! Come here now!"

All three slowly emerged from the woods with sullen faces, ready for reprimanding. They knew that tone. Once their eyes spied their mother's anger was aimed away from them they clung to her dress, dirt and dust spattered on their nice clean clothes. Her back straightened and her lip stiffened, revealing the face her children had worried about initially. They had got their Sundays best dirty, but she saved her anger for the approaching troops. Her hand flattened above her eyes to shield the reflections from the muskets and the heated morning as an officer pranced up on horseback and stared at her from under the brim of his cap. With mouth agape, she stared back at him and looked up at her hand, then quickly brought it down to her hip. This officer didn't look much older than her Mural. Babes with guns. So wrong.

"Could my men rest here for a while?" The lead officer asked.

Warily she welcomed them onto the property, out of courtesy, feeling odd about how the officers never tipped their caps to her.

"Inside the house children, now," she whispered and Rebecca and Nathaniel obeyed.

The lieutenant rode up to the porch of the house as the children raced through the door. Their mother followed but remained on the steps.

Without breaking eye contact, the officer dismounted awkwardly, clanking his scabbard about. Mural, sneaking up from behind the horse to get a good look at the soldier's sword, watched it clank, reached his hand out and dislodged the sheathed blade, and watched it land in the dirt. He wrenched his hands back with his palms raised, trying to maintain innocence.

"I said get in the house Mural!"

The sword slid from the sheath as it hit the ground. Mural noticed, disappointedly, that there were no bloodstains on it. He turned and ran inside as the officer strolled up to his mother. With an unkempt uniform and beard, this boy of a soldier had more honors adorning his coat than years of his life. Something was terribly amiss.

"Thank you for your kindness ma'am." His British accent seemed shaky.

"Indeed, you are welcome," she nervously replied, "but please, do not take this offensively, you must please leave as soon as you could sir, I need to get off to church."

"Ah, yes, church. Have we been marching that long? My apologies, I had almost forgotten the day."

Another officer strode up on horseback; he was about twice the age of the boy she was speaking to. The rank on his coat made him the boy's subordinate.

"Sir, the men?" He asked as he dismounted.

"Ah yes," the boy said and motioned his fingers. The regiment slunk down from attention.

"Oh, my dear sir!" Mrs. Smithe said, with one dainty hand to her mouth and the other outstretched, pointing towards the older man. "You are injured. Blood there, on your arm. Let me dress that for you..."

Her hand caught a flap of his jacket as he tore away from her help. The buttons of his uniform popped and beneath the flap, below his coat, she saw common clothes. Tattered and torn imposter clothes. She stepped back, gasped, frozen in fear. The teenaged soldier's worn eyes rose to meet hers with a vengeful glare. A shiver ran up her spine and filled her with the energy to run into the house and lock the door behind her.

Both officers angrily bantered back and forth as they approached the door she had already begun to barricade. They pounded on the door with hard fists and polite words.

"Ma'am, please?"

She found her children gazing out the bay window next to the door and she hugged them to her. After their patience wore thin, the men's boots thumped along the wooden porch until they stood before the same long window. The elder man peered in; head crooked on his neck like a curious bird. He cracked a jagged smile.

"Now ma'am, where is the man of the house?" he said. The younger imposter sneered.

"Who are you?" her voice wavered as she pulled her children away from the window.

"We are His Majesty's troops my dear," the young man said, his eyelids closing to slits. "Here to do what we do best. Now, where is your Loyalist scum husband?"

She crouched down between each of her boy's ears and whispered,

"Where are the muskets my dears? Can you get them?"

"Yes mother," Mural and Nathaniel answered in unison and ran off to a hallway closet, quickly returning with a gun each.

The two redcoats outside stepped back as the boys aimed the muskets at their hearts. Each of their little faces were stained with childish, nearly comical anger yet their eyes held only protective glares. Responding in kind, a man brought the two imposters a musket apiece, which they swung and aimed at the boys.

"No God, no!" their mother shouted. Instinct possessed her hands as she balled up both of her boy's collars and yanked them away from the window. Mural, rocked by the sudden jerk, pulled the trigger. The window shattered. Mural gasped as he and his brother fell to the floor. The thin white drapes dislodged from the window frame and collapsed on top of the older imposter like a shroud.

Time seemed to stop. The wind stilled and the heat hung silently. Shock coated everyone like the delicate cloth that had settled atop of the old man's chest. Time lurched back to normal as the old man's blood spread out like wings, imbruing the white cloth red. Wide eyed and mouth agape, the young imposter gathered up this old man in his arms.

With protection the only idea in her mind, she dragged the boys by the collars further into the house, with Becca behind them. She heaved them upstairs so quickly that the boys dropped their muskets. Behind a locked door, she barricaded her family into the second story bedroom that overlooked the front lawn, while the young imposter aided his fallen comrade.

The humid air and the morning sun pressed down on the young man's neck and head, matting his hair to his forehead. The wool of the redcoat he wore was soaked with his own sweat and his father's blood. Both were crying.

"Son, you must continue on now without me."

"No you'll be all right, just..."

"Son, these people need to see the tyranny of the crown," he coughed up blood, "Show them. Avenge me!"

"I'll kill those Loyalist pigs Pa, just you wait and watch. I'll kill every one of them bastards with pleasure. They'll scream so loud King George will hear them."

Mural and Nathaniel argued as they heaved the dresser in front of the bedroom door. Their mother slowly opened the window and tried to listen to the conversations below. The boys'

fight escalated even louder as the dresser drawers banged.

"Hush up, boys," she barked, "and mind your mother."

They stopped immediately and walked over to watch the young imposter storm out from under the covered porch. His coat had come off, revealing a white shirt with a loose vest over it. There was no doubt in her mind that he pillaged the uniform from a dead officer. With a quivering bark from the imposter, the small regiment lowered their weapons from their shoulders and leveled their aim on the bedroom window.

"Listen you Loyalist bitch! If you won't listen to reason, will you listen to force?" he bellowed.

"Why are you doing this? This is nothing but a terrible misunderstanding, please..."

"You lie! If you come down to me now, I will spare your children."

"Who do you think you are?" she spat.

"Thought you knew ma'am. We're just a group that wishes to act rather than talk. This war will end in our favor and we are here to make sure of that. Now, will you come down?"

"Never!" She screamed and ducked away from the window.

"Fire!" The young imposter ordered.

A hail of gunfire pierced the window and ripped it and the frame apart.

She covered the children's heads and screamed. It was only one volley, but it was accurate. Glass and splinters littered the air and stabbed down onto their heads, then stopped as quickly as a summer rainstorm.

"Stop, stop, stop for the love of God stop," she bellowed.

"Only if you come to me."

A long silence stuck to the muggy air. The branches drooped with weeping leaves. Sweat beaded on every brow. The noon heat shortened every temper drastically.

"There is the truth," she thought, "he wants his way with me. Would he just take me and spare the children? Spare Mural after shooting his father? No, he would kill us all..."

"Please, sir, if you would just..." She muttered.

"Too late," he interrupted her. He turned to his troops.

"What will he do? Storm the house? What kind of monster would do that? No, he is bluffing."

She muttered. Her mind raced. "There's always an option, I just have to find it..."

Glass and wood crunched beneath her shins and knees as she crawled to the demolished window and peered out. A sigh of relief overwhelmed her as the troops paraded away casually with the fake lieutenant glaring over his shoulder. She returned the look with contempt until he backed away from his troops and disappeared underneath the roof of the porch. Again, the world stood still. His boots echoed in her ears as she traced his movements.

He stomped about the porch and stopped before the broken window and she heard no more. Silence stretched on unbearably until several thuds sounded from inside the house. Objects clunked into the family room and came to an abrupt stop. The imposter strolled out from the porch with a smile. Her curiosity was quickly replaced by fear.

"Something's inside," she couldn't figure out what until he faced her and waved a torch in each hand.

"I saved two for you my dear," he said and tossed one torch onto the roof, mere inches away from her. It rolled back and settled on the shingles.

The other soared through the window and bounced into the bedroom.

The flaming log tumbled end over end, shedding shards of fire along the way, until its momentum slowed and it rolled to a halt by Mural. His mother quickly retrieved it and launched it back out the window.

Through the flames on the roof, she watched the man put his red coat back on and enjoy a sadistic laugh. She panicked as her children cried in a huddled mass at the center of the room. They watched the smoke seep into the room.

Tears fell from their faces as the charring smell of hickory overtook the atmosphere. Shouts from her and her children's mouths overbore the last of the orders blurted from outside the house. The children were rigidly huddled together, so panic-stricken they couldn't move. Flames danced all about the room so randomly that no clear path of escape was obvious. She tugged on the dresser and vanity that blocked the doorway to escape back down the stairs, but she couldn't budge the barricade from the door without Mural and Nathaniel.

"Damn you!" She cried at the door, fists pounding on the oak. She hit the wood until her arms grew tired and her tears stopped flowing. "Damn you," she whispered then looked over her shoulder to the children and raced to them.

She tugged on the three of them, searching for some gap so she could pry them apart. Smoke billowed in and brought the heat and flames curling at the door. Death breathed hot on her neck.

"Dear God, oh God, how did the fire spread so quickly? How are we going to get out? Dear God, help ... I have to think of something."

She pounced up to the window with a last desperate idea. Looking out at the tops of the green trees, she saw the redcoats moving off into the distance and looked back at the children coughing. Turning to her knitting chair, she grabbed it by the legs and heaved it through the other window, spitting the glass shards all about and down to the long green grass two stories below. She peered out and saw no flames blocking the way. She prayed her idea would work. Darting to the bed, she ripped the mattress off the bed frame, hobbling under its awkward weight, and placed it on the windowsill. A few fires sprouted along the path down the roof but she pushed the mattress down the burning tiles anyway. It softly bounced and nestled up next to her chair on the grass. She ran back to her children.

This was the only way. She looked at the huddled ball of siblings and yearned for some assurance that this would work. God, any sign would do. The idea of tossing her children out a window was heart wrenching, but they had a better chance of survival that way. Pulling and yanking on any arm she could get a grip on, she still couldn't pry them apart. With a frantic look about the room, she gave up and instead pushed the huddle of her children across the floor to the window. She tried to pry them apart again as they cried and bellowed, but they held onto each other even tighter.

"Just please do this for mommy! I'll give you treats!"

A hideous screech blew fire underneath the door and into the room, consuming the dresser barricade, spreading flames out like fingers. A rush of heat singed her face. The thought of her children being taken by this death garnered her strength. A rage burned within her, stronger than the blaze growing in the room. She ripped at their limbs, prying, poking yet managed to get a hold of two arms in both her hands and yanked as hard as she could. A pop came from both of the little arms that was louder than the pops of the burning bedroom. Nathaniel screamed and Mural winced.

She heaved Mural up from underneath his armpits and looked down to the mattress. With little hesitation, she hurled him to the padding. Relieved with the success, she reached for Nathaniel and did the same. Finally, she stretched for the last little one when a hot blast of death blew the door open, destroyed the barricade, and sprung at her with blinding speed and colors. It blasted her backwards against the windowsill squarely with her backside. Her hands gripped tightly onto the shattered glass of the broken window.

Her youngest screamed and cried. Shedding off disorientation, their mother leaped up for her daughter when the fire came with open hands.

Wide and hungry it charged for them both. She pushed her hands out for Becca through the thick heat. Her skin bubbled and melted the closer she came to her child. Tears filled her blinded eyes, momentarily cooling them as she stumbled into the smoke.

She called and called, "Becca! Beccaaaaa!" But she only heard her own coughs in response. Her fingers shook with the thought of her daughter burned alive and she responded with a more fevered push forward. Out of a puff of black smoke, Becca's white lace glove meekly emerged. Her little fingers wiggled for open air, barely piercing into sight through the black, reaching for mother. They were so close, mere inches from connecting, though neither could see the other. Fumbling through the smog, in an amazing moment of luck, their fingers grazed each other. Mother held her daughter's soft clothed hand and snatched at it. Relief surged through her body.

She had her daughter with a firm grip around the wrist. With a gulp of ashen saliva, she summoned all her strength and turned for the window.

Then, as if sent from the depths of hell, a second blast of fire shook the room and surged bright orange flames across the entire room. The fire enveloped Becca's pallid glove in the mostunnatural orange and red living flames and set her mother's once beautiful and pristine dress on fire. She stumbled backwards, desperate to extinguish herself and fell out the window.

Chapter 4

Nathaniel woke hours later and shrieked from the pain pulsating in his dislocated shoulder. Mural woke to his screams. Sitting in the twilight, Nathaniel sobbed and held his left arm as Mural strolled up to him.

"Oh God, Mural. It's broken - it hurts!"

"Come here, its not broken. Stand up," he ordered as he nursed his own shoulder. "Father taught me this."

Mural held the pendant limb at the shoulder as Nathaniel winced and walked him a few feet towards a tree. Mural had him subdued and calm until he pushed his brother with both hands into the tree. Nathaniel bellowed.

The dislocated shoulder hit the bark straight on and popped it back into place. He shook his arm and rubbed it without showing any signs of pain and hugged his brother with both quickly regretting it as they recoiled in pain.

"Take it easy on the arm."

"Thank you. How did Father know that?"

"Because he usually dislocated other peoples' shoulders in fights and always ended up putting them back into socket for them. Then they'd buy him rounds," Mural said, strolling up to the same tree. Unblinking, he rammed his shoulder into the bark and grunted. He stepped back and shook his arm, satisfied.

A few moments later, the boys turned and walked to the house. They stared at a charred skeleton of wood and brick. Fires meekly dotted the foundation of their ravaged home, greedily nibbling on the last of the food, leaving behind nothing but ash. The brick fireplace and the stove were the only recognizable objects still standing. Broken timbers that looked like ribs from picked over carrion jutted out from everywhere.

"What about Mother?" Nathaniel asked, "We have to find her!"

Both boys split up and called out for her. Their voices sounded through out the woods returning only as echoes with the cool breeze of the coming night. They searched until darkness set in, weaving past trees and coves, finding nothing but nature. Canon fire from the distance boomed as the sun headed for its resting place. Mural set up a fire with what was left of the house, scattering in some broken branches which, only hours ago, were used for playful fencing, not for survival. The brothers sat for most of the night, staring at the fire dancing about the dark and fighting tears. Neither boy could utter a word for hours. Nathaniel, worn by the day's fatigue, nestled against a log to sleep. Mural, forced into first watch, shook off his emotions and weariness, and vowed to stay awake. But as time passed and his listlessness got the better of him, he rose and strolled down the road.

"What do we do now?" He thought and walked, "Mother and Becca are missing and Father is off at war. I'm the man now so I've got to come up with something."

Nathaniel, barely twelve and Mural just two years older, came together with a meager amount of combined experience and even less experience authority.

"We can take care of ourselves and hunt for food and shelter," Mural pondered in a whisper,

"we won't be able manage it for long. Nathaniel isn't that strong. We have to find shelter and food before any more damned redcoats come back. And they will come back. But we can't leave. Not until mother comes back home with Becca in her arms looking for us."

Anger welled up in his head and smothered his rationality. He did not want the responsibility of having to decide. "So I have to choose between our immediate survival and seeing if my mother and sister are alive..."

Disgusted with his options, Mural kicked at the path, hoping for an idea to strike him. One hit his toe. He leaned down, crouching before a long, cylindrical, ornamented piece of metal and ran his fingers over the raised markings. Brushing away black soot, he found the sword he had knocked off the imposter officer. Mural lifted it and bounced its weight off his palms.

"This is a start," he thought, then paused under the weight of realization. "No, it's a sign. We are going to need protection along the road. What better protection than this? After everything had been taken from us, this is the way to take it back." Power sat heavily in his hands and fueled his anger.

The night was calm and the air was sweet but it burned his lungs as he breathed it in. It would have been a beautiful night if not for the circumstances.

Fury churned in Mural's stomach and rippled through his veins.

Goosebumps raised on his skin and anger balled in his throat. His left hand tightly gripped his forehead and tried to rub away the pain, then slid down to his eyes and wiped away his tears.

A rustling from the charred grass and timber spun him completely around. He quickly and loudly unsheathed the sword in response and gazed around the wreckage for movement. Slowly shifting his feet forward through the broken vestiges of his home an eternity passed until something poked itself free just ahead of him. Even in the dark, with the shadow cast from the fires, Mural could see something red. His arms were taut with fear; his muscles yearned to strike at that evil color. The color of the men that burned his house. The color the man he shot bled.

Without a thought of caution or an inkling of mercy, Mural flipped the sword and stabbed the blade into the debris with all his force. The sword sunk down and stuck into the ground. A flash of the memory of the soldier's malevolent faces made him twist the sword back and forth. Mural had to protect what was left of his family and the redcoats had already tried to take their lives once, it wouldn't happen again. A muffled sound Mural wanted to believe was a cry of pain came from the wreckage beneath his sword, and then died quickly, sounding more like an animal than a person to him. But he wouldn't know.

"The redcoats are more animal than man," Mural muttered.

A small fire still flickered nearby. Mural walked to it and lifted a burning board from the fire and tossed it directly atop where he had stabbed with the sword. He kicked boards on top of the flame, hoping it would burn away the vermin. He watched the flames eat the rubble and, without him knowing it, gazed angrily at the last vestiges of his childhood burn away. Content with his decisions and his makeshift revenge, Mural ran back to the bonfire.

"Listen, Nathaniel," Mural announced, lost in a plan formulating as he spoke, "We can go round up a chicken at Old Man Henry's coop and then bring it back here to roast. Then at daybreak we head to Boston. To join the Continentals and kill all those lying bastard redcoats."

Caught up in his excitement, Mural forgot that Nathaniel was already curled up asleep by the fire mumbling, "Mother...come back..."

Mural patted his brother's head, "Dream they return, Nathaniel. Dream and hope."

Mural calmed down yet didn't want to sheath the sword; he enjoyed seeing the red stained blade. Such an evil color yet so persuasive. He would have to coax to be on this side from now on.

Chapter 5

Mural rose with the dawn. He stretched out with the first rays of sunlight and walked to the dead house again. Kicking around the grass and ashen boundary of their scorched house, trying to make sense of what he knew was goodbye, his foot discovered yet another metal object. It was smaller than the sword he found and clutched and he didn't recognize it at first. He pushed around and pried it from the dirt and saw it was their mother's wedding band. It gleamed between his ashen fingertips. Mural stared at it and gently rubbed it clean.

"This is for Nathaniel," he said and walked back to wake him.

Nathaniel cried most of the morning after he received the ring. He stared at its shimmer and didn't, couldn't, break eye contact for everything in the world. It was the horrible evidence of their mother's fate and he couldn't accept it. Mural let him cry until the sun had gone beyond the horizon, but had to get them moving. He didn't have much trouble getting Nathaniel to his feet and making him travel away from their home of old, their home of childhood. Nathaniel was lost in a mournful trance. They walked in silence until Nathaniel, still gazing at the ring, complained of ill health halfway to the family printing press in Boston.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I don't feel well, Mural. I hurt."

"Was it the chicken? Did I not cook it right?" Mural asked.

"I had a dream. It was my dream Mural. Mother came to me in a dream last night. I didn't know who she was at first. I couldn't see her, but it felt just like her. She was bright, brighter than fire, and she gave me something. It was round like this ring but different. I could feel her smiling at me as she handed it over. A loving feeling came from it. It was like when she tucks us into bed. She placed it on my palm. It sat still for only a second before it began to spin on its own. It spun so fast that it turned into a little ball. Then the ball soaked into my skin and it was cold inside of me. I looked at my hand and it was almost invisible, then I looked over myself and all of me was almost invisible. Mother then whispered something into my ear and I didn't understand it. That's when I woke in a cold sweat. I was so cold I had to get within a foot of the fire to keep warm. That's when I knew she was dead and then you gave me the ring and ...but I already knew ...then ...it was strange but ...I saw Father."

"Father came back?" Mural interrupted as his heart jumped.

"He tried to," Nathaniel continued. "He and his friends ambushed the people who burned down our house. I swear I saw all this in the woods just beyond the fire last night. It was like the branches and trees spread apart like curtains and the firelight shone enough for me to see everything. Everyone was battling and, during the fight, a man sneaked up behind Father. The man reached down to his side for his sword, but it wasn't there."

Mural looked down at the sword in his hands. He knew the sword he held was the one his brother was talking about. If it had been at that man's side, he would have killed their father.

"It was supposed to be there - you changed that - but it didn't make any difference," Nathaniel continued, "Father thought someone was behind him and turned around and swung his sword, but the man ducked and father only knocked his cap off. He had blond hair and a big pointy nose like the man who burned down our house. It was the man who held the older man you shot Mural. The blond man came up with a knife after father missed and stabbed him in the chest. Their eyes met and father knew him. Father called him Ben before he fell to the ground. The fighting moved away from Father and I came up to him as his breathing stopped. I touched him and he was cold and then I was cold. I looked up and saw the blonde man looking right at me. He smiled and waved. Mural, I don't know what I was doing or what happened, but after all the fighting was done, the blonde man was the only one to survive. I think Father's dead, Mural, and the man is coming back for us."

Nathaniel shuttered and tears welled up in his eyes. He gazed down at the dirt path beneath them and then fixed on the ring again.

"Nathaniel, I think everyone is dead," Mural stated coldly, scolding himself for believing this dream his younger brother had for even a second. There's no more room for fantasy, no more time for the fancies of youth; survival is the only thing left.

"I'm scared. I don't understand any of this. I know this is more than a dream. Why would mother appear to me? Why?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that it was just a dream."

"No, I think mother was trying to tell me something. I think she's trying to help somehow. I think she came down from heaven as an angel to warn us."

"Goddamnit, Nathaniel, they're dead! They're all dead! Everyone we love is dead and we're the only ones left! You had a nightmare, plain and simple. We have to worry about what's real and what's in the now. About what's here."

"That is what I'm doing. It's here."

Mural stewed angrily as they walked and Nathaniel gazed at the ring in his palm, flipping it over itself hundreds of times as they strolled into Boston at nightfall.

Chapter 6

The brothers saw little of each other over the course of the war, but wrote often. Mural wrote of his promotions within the Continentals and his appetite for vengeance while Nathaniel complained of his continual dreams and headaches. On the occasion that their regiments would meet, the brothers spent their leave catching up.

Nathaniel had grown to an average build, seemingly stunted by his overly delicate nerves that wanted nothing to do with growth. Mural, on the other hand, kept on growing. On one of their meetings, Mural had passed the height of Nathaniel's horse and he still wasn't out of his teens. And with each meeting over a half decade's time, Nathaniel watched with sensitive dismay, as his brother grew infected. He watched the disease of blood thirst grow strong within Mural. It had grown so large and so obvious that Nathaniel began to fear it in his dreams, unable to escape it.

The second to last time they ever met was to decipher the fate of the printing press, mere months before the war ended. The last leg of the war had turned Mural into an assassin and Nathaniel into a wreck. Neither slept much, out of fear of murder. Mural's life had death at his doorstep every time he was defenseless and when Nathaniel slept, his dreams assaulted him with seemingly tangible terror.

"I need people I can trust Nathaniel. Why won't you join me? I need someone who can actually see the red of the redcoats. It's become all gray to me," Mural said as the brothers sat on a hill looking out onto the Atlantic Ocean.

"There's enough death in my dreams Mural, I don't need to add anymore. I want this all to be over. The killing has to stop - there is too much blood on my hands already. I can't wash it off anymore. I want to settle down and get back to the press. Uncle is getting too old to run it."

"I've been thinking about that too, and since you will not join me, I couldn't think of a better person to run it than you, brother," Mural said with a smirk.

"Thank you. It does seem the logical thing to do. Well, you said in your letter that there was something else you wanted to tell me. Something big."

"Yes ...now, don't get mad because I was out for a long time, but before I left, around six months ago ...well anyway ...you have a sister now."

Nathaniel's brain reeled. He pictured their little sister Becca, swathed in her Sundays, sweet and perfect in her unstained dress. Splotches of red spread across the virginal white cloth and Nathaniel cringed. His anger permeated him. The gall that Mural had, thinking anyone could replace Becca somehow. Nathaniel's blood burned. Mural held up his left hand to show off his wedding band.

"Wow ...I don't know what to say. Uh ...congratulations. Who is she?"

Nathaniel began to calm, his heartbeat and breathing slowed back down to normal.

"Remember Veronica?"

"Yes," Nathaniel said groaning with disapproval, "the one who got around."

"Don't you speak ill of her!" Mural bellowed and jumped to his feet, fists shaking in the air. The rage that Nathaniel feared reared its ugly head, it was always just a matter of time, but Mural realized his outburst and quelled for his brothers sake.

"That's all I remember of her, I'm sorry."

A long and tense salt breeze of silence breezed between them for what felt like a lifetime. The brothers sat silently until a question blurted out from Nathaniel that he had wanted to ask for years.

"What has happened to you Mural? You're so violent now. I worry about you. All you do is hate."

Mural groaned like he had been expecting a lecture from a parent.

"How about you? You think you see mother everywhere. Get over it, she's dead!"

Another, more familiar silence hung between them. Years of anger and love filled their eyes. Neither needed to argue any further; both knew everything behind the other's words.

"Listen, Mural, I'm coming back here to Boston and running the press and am going to try and live a normal life. I want you in it no matter what. I know you think that I'm pretentious with my 'high and mighty talk,' but I do not mean it that way. I just want you safe and happy. You are my family. I'll always do what is best for the family. To save rather than destroy. We've seen enough destruction."

Mural stewed with fury but he knew his brother was right. Nathaniel always knew what to say to make everything better. He was always planning for the long term. Mural wished he had that kind of foresight. The present was all he had counted on for so long; it was all he could ever count on. It was the only time he felt alive.

"I will come back on my leave and start my new life here, with my wife and brother. The war can wait. I will spend December here."

The two wrapped in a hug and agreed. Two things they hadn't done in ages.

"I'll see you in three months then," Nathaniel said as they parted.

That day was the most of Mural's past that he ever wanted to revisit. That day marked the beginning of the end. Ever since that day, his every attempt to make pleasure, his every hope, had turned into pain. Everything he thought wonderful turned out to be terrible. It was all or nothing, Mural learned that from the war, so he chose all. But nothing chose him.

It killed him to even think about the days after that one, so many good intentions and nothing but bad to show for it. Mural blocked it all out from his memory and remembered the war instead. Everything was simpler then. It was pure and simple survival. Once the fighting stopped things got complicated again. Their country was free and Mural paid for that freedom heavily. Mural wasn't a farmer or a banker; he was a killer and knew it. Once the war was over and there were no more enemies, Mural adopted a completely new purpose, one that was the problem and the solution.

It began for Mural when he embraced his color-blindness. His eyes and heart, at some point during the revolution, both saw in coarse black and white with shades of gray. He often wondered if it was his values, or even his soul, filtered out the good and the bad, coming to rest on the oh-so gentle and forgiving gray. But as time passed Mural's morals, the lines he drew in the sand, disappeared like they did in the war, while his new purpose harmonized with the black and white he saw in.

And shortly after the war ended he began his familiar flirtation with violence again. It was all he knew. That violence would ring in his skull and cry out for nourishment. At times he would try to recall when these cries began, but it was like trying to remember the first time his stomach cried out for food.

Mural's new purpose involved him sitting in the taverns that lined the streets of Boston with a pint and a plan. Women that hobbled out onto the cobblestone streets were the ones to fall into his web. Out on those dirty paths covered with lust and pain, he watched through the pub's window as whispers within his head told him which one to choose. Everyone within these taverns would laugh and chatter on as Mural clutched his head in agony, and the night only seemed to amplify these sounds in his head.

Walking the streets in the day, the screams were lessened by sunlight it seemed and left him alone, as if to force him in a nocturnal life. He would lug his nearly seven foot tall frame along the streets, doggedly refusing to give in and become a creature of the night. But as soon as the sun set, nothing else but these women whispered in his mind. They enlightened him on the plights of the entire city. He would have thought all was right with the world after the revolution - after all the hard fought bloody battles, but these whispers told him that one fight was over and another was beginning.

This city used to be so great, bustling with life, with carriages drawing ladies and gentlemen to the theater. Great ships lingered in the bay with sails shimmering in the moonlight and perfect clothes draped like curtains in the shops. But not anymore. Mural's beautiful city was going to Hell and he knew he had to fix it. No one would ruin his Boston. The air blew freshly free in this city of great heritage. War's stench still resonated on the people's minds and they lacked the stomachs to another war so soon. But not Mural. Corruption would not return, not in his lifetime.

His hands shook with anger at the thought of Boston's degradation. He slammed his pint down and foam sloshed over and onto his hand, angry that not one single woman in the tavern caused a peep in his head this night. Even as prostitutes stood in the shadows enticing with their bodies, Mural still heard no whispers to persuade him to kill. These women, no matter how indecent, had one thing in common - they were all liars, corrupting God's grace through terrible abuses of their marital vows. Mural saw them as they slobbered over random men, using their vile words to take their wicked impulses upstairs or down to the alley. They would meet, heavy with lust, touching every inch of bare skin as they grinded against each other. Their sex stink filled the air. Once these hags drank her fill of lust, she would send him away; crinkle him up and throw him in the dirty street, praying the water would wash him down the sewers and out of her mind. Then, she would run home before her husband grew suspicious.

Her wedding ring would appear like a magic trick from her hiding spot, most likely in her shoe, gleaming in all gold's twinkle before it slipped onto her soiled ring finger. With a spring in her step and engorged with the feeling that life just can't get any better and sex stink, she rehearsed her lies and planned her next night full of infidelity. And Mural would be ready to see that they would not go unpunished. Once was enough for him to go through such similar treacheries, and no man, no man, should have to suffer like he had.

Mural shuffled his feet ready to leave the pub when the cry he was waiting for sounded. His pint tipped over on the table again, spilling across his favorite smooth table as he pushed passed dozens of drunks towards the door. Most of the swaying drunkards shuffled away as he lumbered out the door, they had grown used to his antics, but the inattentive and unaware would kindly receive a hefty shove out of his path.

Another shrill scream pierced Mural's head and thrust him into the doorway with a thud that shook the windows. His vengeance had ruled these streets for a couple years now, but she, this very one, had to be the last. Not by Mural's choice, but by fate's choice. If he had a say, this retribution would go on ceaselessly. He would sell his soul to be plucked from the grave after God called him to His kingdom to continue his crusade. Mural knew how to go about his duty without being caught and that filled him with the necessary arrogance to need to go on forever. He had spread his killings over a span of time and had changed the appearance of his motives, to create the question in the authority's minds that there were multiple killers with similar objectives. Mural was careful to never create the same scene twice. One attack would appear out of jealousy, one like an accident and another like a ritual, and so on and so on until he ran out of ideas. And then he'd flip back kill as he did right off. With each attack he'd pick the scenario and act it out to music in his house during the day. Reading the note sheets on his harpsichord, he would weave out his act in preparation of that evening. After he weaved his masterpiece together and it felt harmonious, he would kill and leave no other conclusions to be drawn other than what he chose to leave. He had a job to do and no man would stop him.

Mural made his way out of the tavern and trailed this unlucky woman by mere footsteps, watching her stumble off towards her home, as he fingered his butcher knife in the back of his trousers. The handle would tell him how he would pounce. He hadn't done a ritualistic killing in some time and planned a particularly gruesome end for this woman, for she seemed more evil than the others before her. Horrid whispers bled from her presence and a hush of faithlessness fixed in his mind. The handle of his knife grew damp with sweat as they strolled down the street several paces apart.

Mural was so close he could smell her sex and laden perfume. The stink was thick and leapt over and coated his skin. He swore it began to seep into his pores. He had to end her soon. Mural reached out to run his stubby fingers through her hair but before he touched her, wisps of white fog flowed out from her as if they were strands of hair in the wind. This overpowering mist wound around Mural in a cocoon of bellows that forced him into retreat, keeping the knife fastened under his belt. Mural gagged and ducked into an alleyway. The woman turned to investigate but found an empty moonlit street.

Mural covered his mouth with his sleeve to mute his gags. He could see her look about for someone and once she faced his direction, he covered his eyes. If he ever saw her face, ever saw any of the women he stalked faces, he would lose the whispers in his head. The noises would disappear like they never were there, and no matter how hard he tried, the whispers would never return and he'd have to move on to another. That taught him that his purpose was strictly business, nothing personal, just cleaning Boston of its adulterer plague, and there was nothing more personal than a face. These betraying women had to remain as another face in the mob. A surprise attack for both the predator and the prey. The only thing Mural wanted to see was a cold dead face. If that was all he would see, it would appear that she was never really alive to begin with.

Emerging from his hiding spot, Mural left the shadows in the brown and maroon brick alleyway and resumed his course, closing in on the woman again.

His hand slipped around the butcher knife handle and the whispers resumed.

Then something snapped in his mind, some alarm went off.

"Wait ...this is familiar. I've been ...I've done this ...she's..." Mural thought as panic and his past engulfed him. "No. Not now."

The past and the present mixed in his head. The woman before him began to shimmer and fade into a woman from memory. Both their figures hugged their dresses like the cloth was drawn on their skin. Their hair flowed together like two rivers converging in the moonlight. The white mist captured Mural in a memory of one of his past victims and he was helpless to do anything but replay the memory in his head.

Chapter 7

The night Mural recalled was etched deep within the pitch-black depths of his mind.

He remembered, with fascination, that the woman from time past had downed several pints at the tavern before flowing into the street. She was eyeing some poor sap all night, breathing deeply to accentuate her chest even further up in her decolletage. The unfortunate fool of a man bounced about in his seat to get her. They met in the alley, showered by their own clothes flying through the air, gripped in fervency as both moaned and gasped. Mural had heard moans from donkeys that sounded more attractive. She pushed up against the brick wall repeatedly bouncing and spreading her toxins all over her poor victim.

Finishing with her man quickly, she slapped her clothes back on and left him panting against the alley wall. He tried to whisper in her ear a yearning to remain in her, wanting her more with each step she took away, but she knew this speech all too well and couldn't stomach it. Blurting some slurred insult in his face, she stumbled out into the streets. Mural cradled his own forehead in pity hearing this pathetic fool as he finished his pint, still in the tavern. Her wicked thoughts led her out into the city streets in a bright white glow, creating beacons of whispers for Mural to follow. The moonlight draped her in a spotlight as Mural stalked, pacing himself with her stumbles. The butcher knife sang from the back belt line of his trousers, yearning to perform, but he hushed its eagerness; the time wasn't right yet. She walked on. Familiar buildings and sights passed by them both until Mural's ears could no longer hide from the blade's cries. So he wielded it.

The building before her broke into an alley as the woman he tailed abruptly darted down the dark lane; an amazing feat of dexterity for a drunk. Her hair flipped up over her shoulder like an inviting wave and the whispers disappeared. Mural felt unprepared, losing sight of her, but remained close. Both of his sweaty hands were curled around his knife as he plunged the wide blade into her side, snapping and sinking past ribs. Black flaps of Mural's long, rough coat and folds from the woman's delicate dress clashed in the air, splattered with blood. Her legs went limp as they fell flat onto the alley floor together.

He was on top, pulling on the knife with all his massive power to pry it loose, smug with his simple performance. Mural pressed his foot on her back and yanked violently to remove the blade. Glancing up from her back, with a smile ear to ear, he peered down the alley to see a gang of men. Mural pulled and struggled but couldn't free the knife.

"How could it be this stuck?"

The sounds of a mob began to form. Things were wrong. Her body was too limp; it felt too easy.

Mural flipped the body over to see another woman, a corpse, dead long before he got to her. Decay and dirt riddled her nails and face.

"I've been tricked - she staged this. How?"

In a blaze of white, a gleaming metallic wedge caught light from the moon and a portion of Mural's peripheral vision. He spun too late to avoid a plummeting knife as it tore away a piece off the side of his head, leaving a bloody notch in his ear. Mural winced and froze in shock and rage.

"Whore!" His voice resonated off the walls.

"You bastard!" screamed the woman as she revealed herself.

Her hand didn't pause a moment as she swung the blade around again, but Mural grabbed her wrist and her knife halted. He followed with his right hand, bringing his blade down with a thump. She cried out in pain, blood flowing like lava from her ruptured chest, tears glazing her eyes, her mouth trembling. Her eyes spat insulting glares at him, her deception bled out in shambles.

"Damn you," she sputtered.

"Nice try, adulterer," he smiled.

"Do ..." she coughed, "do you think I'm that ...stupid?"

Footsteps. A dozen men or so, running closer.

Mural glared at her, then up at the running figures clopping down the long alleyway towards him. They were not police. No, this was vengeance. The one in front had a noose in his hands.

"They're too late for you," Mural said getting up.

He turned to escape but slipped on a thick puddle of her blood. His legs wish-boned over her body and he tumbled over her feet, his head crashing against the wall, smearing a streak of his blood along the brick. The mob was upon him as the woman laughed with what life she had left. As her last sounds pushed past her lips a noose wrapped around Mural's neck. The men circled in. They were a scruffy bunch, most reeking of whiskey and sweat. Their blood boiled with hate. Two men held the end of the noose and pulled as Mural gurgled and spat, trying to force his fingers between the rope and his throat.

In the now, Mural's hand cupped his throat as he gasped for air. This past incident strangled the present so completely that he was left at the mercy of his invidious flashback.

Back in his memory, blood pulsed incessantly between Mural's eyes, marching over the bridge of his nose and bulging into his sinuses. The air left in his throat smashed firmly together into a ball as he coughed and murmured, fervently trying to wiggle the rope up to his chin. A heavy fist crashed into his face, forcing his head into his own shoulder and his fingers from the noose.

The thud of the impact rang painfully in his ears. Mural's limbs were secured as he gritted and heaved to break free, struggling to get even the smallest whiff of the air. The attackers were firmly atop of him and he grew weary; all the dead weight was too much. His consciousness seeped out with the blood that dripped from his nostrils. All sound became faint and barely made it to his ears. Mural knew he was done breathing soon.

"Off," Mural spat.

The men paid no attention as they continued locking him down. Mural gave one last desperate push against their force, yet they still suppressed him. In the haze of near unconsciousness he lost all energy and went limp. The sudden slack tumbled men about and Mural grasped at his only chance. A terrible fire erupted within him and found fuel in all the hatred cursing in his blood. Mural's arms rose with the men still on them. Their concentration broke as Mural flexed his colossal arms and rammed the assailants together, crushing their heads into a bloody fracture. The noose was still primed to constrict his last breath until Mural's head lashed back and connected with a skull.

Every man shed from Mural. He rose and ran with the noose still fastened about his bruised neck. More blood drained from his nose and ear as he dashed away without coordination. The street was a swirling mass streaked in gray and black that heaved about as he tried to run. His feet hadn't an ounce of weight to them, and Mural fled down the avenues of Boston at incredible speeds. Out of instinct, Mural looked over his shoulder at the lane behind him and saw it ebb away, his senses quaking from the quick change of his head's direction. His body gained its weight back with his disorienting movement and his feet became stone. Mural turned to look forward and crashed against a wall. Heartbeat pounding in his ears and lungs aching, Mural felt sleepy yet fought the urge to fall to the ground and rest. His eyes began to close but he quickly awoke to strange haunting echoes of clapping thunder. Air pushed its way into his nose as the distant roar came closer. Mural pushed himself off the wall and struggled to focus on the cobblestones ahead. The path heaved like a turbulent ocean and he became nauseous as he started to run again. But the galloping thunder was upon him.

The rope around his neck became taught and jerked away his panting breaths. Mural's loose sweat and blood splattered against the brick as he was launched off balance, and crashed flat onto the street. The top of his head hit the road first and he somersaulted onto his back. Laying flat on his back, another quick wretch stretched his neck and he choked out a scream. The thunder started again. Mural looked up in a daze with his palm to the sky as the rope around his neck snapped tighter as he was dragged into a gallop by the noose around his throat. The fires that lit the streets streaked by like comets.

Mural struggled in vain to gain control of his body as he was towed through the streets. Scraping along, Mural's face smeared splotchy bloody streaks down the ragged road. The rider whipped the horse, laughing at the end of the taut noose that was tied to the horn of his saddle. They galloped about the boulevards, Mural dangling from behind him like a sack. Mural flailed, pounding off every jagged edge of the road, with only some of the scrapes absorbed by his long black wool coat. Bruises quickly swelled around his ribs and face. Cobblestones rammed into his shoulders and threatened to dislocate his arm.

The rider began to struggle with Mural's weight and the rope veered off to the side of the horse, rolling Mural up onto the sidewalk. Mural was thrust up onto the curb and the snap of two of his ribs was drowned by the rider's laughter. As the world flew by in streaks, the rider heaved the rope with all his strength and led Mural into a torch post cradling burning logs. The streetlamp exploded on impact, dumping a shower of sparks onto Mural. Searing and blistering for only a short while, the fires soon rolled out as he rolled on. The horse picked up speed again as Mural began to black out.

Under such great stress that Mural's head, but not his body, was beginning to succumb to, plagued the rope as well. It frayed and smoldered as they rode toward the outskirts of Boston. A small fire spread down the rope towards Mural as he pulled his body wearily up to meet it. His arms tightened to steel as air piled into his lungs. With each breath, the air he found gave him the strength to climb the rope, looping it up in his bloody hands. The rumble of the city became distant and its people shrunk behind him as the shoreline came into sight. Everything inside him was bruised or broken and every inch of his skin felt tender and raw, but Mural vowed to reach the rider. Already half way up the rope, with the rider close enough to smell, the flame ate away the noose and spit off Mural. He soared away from the horse into an explosion of sand. The soft land spread into a cloud and masked his landing point as he rolled into the ocean where he lost consciousness.

Mural sat lifeless, quite fortunately face up in a foot of water, until he awoke to the calm kiss of dawn's light. He softly rose and slipped into the familiar shadows and they accompanied him all the way to his doorstop.

That same gloom reappeared and hungrily ate away the white fog from the woman before him. The darkness greedily attacked the light until the shade draped Mural. It was comforting like a warm blanket, and it brought him the calm and control he desperately yearned for.

Chapter 8

Slowly sliding back into the present, Mural watched the woman's black hair sway as he continued to finger his knife. Stealing away from the fire lit soiled streets, the woman rounded a corner and turned down a shaded alley. All the grit and grime disappeared in the dark and he felt comfortable, almost clean, as he brandished the knife to end all of her whispering lies. But she disappeared. She must have noticed something, catched some glimpse of him, but the lane was short and he still heard her whispers.

"God, not again," Mural thought.

Her indiscernible lust was heavy in the air, surrounding his ears. He searched with his eyes until he found her in a leaden block of shadows. He turned and smiled.

"Nice try, but you will not fool me again," Mural said.

She sulked into the half-light and showed her face and the whispers changed. Sounds morphed together into a pale face and shock took Mural, as familiar eyes connected with his.

"Another memory, she has to be." He squinted and shook, almost not recognizing her.

"Veronica?"

The instigator. The worst of all women. Estranged from his touch, but not his heart, Mural had convinced himself that she was his wife only in a past life. She was dead to him, beyond his scope, and no longer around to haunt and torture his soul. But there she stood, plain and real.

Mural began to pray. He had never wanted to see her again. He barely made it out of his depression the first time she left. Imploring God to exchange this moment for death, Mural could find no way out of this pain. At the core of his being was a love for her that begged and pleaded for air ever since she disappeared. He swore it had suffocated ages ago.

It was at dawn almost three years ago that he sat under an oak tree at the top of a hill where the cool breeze first introduced him to Veronica. Under that tree he wanted to see the land he once loved one last time before he ran a blade through his neck, ending his hopelessness.

As twilight crept up, he steadied his butcher knife at his collar, with the blade partially pushed in his flesh to prevent any accidents. He was determined not to miss. Veronica did not miss his heart.

A line of blood leaked out from his neck and meandered down, pooling red onto the same white shirt he wore back when he first met her. The stage was set. His elbow was ready to straighten and pull the blade's edge into and across his jugular, ending his misery and every promise. But a whisper sulked from the bottom of his skull. The whisper repeated louder and told him, "Hold the light."

As the whisper faded, calmed hushed his confusion and pain. He became reassured, feeling that the whisper was an order of sorts, one that he instantly stopped his blade. Mural took a deep breath and once he exhaled, thousands of crippling whispers poured in from over the horizon. All these thoughts came from Boston below. They were the moon and he was the tides. At that moment Mural made his choice. His wrist relaxed and his knife fell while he listened, and as the sun fully rose, he chose the whispering voices over his death.

Veronica disappeared from him three long years ago, running off with Benjamin to live in sin, but this revisit almost instantly wiped his hatred. She held so much of his pain in those beautiful brown eyes. She capsized his sorrows in that flowing chocolate hair, seizing her perfect lies on that perfect tongue sealed away by glistening lips. She was his best sorrow.

"Mural?" Veronica asked but he didn't recognize his name, still lost in his memory. Mural hadn't heard his name since she took it and ran with it - he never really acknowledged it as his own any longer.

"Oh Lord, I have been looking for you everywhere ...you weren't at home. I knocked and knocked and nothing. I searched around hoping to find you," Veronica said fully pulling him back into the moment.

"Sweet lies. Does she think I'm that naive?" Mural thought.

The knife was neatly tucked into his sleeve of his black long coat, sitting still and waiting for action. Mural suppressed his urges for the moment.

"Come with me, we have to talk," she said and leaned towards him. "I need you."

Her words hit Mural's ears so hard he went deaf and his mind stilled. He looked down and found his hand in hers. Then, to his surprise, he found himself escorting her as if they were together again. Mural followed her aimlessly, pondering and listening vaguely, barely hearing her apologies, but imagining they subdued all his worries. He wouldn't have understood her anyway; he couldn't even understand his thoughts. Her voice had him swallowed up in puffs of sweet perfume, as he fondly felt her touch again. She fell back into his graces as Mural became enveloped in her love, smoothly nestling himself back into the old groove. His mind captured a hope that he never realized he was harboring. Somewhere in his frozen heart was the love he felt on their wedding day and it had resurfaced in an instant. Veronica glowed in the moonlight, as bright and white as she was in her bridal dress, and the shroud of his murderous urges lifted like her veil.

Mural's vision became gray again, the strict black and white spectrum faded away. Tints became evident and the shades he interpreted to be blue, green, and yellow came back as though they had never left. The city, just like Mural's defenses, dropped away into the background of the night sky. She looked up at him often as they walked, smiling and squeezing his hand, leading her hulking husband on until they reached a small house.

A fat drop of rain fell on Mural's nose. Slowly more drops pelted his broad shoulders as Veronica skipped along like they were in love again. He stuttered to a stop before the porch of the shack, half in a dream of bitter tastes and sweet smells, the other half of him in reality; but Mural has been used to this duality for years.

On that porch she stood pure as ever; her eyes harboring all that once was between them. Looking up at Mural, Veronica gleamed a soft smile at his glazed eyes, triggering him to relax completely and drop his guard. His hand loosened its grip and the knife slipped down, squeaking along his fingers until it was completely exposed in the night air. He hadn't given the blade a single thought. She had not seen it over the duration of their walk; Mural had hidden it well. But not well enough.

Someone else appeared on the porch however, someone familiar, who noticed the blade.

The figure on the terrace stood mere feet before Veronica, and wielded a musket, growling orders in territorial rage. The bayonet glinted at Mural. No one expected him.

"Is this the gratitude I get? Is our love a game to you?" The intruding man on the porch shouted, his jealous words slowly piecing together in Mural's ears.

The man wouldn't take his eyes off Veronica. He looked at her like she was his, like she was his runaway puppy. Speaking to her like she loved him instead of Mural.

"Who would insult us like this?" Mural pondered.

The butcher knife was tight in Mural's hand, sweat coating his palm as he readied to react to these insults. The man spat more vulgar words against Veronica that Mural couldn't comprehend, but he knew they were dishonest. He was prepared to guard his name, hoping it was still his to protect. The man's musket lowered and inched past the awning, raindrops bouncing off the metal barrel and bayonet, and the man aimed at Mural.

"You lied to me you bastard," Veronica snapped at the figure, "What would you know of love?

You only know of your own needs!" The figure on the porch cocked back the hammer on the musket. The air was wet; a misty rain began to fall. Veronica stepped closer to the gun and spoke to the man.

"Are you mad? Do not dare point that at me! I made a mistake that I am now rectifying. Stop this. At least keep your dignity. I will turn back to the man I love."

"Is that love?" The man pointed with his hand that was on the barrel, past his crooked nose and dangling blond hair, to the knife nestled in her estranged husband's hand.

Veronica's glance drooped to Mural's right hand and she recoiled from the sharp gleam of his knife that sparkled into sight. She gasped and screamed and jumped down the steps to avoid both men. A deafening roar snapped the momentary silence. Reflex made Mural wrap his fingers tighter around the knife as he crouched. He was primed to attack as a startling explosion spit fire from the porch. The musket's fires brought a bright dance of light that shone through the bleak rain. In mid escape, Veronica sprawled in the air as the smoke from the barrel spread out and curled around her neck. She was flung to the ground with a charred seeping hole in her back. Both men were left stunned. With little hesitation,

Mural leapt to her side and watched the back of her dress stain red. The shot still resonated between the raindrops. Mural took one look at the gaping bullet wound and knew it to be identical to the gash dug into his heart.

The knife was hard and anxious in Mural's hand, and the very same love that blazed in his eyes for his wife immediately morphed into fury for the man. His musket was a blurred sheen through the rain, but as the butcher knife persistently called for his blood, Mural's vision began to change again. The black and whites of his blindness swirled together with the rain and it all became gray; he could see straight through it all, right to the bright gleam of the gun. Mural looked down at his hand, his veins bloated with rage, and he stood. Mural knew the shot was meant for him, but the musket ball was in his wife. He had forgiven her only for her to die. Mural focused on the man, who, by means of protecting her, had instead killed her.

Approaching slowly, Mural watched the man pack his musket in vain. He knew the man hadn't the time to reload; Mural knew it all too well. The man's face grew familiar, features gradually turning into a visage he had seen only once before, but only needed to see once.

"Benjamin," Mural uttered. It was the man Veronica had left him for.

Benjamin's eyes filled with racing panic as he continued to jam the rod down the barrel, his blond hair shaking about his white face. He was on in years and that slowed him. All color drained from his cheeks as Mural's hulking body drew closer, looming like an eclipse, until he no longer looked like a black mass of long coat, but a man sizing up to an oak tree.

Gripping his butcher knife, staring Benjamin down with vengeful eyes, Mural swore to kill him. The rain seemed to unearth an ungodly stink as the water washed around the muck.

Mural's breath pushed out with the chill in the air and the puff dissipated just before Benjamin's snipe nose. He finished loading the musket and lugged it level with Mural's broad chest. The bayonet's tip pierced Mural's coat.

"You should've stabbed me."

"You sonovabitch," Benjamin said fumbling the musket.

The hammer seemed to hit down in slow motion as Mural's mammoth hand batted the barrel aside. The bullet blasted into a wooden support beam and propelled splinters in a shower around the men. Mural raised the knife amidst the chips of wood and slashed it down into Benjamin's arm. Splinters stabbed at both their faces and Benjamin bellowed into the night air as the blade cut deeper. While the knife ate through all his flesh, Mural smiled and pushed it down until the bone stopped him. The musket clanked on the porch and Benjamin continued to shriek, pressing out puffs of breath in a veil that surrounded his head.

In awful shock, Benjamin watched the colossal killer rip the knife out from his broken flesh like it was a stubborn weed, rupturing his arm in an explosion of blood. Swinging the blade back for momentum, Mural stabbed down again with blinding speed, landing it right into Benjamin's chest. The knife crunched and creaked past ribs and neatly punctured into his lungs. Mural smiled and lifted the impaled Benjamin off the ground. His broad body branched out in support as Benjamin dangled like a noose from his arm, raining blood onto the splinters scattered about the porch. A stretch of pink saliva suspended from Benjamin's lips as Mural shook the knife around within him to hear more cracks, forcing out fewer and fewer of his dying sputters.

"I've been saving this for you," Mural whispered in Benjamin's ear. "I've been waiting for so long. It all ends with you. You who has taken so much from me."

Realizing his knife had drunk its fill, Mural flung the carcass into the bushes in a crumpled mess of mud and blood. Benjamin's body was out of sight and Mural dropped his blade to the soil and raced to his wife. He hoped his eyes were deceived and his wife's flesh wasn't torn apart, that sorrow and terror hadn't swallowed her eyes into the abyss of death. Crumpling to one knee with his outstretched hands over her, his every fiber quivered as his fingers prayed that she was alive. He nudged a shuddering hand under her shoulder and flipped her limp body over, immediately seeing her frozen eyes rolled up into her head.

Burning out a cry from his sore throat, tears streamed down but seemed to evaporate before they reached his cheeks. All his rage was scalding behind his eyes, as the solemn moonlight floated down and beat steadily against his head. His wife became illuminated, framed by hard shadows, completely shaded in black, white, and a stark shade of gray. With head buried into her muddy breast, his thick shoulders heaved in a deep sob while the moonlight congregated around him and watched.

Chapter 9

Pain swirled around him until the moonlight was plush. It then peeled away from him, scurrying into the shadows like spiders down his back, neck, and shoulders.

Mural began to pray. He had almost forgotten how, it had been so long since it seemed pertinent, but it came back without flaw in his head. From his mouth, however, came mumbled sentences, forming nothing coherent on his tongue. His trembling lips forgot how to create words. His bumbling prayers nevertheless persisted until the moonlight ate at him like a fire. He turned to the sky, but only saw pitch-black clouds, outlined in thin white, without a moon to illuminate the sky. But the light still burned and pulsed, pleading for his attention, and Mural obeyed. He turned completely away from Veronica. The glow was strange.

Mural knew it to be blue from the shade. Confused and tired, Mural focused harder, hoping his eyes were wrong again, and saw a static leap about the light as it came closer. Eyes focusing better, he saw a ball of light holding steady in mid air dozens of feet away, at eye level. This ball of electricity was cupped, held by a figure in black, shrouded in dark with trenchant red eyes. The figure looked to be draped in ancient rags that weren't quite cloth. They were too dark, too immaterial and wavered almost like shadows. These silhouettes surrounding the figure seemed to obey the figure as well, heeling like dogs, as the bent and slithered closer to Mural. Alive with smooth movements, the robes spread out like leathery wings.

The blue ball was all that interested Mural at first, glowing so brightly that it was the only thing he could ever want to look at. He watched it fidget about the worn palm it was resting in, shedding its glow in a shield of light all around. Outlined in that blue radiance, the figure basked in that terrible and artificial splendor and spread fear with its piercing red eyes. Mural faced the newcomer and gazed like a child at the agile light as it bent about his chest.

Mural scoured his mind but not a thing he had ever known had resembled the oddity before him. Fascinated with the sphere, an enticing emission called to him in a whisper he couldn't ignore. The blue ball seemed to know whom Mural was and could tune into whatever frequency he could hear his whispers at.

"It's scared," Mural muttered, realizing what he was receiving.

Uncertainty, fear, and longing pulsed into Mural's head and it all came directly from the light. This orb is alive and sentient. It possessed a mass of feelings that bombarded his skull at excessive speeds. Mural grimaced at the onslaught of emotions, but never lost eye contact with the globe. He maintained a painful interest. One thing rang from the ball louder than any other feeling; its loneliness. The sphere's shivering increased and it almost shook out of the hand holding it. Along with beams of light, its incompleteness permeated Mural.

"It suffers, it's misplaced, it's far from home. It's horribly scared of the dark person holding it. Poor thing." Mural whispered, sympathizing with it.

"Not good," the robed man uttered in a raspy voice that boomed throughout Mural's entire being. Mural was confused.

The black robes danced around divergent to the wind, jiggling about like they were alive too and trying to escape the figure as well. Mural stared at the bleak display, allowing it to eat his attention whole. The orb began to calm down and whispered something again that he couldn't make out. All he knew was that it anticipated something.

"Where are your prayers now?" The stranger asked.

"Prayers?" Mural stuttered.

"Hold the light," it rumbled, "That was your answer and now it is your fate."

The words felt terribly accurate though they made little sense. Mural took that first whisper from the hill long ago and used it as he saw fit, not anticipating it came with a price.

"I do not see," Mural said and stepped into a mood of confidence.

"You must repay your debt."

"I have no debt."

The cloaked figure grew angry and the orb whispered warnings to Mural.

"But I do have an offer," Mural stated. He wasn't about to be obligated to this cloaked stranger, even though something in his mind felt the figure spoke the truth. This would be a fight. But Mural had fought for years against own his demons only to end up one himself, and since a chance of redemption seemed at hand, there was only one thing to do.

"Do continue," its tone peaked with curiosity, coupled with a strange sense of urgency.

That tone warned Mural, suggesting that the sinister man before him might be trying to deceive him, but Veronica hadn't deserved the musket ball in her back.

"Forgiveness," Mural said.

"Do you actually believe you know what that is any longer?"

"For her," Mural stated, his hulking frame sulking, pointing at Veronica's body.

The figure pondered with it's eyes over it's shoulder as if it was fleeing. The shadows shifted unnaturally around the silhouette's dreary robes, seemingly reaching for Mural. The movement fully unveiled the figure's blood red eyes. The skin around the figure's eyes was sunken, coarse and old, with wrinkles that webbed along charred flesh.

"Dear God, this thing is evil," Mural declared in his head.

The whispers from the orb finally pieced together in a vibrating mutter that shivered down Mural's spine. It's words came as an impression rather than a voice.

"Run," the blue orb pleaded, "Please run. He is a great deceiver."

Time seemed to speed up as this demon, yes a demon, began to speak.

"How do you plan to do this?" The demon asked.

"Allow her to live and I'll do what you ask. You're obviously here for me."

"What makes you think that? What makes you think I can do these outlandish things you ask?"

"I do not know what you are, but the sphere does, and it speaks to me. You come at this terrible time with such theatrics that you must have some influence. This is no coincidence."

"Well, at least you are right about the orb, it does tend to babble," the demon hoarsely chuckled.

Everything noble within Mural seemed to compile on his lips without any thought to himself. Mural began to feel human again.

"I will agree. Deal." The dark demon spoke so quickly that Mural got his second hint of a mistake. "Kneel," it ordered. Its blood red eyes ached, glaring deeply into Mural's eyes, "Time is of the essence."

Mural lowered his massive frame to his knees as the blue orb still quivered on the palm of the dark hand before him. Clouds of baleful cries poured from the sphere and pilfered Mural's psyche telling him that he was making a grave mistake, but his love for Veronica still clung and itched to exist.

The blue sphere shuttered so quickly that it appeared elliptical. Its screams were so loud in Mural's mind, he expected the whole city far behind him to wake. The shrieks gored his brain until the hand closed its fingers into a fist to contain the orb. The demon's forefinger and thumb came down and pinched Mural's nose shut. Blue light pierced out through the small gaps between the demon's fingers and shot off in heavy filaments, while the other hand waved with a curl of the fingers at Mural's gaping mouth, egging something out.

Subtle movements stirred deep within Mural, slowly turning into sluggish jerks, as something reluctantly woke inside him. With another beckon from the demon, this thing within Mural climbed from his chest, clenching sharply up his throat. It scrambled, one hold after another in ascent, until it finally crept from behind his tongue and leapt out of his mouth. Left dumbfounded, he watched a frail glob of light, a darker blue than the orb, shoot from his mouth to the open hand of the cloaked figure.

The demon balled up the object into its fist and placed it atop Veronica's mouth. Mural's liberated dark blue bubble sat wedged between her lips with the demon's fingertip nestled in the cleft above her upper lip. The blue entity wiggled in the divot between her violet lips until the stranger pressed its finger down. Its finger seared into her skin and burned down to the front of her teeth. Mural's dark blue ball sucked down into Veronica in a sick slurp.

Mural sat and watched, light-headed and dazed, as slivers of life gathered, causing shakes in her fingers and twitches in her legs. The demon's finger was pressed firmly on her lips when her body awakened as if she burst free from submersion. Veronica's eyes fluttered and color returned to her face, clinging loosely to her cheeks like it knew full well it wasn't supposed to be there.

Fastened to the ground with fatigue, Mural was lost in a feeling of incompleteness that spread throughout his body, and became more and more sorrowful of the cavernous space within him that used to harbor his soul. The demon removed its finger from her mouth and she slowly leaned up. A notch that was once her cleft, previously extending from the bottom of her nose to her upper lip, reached further down to her chin. Her lips were sealed shut. Veronica tried to speak, but only vague sounds sputtered out the sides of her mouth.

"A piece of your soul has been barricaded inside her. Your soul will sustain her."

Mural longed for his wife more passionately than ever. He watched and pitied her, knowing the curse she bore was rightfully his. She had a piece of him again.

"She will live, but not without my care. Now open your mouth."

Reluctantly, Mural opened his mouth and watched the demon's other hand open to expose the blue orb again. As soon as the orb felt the open air, it was forced into Mural's gaping mouth, crammed down into his chest. Anchored in a vacant place, the blue orb sifted around inside, searching for a niche. It snaked and wormed through Mural's soft innards, finally resting in the void of his fragmented soul.

Knees shaking in the mud, Mural pounded his fists against the ground, splashing clumps of grass and earth, reacting to the sensations slipping around inside him. The confusion grinding about his chest forced him into convulsions. Swarming like bees behind his ribs, the orb settled and secured a hold in his throat as well. A steady silence enveloped his consciousness as his senses stopped completely. The blue orb shifted and settled in his chest and sent pulses throughout his body, getting a feel for its new home as it clamped onto his shattered soul. Mural could feel it joining. It hooked on like a monkey in a tree, gripping tightly around two places to keep a hold. Those paws curled around his throat, forming a constant lump at the bottom of his neck. It bobbed as he swallowed, always threatening to choke him as he gulped. He coughed and hacked nonetheless, wanting with all his might, to spit up this awkward presence. The other paw gripped somewhere in his essence, an area that he knew to exist but never located. It clutched his emotions strangely, touching his heart and mind at the same time.

His compassion sank and his sorrow fixed on Veronica's sealed lips. The couple's sorrowful eyes met and teemed with tears. She stared at him curiously and immediately noticed a drastic change in her alienated husband and it showed in her eyes. Mural wasn't the same and would never be again. All she could do was watch.

Mural went pale. The convulsions assumed control of him as his blood turned to ice, slowly sliding through his veins. With teeth clattering and knees shaking, blue tints replaced the pink in his cheeks and nose, as all natural color left him. All heat sped from him and leaked into the night, escaping with his breath into the air in a gray cloud, puffing from his purple lips up into the hot air, condensing and hovering around him. He wrapped his long black coat tighter and felt no warmth as the constrictions of the deal he had made continued to suck the heat from him. The demon slithered over to Veronica.

"From now on my puppet, assuming that you wish to see her again...well, I'll put it simply, just stay alive. Enjoy the gift." It hissed and gently clutched Veronica's hand.

Mural watched as the demon lead her off over the dark horizon, her hand raised in a dreamy reach for her husband. Yearning to save her, Mural reached out as well, but that was all the movement he could muster. They stretched for each other until she disappeared into a haze of enveloping shadows that covered the demon's departure. With one last wave of her pink hand, she disappeared.

His search began after that night. A hunt that lasted for two hundred years. There were no expenses to be spared; she meant everything.

Chapter 10

Walking away from the night he lost his wife again, his entire purpose became darker than his previous murders could have ever whispered. For the first month Mural couldn't stomach much food; the lumpy blue orb, this gift, clogged his throat almost completely. Liquid proved to be the easiest substance to get past the gift. His life was bleak once again.

Veronica was gone for a second time, but this time she needed to be saved. He needed to recover his soul and her life. Love's return proved harder than its departure; everything human inside his chest beat for only her.

No matter how callow or abundant his emotions, the gift struggled with his feelings, taunting and influencing what happened inside him. It seemed to study his every notion and mimic his reactions, trying to fit in. After the gruesome night on the porch, all that was inside of Mural, everything he thought or did, felt as if he had little or no part in it.

If a feeling came to him, there was no way for him to be sure it was genuine.

Most of his sensations felt skewed or mangled by the gift. The stubborn feelings it radiated swayed him heavily for the first month. After a week it began to pity itself, constantly moaning in melancholy, yearning for its home, wherever that was. After two weeks, Mural struggled to find where it was stolen from. The gift began to resist him with such vigor and passion that he started to pity it. He wondered how to set it free. So alien was the feeling between them that the first time he sneezed, he kept his hand far away from his lips, hoping it would shoot out. But it burrowed deeper within him, further down than his past heartbreaks, and it rested in his guilt, sharing space with his shattered soul.

After a month, survival was trying in every aspect. Mural sat in his living room chair, shivering and shaking with each stir within him. An everlasting cold possessed him. His convulsions became uncontrollable and ice water seemed to have replaced his blood. Time stretched into oblivion as Mural stared into his fireplace at ashes he could identify with. He was banished, never wanting to walk the streets again, but he attempted it nevertheless. One day he ventured out. His hatred for solitude forced him to his front door, pushing out into the fresh air he'd missed for so long. He had walked no more than twenty yards when his body began to shiver uncontrollably. The sidewalk began to vibrate at first as he reached out for the brick wall to keep steady, but the wall shook as well. His weight quickly became too much to bear as he fell into the brick and slid down to the ground, quivering in the fetal position. Mural's arms and legs curled up into his chest and his fingers jittered. His head jolted up, stretching to the end of his neck like it was trying to run away. Mouth open wide, without trying to make a peep, a scream skipped past his mouth and leapt right into his head. He began to cry, coiled up within himself like a snake.

Then he abruptly stopped and went stone cold.

An onlooker with very acute vision would have seen a thin blue streak soar from his face. This beam shot away from him and left him lifeless. He became a pale, crumpled ball for a few seconds until the streak returned with the same speed it left. Mural woke with a jolt of a horse kick. His eyes fluttered vehemently trying to gain bearing on where he was, as if he himself had left. The alien mass in his chest grew heavy, resettled in its newest home, and left Mural confused. Weak and battered, he rose and hobbled home using the wall as a brace, feeling his way down the coarse brick towards his doorstep. While walking up the narrow stairs into his home, images began to pop into his head. A barrage of images slid before his eyes, playing out a violent show of murder, one he hadn't remembered committing. It was fragmented with settings and areas that he had never been to, with monuments that he recognized, but had never visited. As the flashes slowly became even more familiar, more intimate than deja vu to him, Mural caught a glimpse of what he had become. Unnerved with the loss of control, not because of the murder, but because that didn't remember committing it, Mural began to shake. He was losing his grip on the gift nestled in his chest, trying to decipher it from his actual memories.

Mural's maroon leather chair was the only place comfortable enough to keep his thoughts away from suicide. He would live to see Veronica again. Just the sheer thought of her with that venomous, thieving creature kept him from standing all day. He imagined the perverse pleasures the demon would wipe all over her body if he were to die. As the vivid visions of the gift inside him drove him towards death, thoughts of Veronica drove him toward life, but those red eyes, so deep and evil and devastating and bloody - that red could transcend his colorblindness. Red had always been able.

So he sat for a month.

Standing only when his stomach cried out for food, he would venture to the kitchen for some scraps, and hurry back to the chair to stay safe. The convulsions came with great frequency, bearing down like lightning - sharp and painful. On rare occasions, Mural would grow more used to the convulsions and attempt to walk around his house, trying to wean himself into old patterns, but the old whispers never came back and he felt alien in his own life. The gift eclipsed everything.

Time crawled. Thirty days had passed more like years.

Melancholy took him and, ironically, gave him his first familiar notion. Mural knew how he dealt with that before. And as soon as he thought it he found himself at a wash basin. Leaning over slowly he picked up a shaving blade and looked into the mirror at his shaggy face. His eyes were glazed and dull like a cows. His beard was thick and tangled. With trembling hands the blade pierced the tuft of curly brown hair that covered the point where his jaw line met his neck. The razor indented his skin and he thought, with trembling longing, of opening his throat and finishing what he started but stopped those short years ago on the hill. Yet, almost against his every urge, he slowly cut away his ragged beard. After shaving most his facial hair off, a convulsion took him. His hand shook the blade against his sandpaper cheek. The straight razor pressed against his jugular as the convulsions grew worse and blood ran along the blade's edge. His control diminished but his mind tried to lurch back to the day he sat on the hill, blade to his throat, ready to end it all over Veronica. But now, his wife was the safe driving force pushing in the opposite direction.

He had to live on to find Veronica. And that was that.

"God I wish I could see her."

Chapter 11

But it grew worse before it got better. Before Mural learned to adapt his life around his impairments, as long lasting men do, he was at their mercy.

Mural had deciphered the patterns of the gift winding around inside, predicting the times when he'd start convulsing by the amount of cold beneath this skin. As soon as goosebumps rose on his neck and arms, he visibly braced for the shakes. The physical effects could be handled easily enough; it was the other effects, the mental occurrences that gave him the worst troubles. It was the memories that rattled in his mind, ones that he swore were untrue, perhaps lived by the intrusive force within, that threatened his sanity and livelihood. The thin line between himself and the light he swallowed proved nearly nonexistent over these next thirty days. As did his identity. Mural felt, no knew he was an apparition of what he once was, slipping ever so slowly and easily into the daily routine the gift inside gave him - which was nothing more than eating some scraps, sparsely sleeping and enduring hours of indiscernible yet horribly haunting thoughts that latched onto and fed off his genuine memories like parasites.

Slumped in a chair that used to melt away his pains and worries, Mural sat on what felt like razors, staring into the fireplace, stirring no more than the layers of dust coating his entire house. He never wondered why his once great girth, now dangerously emaciated, had never perished. He should have rotted after two months and how great a release that would have been, yet, it seemed, he had forgotten how to die. His flesh and bone would have none of it. But, oh God, if he could only do so, oh how he wished he could, then the death in his head that had abandoned his body, would take him.

But it would not.

As if the light put inside him aimed to only torture, death was the only constant stream of thought screaming in his skull. The ends of countless and vague souls, lives he hadn't the slightest idea of who they were, paraded before his mind's eye with twisted and fearful deathly faces, spewing their woes at him in breaths of putrid decay.

It took Mural only one more afternoon beyond the first two months to become completely stolid to the horrors in his mind. They were nothing new anyway, once he truly began to see them. He had seen death, what was the fuss over? And, in truth, life was but a dream. A dream that merrily, merrily rowed further and further away from him each day. And he happily waved it goodbye. It was nothing more than a burden.

"What kind of life can be found in death anyway?" he asked to the air.

And in those lucid words came an answer that chilled his blood. Not cold out of fear but from the light inside him. He trembled and shook.

Images of murders played out for him as if it was a vivid recollection, but only in feelings and sensations. Nothing concrete was ascertainable by a single one of his five senses. These recollections weren't from the past, no, nothing seemed that familiar...except for a face. He saw a room, not the room in house where he sat, but an unfamiliar room before him in a manner such as a reverie, with blue wispy tints, yet he knew he was in the present. The normal flashes from the gift, with all its haunting ambiguity and doubts, showed him he was on the other side of town, on the border of Boston. A man lay before him in his deathbed, coughing out his final breaths in sick spats. It was so vivid, the man, the place...and the color. Oh God color! Now, blinding in its brilliance, all the blue in the world came to his eyes, as though his colorblindness stepped aside just for this single shade alone.

Fully immersed in the dream reality, Mural was drawn to this ailing man. He slowly walked to him, flatly placing his boots along a wooden floor that never creaked. The atmosphere was heavy, almost damp, tears mixing with humidity. Others paced along the floor as it moaned under them but Mural continued forward without a sound, feeling none of his weight. Whether it was his illness or terror, the man cringed as Mural closed in, shaking his feeble limbs in irritable gestures to ward Mural off.

The dying man's anxious family hovered all about the room, huddling around him and attempted to comfort his pathetic yelps, wailing and preparing for the inevitable. A young woman pleaded with him to calm; calling with such a love that Mural identified her as the man's wife. She must have worried that her husband had gone mad at the end.

A clumsy thought of reason plugged itself into Mural's rationale and he began to recognize the man. Yes, he was familiar and from his own past even.

No one in the room, save for the dying, could see Mural stroll up to him. The man's breaths grew panicked and he whispered strange words.

Reaching with strained, almost hungry fingers, Mural went to grab from the dying man what he knew was his. Mural watched the man's purple cracked lips tremble out a tantalizing puff that he innocuously caught as if he was expecting it, like a dog catching a ball. Among the hazy impressions and prodigious meanings, Mural watched his diaphanous blue hand open to reveal a blue ball. He saw it presently and as a memory. He saw it like he saw the ball stolen from his mouth by the cursed demon and, therefore, saw it for what it was. It hummed in his hand for a second, as if it applauded his recognition, then shot off into the dark corner of the wall.

Slowly the man's face settled and his eyes dulled. Mural studied him, barely remembering his features. The family surrounding them was fixed on the man lying in his deathbed, never noticing Mural in the slightest. And he couldn't help but smile. This man who lay dead before him was the man who dragged him through the streets, dangling from the noose, all those years ago. Mural licked his lips and tasted his own power. This was a gift indeed. Mural's melancholy lifted and he loved the gift.

"This is a far better purpose than the whispers ever provided," Mural thought, vowing then and there to follow the gift's internal guidance, which had to lead to Veronica, as well as to the occasional smiting of his enemies.

The final fluttering of the man's soul beat within his ears and Mural was forced to leave, not under his own power.

"I am the keeper again!" Mural exclaimed. "Wiping away the unholy...but this time I work with the direct purpose of Death itself."

He returned to his house and was revitalized. Time had passed as normal; it seemed that only a few seconds had elapsed. His smile grew larger and he, as if the last two months didn't occur, grew back into his old self. Murdering returned as his way of life and the means to keep things in place, only this time, it was not out of spite for his wife, but in her favor. His old role had suited him for years, but this was grandiose. Never once did he contest or complain, rather he became significantly caught up in his tasks, never thinking he would be bound for this.

The gift snapped him back into full alertness.

"This is amazing, how could someone like me be given this honor? Everyone that is and ever will be is now under my decision as to when they expire. I will retire all that I am commanded to and with each breath I take, I will come closer to Veronica."

Decades passed, but Mural did not age. His neighbors grew suspicious since he rarely left the house. Mural never visited the printing press that was passed to him when he was twenty, and his employees grew just as suspicious. So he sold the business at high profits and developed the habit of moving around the city whenever people's misgivings arose. The thought of leaving Boston never entered his head.

As more decades tore away, he was left the same, in feeling and appearance, as he was the night he lost Veronica. Mural's hair never ripened into gray or white and not a wrinkle dared to cross his skin, but beneath his face was cold solitude that only age can bring. Time elapsed, but the gift made the cycles smaller and tolerable even as his past friends and neighbors grew old and died, while he stay suspended in time, taking them to their demise. Everything around had an end except for him.

Everything would wilt, but he was outside the rotation of life and didn't have to pay its highest price.

But as people do, he began to question.

"I can't bear the notion of Veronica suffering as I lose myself in these excursions. Maybe I should refocus my ..."

Before his tongue could carry any more words, the gift stirred inside him. Confused and curious Mural egged the light within him on with questions, but it was never to speak to him. And he felt insulted.

"I've been played a fool, a patsy in some arcane game. I will not sit idly by and have no knowledge or control over Veronica's fate."

But he had no choice. He would experience only what his convulsions would allow, leaving his own self a shell yet again.

Mural watched the coming of the twentieth century. He had spent well over a hundred years obediently working for his unseen demon, all the while hoping for answers. Any vestige of his previous life was so old and desiccated that it was out of memory. Seasons and lifetimes blew past him as if they were the wind. He watched the winter of everyone's life pass and carried them from this life and knew that his own humanity had wilted and withered.

There was only one thing left to do when hope abandoned...he took up an old practice and prayed. He begged for an absolution to the only power left more powerful than his own and still received nothing. God had abandoned him so long ago he had forgotten the warmth of faith and knew only the frigidity of death. For a soul, if he could be that, with as few options as he had left, Mural stumbled across the only answer left to him.

"To Hell with Veronica, she was probably already there with the damned demon! Well over a hundred years had passed! What a fool I have been. She has to be long dead. So what is the point? I did this for her...and without her...what is the point?"

Unsure if he feared for his immortal shattered soul or if he just had to prepare so expertly, Mural took another thirty years, in which he felt every second, to concoct his ending. Time had very much been on his side, and as good allies always do, time and Mural worked together to compose a flawless conclusion.

Chapter 12

As the sun blushed and sank on a dusty evening during the worst economical crisis his country had seen, and one hundred and fifty years since he found the sword in the charred remains of his childhood home, Mural wandered out past Boston's city limits with a loaf of bread in his hand and a carnal need for closure. Just as the loaf did in front of him, the city from behind slowly disappeared from sight. The horizon held a mantle of winking stars and an invigorating new moon that sped his pace. Mural almost forgot what stars looked like; he hadn't seen their twinkle in years. The bright glow that emitted from both the city and the stars was enough to distract him from the light within. His neck remained craned skyward, remembering the city from over a hundred years ago, as he approached another town. Trees replaced the buildings and dirt roads overpowered the stone and cement in this new town he approached.

Life felt different to Mural this rural town, more alive, though ravaged by poverty and littered with pathetic beggars in food lines.

"They're all snakes, slithering into breadlines, waiting on their bellies, flickering their tongues out to feel for meals."

Little makeshift huts were crowded together in the outskirts as Mural passed through, maliciously chomping his bread in front of the starved. Just like the pathetic people back home, they all huddled together for heat. He scoffed at them as the last piece of bread slid down his throat, falling past the clenching gift.

Darkness loitered heavily as midnight drew near and he came upon what appeared to be the town's center. The scattered electric lights flickered as thunder heralded an abrupt storm, spurting down sharp rain and jagged lightning nearby. The unexpected storm caught many off guard and people scurried for shelter. Mural continued to stroll down the wide street that led to a circle of buildings. Before him a cobblestone road encircled a gazebo that gently rested in the middle of a patch of green grass, slick and matted from the rain. Men and women huddled under the gazebo's roof, sheltering their expensive clothes from the rain as the more ragged individuals made for the alleys. The well-to-do people underneath the gazebo laughed and joked with each other, blissfully touching and kissing, waving

hellos at companions hiding under an awning in front of a nearby theatre.

Mural relentlessly sloshed through the increasing rain that had already gathered into puddles along the cobblestone road. Trudging onto the wet grass, water logging his pants below his knees, he grew angry watching the laughing people ahead. The harder the rain fell, the more enraged Mural became and he began to pick up his pace. Surrounded by wet darkness

Mural focused in on the brightest light he could see, which was the glow from the theater, but he had to cut through the gazebo to get there. It was no matter though, the brightness drew him in; it fed his fervor and the malicious desires that bubbled up within him. He had found his spot.

One sybarite caught the blur of Mural speeding at them, and all the onlooker could do was utter a futile and mumbled plea as the massive body barreled towards him. The others didn't see Mural coming until he was right in the middle of the huddled mass under the gazebo. He shoved through them, ramming heads into the wooden supports with a callous push. One woman's head collided with the wooden support so hard that splinters burst all about, flashing Mural's memory back to Benjamin's missed blast on the porch so long ago. A lifetime ago. His anger built into an eternal rage that served him far past death.

The lady's head split open and she slid down leaving a red streak on the white post. Her eyes rolled up into her skull. Mural barely felt the convulsion that sent him to retrieve her soul and it was over within moments and his wrath was unbroken.

Once past the gazebo he broke into a sprint for the group huddled under the canopy in front of the theater. Running through the silver streaks of rain, his heart panted with the desires of thirst again. His butcher knife once again sang to him and gleamed. Several couples backed out from the canopy into the rain and ran from his assault, but five people stood still, dumbfounded under the awning, gazing at impending doom.

"And you'll do," he uttered in thirsty anticipation.

It took only moments to reacquaint himself with murdering with his own two hands again. Mural had put his knife aside for too long, but it sang with its old voice, beating in unison with his accelerated pulse. He hacked at the young adults, cutting into their dresses and suits. Their screams echoed about the town square and added to the harmony he heard. His wrist bent and swiveled nimbly. As the necks of the bystanders split open, the blue light inside him chimed in with sounds beautiful to his ears. Blood leapt freely into the open air and it was thick and blue to his eyes. In the blurred and methodical fury, Mural sliced their bodies apart. The knife conducted a murderous orchestra that filled his ears with joyous melodies. The blade sung along, pushing their talents, demanding perfection, until all but one of the bodies lay flat on the concrete. He left a young woman barely alive and kneeling before him. His shoulders settled and the frenzy was over - oh how time flies when you're having fun. Time and his glee settled though, as he peered into the girls eyes. They half pleaded and half accepted; she knew her death was upon her. Mural nodded to her and took one last spin, the black cloth of his coat flowing as his blade performed an encore, with one last ostentatious jab.

This was truly the finale to his symphony. His blade ripped into the girl's jugular and sprayed blood across his face and over the pristine white siding of the theatre walls. Mural smiled at his marking, thinking it to be his signature, before he was completely lost in his fantasy. Lost in the gift. Standing before a full ensemble of imaginary violins and horns, he lowered his bloody baton, maroon flesh slipping down the knife's edge, and bowed before the crowd. He felt spotlights of heat the back of his neck burning from dozens of eyes. All stood around him with mouths agape, some silent, some screaming.

"They're stunned! This must be how Beethoven felt!"

Mural's music played on in his mind as he relived the symphony through the gift, taking their souls and releasing them into the darkness.

"So nice I did it twice," he chuckled.

The police found Mural with his last victim's bloody head in his lap, her long blonde hair draped in matted clumps across his legs. Timidly, the authorities approached Mural as he ate from a discarded yet perfectly good bag of popcorn. His fingers were stained red and the popcorn between his fingers was pink. Covering the lapels and seeping in through a tear in the shoulder of his long black coat, blood stained draped him as much as the applause he heard in his head.

Wavering guns were drawn in shaky hands. Even light had to muster courage to come near Mural as he sat in shadows at the theater's entrance, lost in his creation, barely noticing the police close in.

"I can swallow better already," he exclaimed, munching on popcorn with a puerile glee to an officer ready to pistol whip him, "I will reunite with her in Hell!"

The surrounding mob of officers and civilians disarmed Mural and beat him into the blackness he yearned for.

PART TWO

Randy

Chapter 13

Sharp sunlight pounded down on Randy's window and seeped between his eyelids. He partially awoke, but fell back down to his pillow, feeling the remnants of his illness that left him unsure of where he was. The room, or wherever he was, spun, even with his eyes closed. Randy moaned and forced his eyes open, half fearing he was dead. He felt terrible enough to be.

His head pounded and the wan light was as bright as the sun to him. The light, seemingly noticing his condition, attempted another approach and moved through Randy's small room and onto his brothers' beds, illuminating only empty mattresses. They had to be out back, picking up the slack Randy left by getting ill. Yes, that was what happened. His bearings came back to him with a twang of guilt for not helping with the farm work. He had to help. Randy braced his weight on his teenaged knees and slowly climbed from bed and began to exit his room. With his head spinning and stomach churning, each step he forced forward became immeasurably harder to keep planted. The disorientation proved to be too much for his buckling knees and forced him to rest at the doorway between his room and the small living room. Randy waited for the pounding in his skull to subside, bracing under the whirlwind of nausea - and it felt just like a wind, like a gale, and it burrowed deep into him as a terrible omen.

He peaked through the back window to see if there was any activity. The walls seemed to close in around him and the entire wooden shack his family called home, creaked and moaned.

A broadcast crackled from a distant speaker. All Randy heard was "I am the lantern and you are the light." Confused even further, he took one step to investigate and stopped, deterred by his illness and the garbled halt of the broadcast. The whole family used to gather around that radio for an hour every night before mother had to get a job. Ever since then it had been silent. Something wasn't right.

Wind rattled against the windows and Randy realized that it wasn't morning. The rays of sun were not the blinding bit of dawn, but the remnants of the day dying, which meant that his family let him miss the entire day of work. Leaves shook free and branches flapped against the windowpane at increasing speeds, and beyond, a wall of black clouds frowned down.

Hobbling as fast as the nausea would let him, Randy passed by the dinner table to the backdoor, where he could look over the whole farm. Peaking through the plaid curtains that used to be the old tablecloth, he watched the small hills of grass bend horizontally under the wind. The vast land appeared twice as large and twice as green against the dark sky. Not a single sign of life though. Randy couldn't remember a time when this backyard didn't have some life in it - a random horse or cow, mallards creating some fuss on the pond, some stupid squirrel trying to muscle his way into the bird feeder. The only motion was created by the foreboding storm, continuing its haunting of the property.

He hobbled onto the porch, the harsh wood on his soles and creaking under his weight, and stumbled down the stairs to the lawn. The grass was soft and kind on his bare feet and the breeze, though stiff, was a cool relief on his heated forehead.

All the flat land was empty. Even the neighbor's lot a half-mile away was still. Randy spun around and looked at his house, lumped like driftwood in the middle of a waving green sea. This small sliver hadn't even the capacity to house his family, the little dump, but it's all about location with real estate. It, and his family, was set in the middle of the best soil in the area. The Earth was a wonderful constant, but Randy couldn't live the life of a farmer for much longer; he had to leave soon. He knew he would leave soon. He wondered how they would all manage to put a meal big enough for every child on the rickety dinner table every night with him gone. And that thought alone kept him home until he was forced out of there was no home to come to.

Turning his gaze over the backyard, he watched the crops swaying behind the barn, the refreshing smooth and cool breeze made him smile; the calm before the storm always soothed.

"The animals must be in the barn," Randy guessed aloud.

Bruno suddenly bolted from behind the splintered barn, barking and racing across the yard towards the pond. He was a stupid dog, but all the kids loved his playfulness. Bruno finished his streak with clumsy plunge into the water. His idiotic head floated above the water and he slowly paddling after a small patch of ducks floating in the middle of the pond. Of course, the thunderous clap of the dog's landing scared every duck off on the pond, but that never occurred to Bruno.

Another thunderous clap belted out from overhead and shook the windows behind him. Randy's baby sister Betsy yelped from inside. Her cry surprised him. He looked up at the black sky as a vein of lightning cursed through the brooding clouds. One more cry came from her room for 'Mommy!' He turned to go comfort her.

"Get in here Bruno, you dumb dog," Randy yelled, entering the house.

Bruno ignored him and continued to flop around in the water.

Betsy was sitting bolt upright in her bed, frightened but not crying. She never cried much. Safely smothered in her sheets, Randy watched her shake beneath the blanket, as he leaned lightly against the doorway like a phantom. The house was dark and what little light remained was in Betsy's eyes.

"I'm scared, Randy," Betsy said, her sweet blonde hair matted down all over her face. She untangled herself from the covers and ran to his side.

"It's all right sweetie," Randy said, petting her head. "It'll be a great storm to watch."

Together they walked hand in hand to the front of the dark house. The storm seemed to have stolen the sun. The rooms were splashed with intermittent darkness; the only lighting came from unpredictable lightning. Betsy squeezed Randy's hand with every flash as she half expected to see monsters in the crannies. They got to the front door and Randy struggled to open it. Together they both meekly poked out into the front lawn and their entire town was dark as sin. Thunder and lightning worked in unison. Lightning lit the horizon into a beautiful array of chaos and color, and the thunder clapped fear into their hearts.

With one sinister flash of light, clarification came and showed them the broken trees that lined the dirt road. Their neighbors scurried off down the path with their animals. Seconds later they were dark silhouettes with howling winds in their faces. Everything was out of place. Worry hardened and settled in both Betsy's and Randy's guts. It never left them.

"Where is everybody?" Betsy's sweet voice asked. "They should be back by now."

"I don't know, Betsy, but they'll be home soon. I'm sure of it."

The radio hissed and screamed out one more blurt and then trailed off as it died.

Chapter 14

Every bone in Randy's body shivered with the gale's omen. He sensed grief in his heart and let Betsy in on none of it.

"They must have been held up, sweetie. It's a long trip to the market, no matter what the weather."

Betsy pulled on Randy's pant leg with a wan smile her response and sat on the doorstep. Randy turned down to her with a smile. Watching storms together had been something they both enjoyed, though Randy had another intuition completely with this one. But Betsy had worked up her courage this time and her love for the colors and the sounds keep her watching, but only if he was around. Randy loved being so close to his little sister; it made him feel important in times where many people got lost in the mix.

The storm pounded harder towards them and thunder ran up the road. Wait, up the road?

A deafening roar rumbled the gravel as the sky raged out of control, dropping a black spout just over the horizon. Every cloud merged and savagely attacked the ground. The force pounded gaping craters and heaved anything and everything into the funnel cloud.

Randy instinctively pounced and scooped up Betsy in his arms, ready to run. The debris sped off in every direction through the air, swirling madly about like angry missiles. Barns half a mile away burst into red splinters and the scythes and plows within scurried around the sky. Everything that was supposed to be grounded was airborne.

Betsy clutched Randy's neck with each new thunderous boom that approached. He began to shake.

"Where are they? This isn't right," Randy questioned.

The longer the family was gone, the worse their chances of survival were. The entire world seemed to be toppling its contents on their town and it all headed straight for their house. Helpless and fearful, Randy's options quickly ran out until his father, mother, and two brothers raced into sight at full gallop. A crowd of stampeding horses followed right behind them in a rout of wild brown fear. Randy cradled Betsy tighter, reciting every prayer he could remember, as he watched his family try to out race the stampede.

The rush of horses kicked up dirt from one direction and the tornado did the same from the opposite. Randy could barely see both but knew, deep in his fearful heart that the two promised to collide.

Father yelled muted orders from the distance, but Randy couldn't move a bone in his body even if he heard. He frantically prayed, above Betsy's sweet smelling head, hastily speaking anything he could for his family to outrun the stampede before the oncoming twister beat them home.

More portions of the town lifted into the air, piece by piece, until everything that Randy had ever seen in his whole young life was ripped apart. The Williams' black Ford pickup blew into view, hovering in the air like a big black witch, growing closer and closer until it crash landed fifty yards away, spouting into flames. The explosion warmed his face. The model T split into pieces and rained shrapnel for miles, leaving a scorched block in the road. The blaze forced Randy's arm into action and they stuffed his petrified sister into the house. She immediately sneaked behind the big picture window and watched over Randy's shoulder. Their family was riding low, racing even harder to get to the house, all of them barely galloping ahead of the storm and the stampede.

"Stay put right there, Betsy, and keep your head down!"

She made no acknowledgement; she just stared. Randy stood by the door, waiting to let them all in the house. They had to do this precisely and together to make it. But the thought was a curse.

The twister barreled down and spit a terrible gust that knocked his brother John's horse off balance. The wind was insurmountable and he crashed into his mother's horse, sending them both into a trampled cloud of dust and twisted limbs. Randy reach out, it all happened so fast. Randy could barely see them topple and couldn't hear much over the clamor of the storm. But he did hear something close to screams as the horses following them stampeded over where they fell.

Randy closed his eyes and looked away, holding his head in his hands. Tears welled in his eyes and his blood burned with anger and despair. He tried not to look up but snuck a peak out of the corner of his eye and saw Betsy watching out of the window. Randy blinked away tears and turned to shout to his family.

Father and his oldest brother hadn't the slightest idea what had unfolded behind them and couldn't understand Randy's screams. Betsy watched all the horror from the window with tears in her eyes. The two remaining family members soared across the grass, racing towards the house as the black wall of clouds solidified into a dome over the entire sky. The entire world. It looked like Death had come for his entire family. More and more objects weightlessly populated the air: cars, barns, hay, and houses swirled about aimlessly. But something about them didn't look that aimless to Randy.

Father came into clear view and saw Randy yelling at him. Realizing that his son was agitated over something behind him, he turned his head to see that their numbers were cut in half. Father prepared to rear the horse around and go back for them when a nearby floating bale of hay burst and shot its thin yellow strands through the air like gunfire. Every horse became pincushions.

Randy leapt forward, cursing the world, God and everything to exist with a humble hand outstretched to help. He knew the shit in the air wasn't so goddamned aimless, he damn well knew they were gunning for his family. A hail of hay bullets grazed Randy's arm and stuck into the siding of the house. The blow knocked him against the doorframe.

Panic began to filter into Randy's mind. God was taking his family! With tears in his eyes and pain in his heart, Randy frantically pried out the deep hay bristles protruding from his injured arm and threw them away. He took one enraged step forward to face down this storm on his own, pain and fear lighting his heart aflame. But one step into bravery was all he was allowed.

The horses and remaining family members writhed under the same piercing hay bullets. Another gust that carried a pitchfork punched into the eldest brother's chest and rocketed off beyond the trees in a blink of an eye. Father screamed inaudibly when a gust plucked him from his horse and launched him into the front of his own house, nearly into the picture window.

The impact cracked the glass. Betsy huddled in tears. His body crumpled up like wadded paper against the wood paneling.

"Father!" Randy yelled from the doorway mere feet away, reaching out his bloody arm.

The old man was pressed flat by the gale, his tears the only thing in motion. Randy inched against the pressing wind, yelling louder as the storm grew angrier, drowning out all his cries. Father made no movements as the twister roared its way onto lawn, less than fifty yards away. Coming with it was the neighbor's barn, the largest barn in the county, and the wooden heap was aimed right at them. Another goddamned direct shot! Randy saw it coming and cursed it. The twister gusted at him in a high-pitched snicker. Randy swore he knew that was God laughing at him.

His father was ten feet away - just ten damned felt away. You already took the rest! Just leave me him, that's all I ask!

But there was no one to act on his pleas beyond himself. He had to reach him. He had to save his father. But it one moment all the weight of decision, the burden of choosing life for one and death for another met Randy with a flat and hard blow.

The barn came down.

Randy reached harder for his father, digging deep for any and all strength he might have while eyeballing the coming barn. Dammit! I can save him, too! Don't make me do this...

But, in a matter of a few seconds, as he heard his father's stiff and commanding voice in his head, Randy let his entire childhood die. He listened to reason and his parent and he realized which life he had to save.

"I'm sorry," Randy said, speaking kindly to his father and slid back to the door.

His father made no movements and heard nothing yet Randy swore there was a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

Pulling himself into the house, he grabbed Betsy by the back of her dress in mid-stride and darted out the back door for the only place he knew to go, the cellar. He couldn't allow any other thoughts beyond saving her or else he'd collapse into tears.

The sky was an ocean of undulating yellows and blacks as it swallowed all the trees lining the property. Holding his sister as he broke into the backyard, Randy raced to a pair of steel doors, ripped them open. Randy prayed that his Father wouldn't feel any pain.

Everything went quiet; the creak of the ancient cellar doors was all Randy could hear as he scrambled into the small crack he had opened.

Then the barn landed. It barreled down so fast Randy barely got the cellar door closed behind them. The two remaining remnants of his family tumbled down the cement stairs; Betsy balled under Randy's body, shielded from the hard cement stairs that crushed his kneecap. The world was truly ending above them. A freight train was rumbling through the house, tearing away the shack above them, along with their father.

The metal doors shook and heaved. The cement walls of the cellar looked so damned old they threatened to crumble. Every violent wind insisted on coming inside for them. It pounded and screamed for them, even roared their names Betsy swore. Death barreled down with all its might. Betsy whimpered and Randy held her tighter. His hatred had reached the highest point he could ever imagine. He'd be damned if this fucking storm was going to get the rest of them. No goddamned way! God wasn't going to get away with them all.

Crying in Randy's arms, Betsy pleaded for Mother.

"She only fell," she said, locked up in his unyielding grasp, "We have to go up there and save them."

"Shhh, Betsy. Just hold still."

The old rickety cellar doors banged harder against their hinges, wind screaming death from above. Randy raged back, screaming and cursing in the dampness, tearing mixing with rain, hating God for His hand in this. He would never forget this, especially with the new pulsing pain in his knee that wrenched into him a constant reminder.

A glacier of time passed over the cellar doors. Rain seeped in slowly and pelted their heads. Shivering in the dank cobwebbed prison, their pain slowly grew with each drop that soaked their hair and slid down their noses.

Hours after the twister had passed, Randy slowly uncurled and released Betsy. She fought him every inch, but he calmed her with kisses on the forehead and strokes through her hair. He limped to the cellar doors. They hadn't pounded for hours, but the outside would never feel safe again.

Randy heaved open the doors and into the dead calm he limped. He stood before wreckage that spanned all his comprehension. His world was gone.

Betsy carefully crept from behind and gently took his right hand. Softly and sweetly, big brother and little sister stood over the twisted pile of plywood that used to be their house. Hands locked together, both their eyes processing the proof of their old life's destruction, neither of them thought once to cry. They couldn't remember how to any more.

A yellow and purple sky broke through the black clouds, pushing beauty back into the picture. Their lean shadows spread out like bat wings across the tangled mountain of debris. Randy knew right then that they were alone.

Chapter 15

It had been years, a decade, maybe more, since God had orphaned Randy and Betsy. He hadn't been able to come back to the Midwest, let alone the lot where they used to live, but work was impossible to find and he, like millions of others, would do anything for a job. Roosevelt started the program and if the government could keep it going, Randy could stay with the WPA for a while, even if they had him come back home again.

After the blaring heat of a Tuesday, late in the afternoon after work, Randy hitched a ride in the back of a truck traveling to the next town, a mere mile away from where his youth and family died.

"Thanks," Randy said hopping out of the back of the truck.

The truck sped away. A dust cloud from the spinning tires enveloped him. The sky grew dark. The space around Randy closed in on his head. A pounding rumbled under his feet and in his ears. He spun around looking for horses, but only the sound came closer. He began to run. His muscles tensed and his eyes grew wild, but no matter how fast he ran, the dust cloud seemed to close in tighter, strangling him harder with every step he took. The thundering hooves were so near that his ears and eyes throbbed. Dust spun about, debris stabbed his skin and invaded his eyes, all twisting into a funnel around him. Falling to his knees and whimpering, he covered his head and cried for his mother and brothers, cursing God and his life. The sounds trampled on his heart. His family was dying again in his head. He saw bodies strewn along the fallen timber. Over and over his family tumbled and bled, crying out for Randy to save them, as their outstretched limbs fell to the dirt. The heavens screamed out and the world settled on his shoulders.

Then there was silence. Dead calm covered the land as pain pulsed in his right knee. His ears very slowly realized the rumble of a train rumbling in the distance. He slowly raised, knees crunching against the gravel, as he looked around for movement but saw none. Randy patted his body down and dust busted out all around. Running his hand through his dirty hair, Randy stood and jogged down the path towards his old home.

It was a beautiful evening. Warm colors splotched the sky resting between dark blue and black clouds, but all he could see was a hazy wall of a black storm approaching from the past. He knew this would happen, but Randy was a man, just turned twenty-three, and he had to face up to the dread. A decade had to be enough time to come back.

The wind shook the trees lining the dirt road. They were newly planted evergreens that replaced the lost maples, but there were a couple of old trees still mixed in the bunch; enduring and out of place like him and Betsy.

Randy pushed on, kicking up gravel as he strolled, until he reached their old lot. A new house proudly adorned the sea of grass. He questioned his memory, but recalled the distance and the landmarks. The two story chicken coop about a half-mile from their old house still squawked and spit feathers and the old buried wagon wheel at the intersection of their road still stirred memories of market trips. The smell of summer was the same but amplified; aromas that were once buried now flourished with life. Sparkles shone off the pond in the back, still visible from the road, as the setting sun behind it yawned. Almost everything was the same, including the brick houses and horse ranch across the street. Not much had changed, except for everything.

Randy stood dead still, heels on the road and toes in the grass, half-waiting for something to happen. The cool appeal of the grass shuffled his feet towards the house without his command and before he knew it, he was almost in front of his childhood home. The new residents had a bigger house than their old one, more of a home than a shack, but it still floated in the lake of grass, almost bobbing in the same spot laboriously. It sported a different color and style, but they still had a big picture window with a little blonde girl behind it. She gazed at Randy, scanning him up and down indifferently, wondering if he was just another transient. He wondered if she was even real. But she responded to his smile with a giggle and ran off with a wave.

That was all Randy needed to see to leave his past behind him. He headed back with his hands in his pockets, whistling and knowing he had to get a hold of Betsy. It had been too long since he last saw her, he had stayed away too long, but she and her husband had plenty on their minds with their third baby coming shortly. He made sure to be in Boston when she was wed at nineteen, and he would be damned if he was going to miss any more nephews or nieces. Someone had to be her family and wherever she was, was home.

Though he was envious of her family and steady life, that wasn't his course. He never wanted the responsibility; he needed to roam about and see the world, but settling for the nation as of late. He wanted to join the navy, but his bum knee stood in the way. Everything seemed to stand in the way. Every time a huge storm would come though, his knee ached and ceased to function properly, whether it was out of remembrance or actually physiology he couldn't know, but he couldn't help but think if the next storm was the one that would finally take him.

Randy walked back through the countryside and back to camp. The small clusters of temporary houses he and his fellow workers lived in were dark. Long shadows emerged from the bottoms of huge trees, jabbing across the fields like serrated teeth over his past. The moon was ghostly and illuminated a white object that grabbed Randy's attention.

He warily approached the white letter that sat snugly in his mail slot, curiously staring at it. Only Betsy knew his whereabouts and the letters she wrote appeared every Friday.

"Hell, she's practically the only person that knows I even exist."

Hurriedly tearing open the letter, he sat in the grass, ignoring all the poverty surrounding him as he unfolded the note.

Each time Betsy sent news she asked him to move into the old family house in Boston with her and her family, but Randy always refused, knowing his need to search for whatever it was that would stop the ache in his belly. There were just too many pains from the past to settle somewhere yet.

However, this letter brought bad news and it wasn't from Betsy - it was from her husband. He ripped open the letter and read.

'Randy, you must come immediately to Betsy's

side, she is not well. The doctors are skeptical

about her recovery and she has been calling your

name, awake and in her sleep, day and night.

Please come and ease her, and our troubled minds.'

After finishing the last line, he started running. Everything Randy owned jangled in his pockets. Tears swelled in his eyes and the pitch-black night swam around his vision, but he buried his fears and pains. He was determined to be with her.

He instinctively ran to the train tracks. Fortunately, a long freight train was slowly lugging itself eastbound. An actual stroke of luck hit him. One of the cars had a cargo door open and Randy sprinted for it. He grabbed onto a handhold and swung himself into the car. He was getting good at hopping trains.

Randy leaned against the doorway and watched for hours as Middle America gradually grew into the eastern seaboard. He managed only a few hours sleep between his worried thoughts before he reached his destination.

Chapter 16

In a field in the outskirts of Boston, Randy leapt from the train as it slowed, dusted himself off, and began to walk to the rest of the way. His thoughts had made him weary and his legs were rubber, but not a single pain penetrated his mind.

He walked, lost in his mind for hours and didn't hear, from the distance behind him, a pick-up truck come rumbling down the dirt road, kicking up dust and feathers from the bed full of chickens. Squawks arose and filled the dawn air. Randy finally heard and stepped off to the side of the path, flagging down the driver. The truck slowed to a stop. The door clanked open and the barrel of a shotgun marched out followed by a short, stocky man. The driver was dressed in overalls with a bandana tied around his head and a mischievous smile smeared across his face.

"Whatcha want here?" his toad of a man croaked.

"Looking for a lift. Could you help?" Randy answered.

"How do I know you ain't some nut, huh? Dar's been folks wanderin' about these parts lookin fer work on account der aint none much udder places," the squat untrusting man spat.

"Look, I got a letter ..." Randy reached into his pocket.

"Hold it right dar, mister."

The shotgun leveled at Randy's head with a sweaty short finger on the trigger, raring to get a shot off.

"It's just a letter. My sister needs me, I've got to see her and it's not far." Randy reached down further in his pocket and started to pull the letter out.

"No one gets the best of me or my property!" The shotgun whipped around and the wooden butt crashed down on Randy's brow, opening a deep wound between his eyes. Randy plummeted into a patch of sharp weeds. Struggling to stay awake, head swimming in circles, his eyes couldn't focus beyond the swirling darkness. Randy felt a patting and rummaging through his pockets as the driver fondled Randy's possessions, taking a few things and placing them in his own pocket. The man climbed back into his truck and started it with a loud grumble and tore down the road.

Coughing and spitting as he leaned up, Randy put his hand to his forehead. Blood stung and pooled in the corners of his eyes, clumped on his lashes. Randy reached into his pockets for his sweat rag, but as he dug he found nothing but the bottom.

Cursing, he braced himself with one hand and ripped at his sleeve, awkwardly tearing off a strip off his tattered old shirt. His eyes couldn't focus and his head pounded as he folded the fabric into a bandage. He carefully tightened it around his skull, but it dangled nevertheless, slightly covering the tops of his eyes. Awkwardly climbing to his feet, he stumbled around the side of the road searching for something to use as a cane. His knee began to ache so much that walking became difficult. After finding a broken tree limb, Randy hobbled on top of it and cursed, following the fresh tire treads over the horizon toward the town on the outskirts of Boston.

The tire treads ended on the cobblestone streets of the small town square that looped around a gazebo. The entire center was flourishing with life and flowers. The lawn in the center of the square was crowded with chickens and surrounded by small quaint shops that lined this bustling emporium. Trucks and horses stood restlessly before the shops. A few citizens lumbered about in overalls with their wives at their sides in ratty dresses, but the vast majority of people were copiously adorned with suits and jewelry, purses bulging with wealth they didn't care to hide. Randy never knew this to exist. This strange trading post exempt from time had money that wasn't lost in '29, and they flaunted it. People strolled about as if the nation outside this cobblestone cage wasn't destitute.

A couple passed by Randy and sneered, then continued around the square, happily carrying themselves like debutantes to a ball. He looked over himself, crusted in blood and sweat, ashamed of his appearance, but then remembered why he was there.

Randy forged forward through the morning heat, blood and sweat stinging his eyes as his makeshift bandage sagged. The heat beat down on his head and he grew woozy. He limped on his cane to the gazebo at the center. Randy's ears pounded as more chatter filled the air. His heart steadily pumped hatred that poisoned his bloodstream as his eyes darted around and cut through the atmosphere to see the short toad man in overalls with his shotgun. Surprisingly, he was tough to find in a crowd of suits and gowns, but Randy could follow the sweaty smell the short man emitted and found him busy rummaging in the passenger side of the cab of his truck as Randy strolled up.

"Sonvabitch, what I'd do wid ..."The fat man pulled his head up to see Randy glaring through bloodied eyes at him.

Leaning against the truck casually, Randy lifted his crooked branch level to the brow of the man who robbed him.

"Give me back what's mine," Randy stated coldly.

"Jeeesus, you sonvabitch," the man yelled out, falling backwards and landing on the ground.

Randy stood over the man, his cane's point just inches from his head.

"Give it all back," Randy snapped and dug the bottom of the branch into the man's forehead,

"Or I'll take it back."

"Alright. Fine." The toad man said, looking at Randy and seeing his true size now that he lay without the enlarging spell of his shotgun.

The man pulled out what wasn't his and handed it to Randy. "It ...it's all in the envelope with your letter."

"I don't know who the hell you think you are," Randy started as he checked for his feeble amount of money, "But you're not so tough without your gun."

Randy slipped the envelope into his pocket and walked away, but the rage still pumped in his veins. He raged for payback. His emotions took hold of him and he turned around quickly. Randy whipped the cane across the short man's face, digging a red cut across his forehead. It only seemed fair. An eye for an eye.

The toad man fell to the ground cradling his head in his hands. Randy limped away satisfied.

Stepping off the grass and onto the sidewalk, he looked beyond the square with the hope of seeing Betsy soon, when the man yelled out in a broken voice, "That bastard robbed me!"

Randy turned his head and saw a crowd of people standing around the toad in overalls, gawking. Several ran to get the police; the rest huddled behind the short man, as he hobbled heavily up to Randy with his shotgun again.

"You wanna know who I am? You wanna know?!" He barked as he lifted his gun in the air.

"I'm the wrong fella to mess wid you sonvabitch!"

Randy was poised to retaliate when he was grabbed from behind. He struggled against many hands gripping his shirt, while others latched onto his arms. Randy's eyes bulged and rage burst from his veins, foaming throughout his entire body. He kicked his legs and heaved his arms, pushing his chest forward to pull free, but almost a dozen men had him pinned. And with a kick to the back of Randy's bad knee, he squarely crashed down to the grass.

The toad man lumbered up to Randy and rummaged through his pockets again, smiling a dirty grin until his sticky paws found the letter from Betsy. Pulling it out and gazing at it like it was a golden egg from a goose he stole, he triumphantly held it out over Randy's head.

"Boy, yar no one. Ya know that?" The man said as he rested his shotgun against his leg, pulling a lighter from his pocket. The lighter flipped open and the clanking metal rang in Randy's ears as a ball of flame leapt onto his letter, scorching his only link to his family.

Randy lashed out in a blind rage, but the only blow landed was the butt of the shotgun slamming on his head again. His wound split open even further and knocked him unconscious.

Chapter 17

Randy's head swam in black for some time. Slowly prying his eyes open, a piebald haze speckled around him as he tried to get up off an unfamiliar yet comfortable mattress, but he hadn't the strength to rise.

Every feature on his face pounded. He caressed his brow while his eyes looked past the dancing spots and he found himself crumpled on a prison bed.

He hadn't the slightest idea how long he had been there, but he knew his will had been drained. Betsy's image swam in his mind and begged him to stay and rest. He wanted to jump up and go save her, but she wouldn't let him and his body was too weak and bruised. He would fight his imprisonment, but never her. He figured that at least he wouldn't be scrounging around the outside for food or standing in bread lines.

His first night was a sleepless nightmare. Inmates blurted out slurs and taunts, betting on his survival. Their chatter rose to shouts as they all pounded on the iron bars screaming 'little fish, little fish.'

"You've got too pretty of an ass to be sitting on it, new fish!"

Shouts surrounded his head and bounced between his ears like every convict in the prison was in his head, pounding his skull. The grime of harsh reality painted its first layer over Randy his first night. It was like being covered in pure fear, and every time Randy tried to wipe it away, it soaked deeper, pushing him closer to his breaking point. But he couldn't crumble. He had to see Betsy, and he still had his pride.

That pride brought him to his first caged morning and many more to follow, bringing with it idle time. He read the Bible and Herman Melville, keeping his mind occupied and away from the plagued world outside. He kept his thoughts with his sister. He whiled away the hours doing push-ups and reading.

His trial was a joke and he became like a fixture more than a man and forgotten just as easily, save for the men responsible for it. Weeks passed him by as the prison population dropped by half. More and more men that Randy got to know were released before him. As more time lugged on, he turned into a watch bird. Stuffed in the first cell of the prison, he conversed with just about everyone that came and went, assimilating information to trade to guards for information about Betsy. But he never heard a thing about her.

One late summer night, three months after he arrived, the routine Randy had grown accustomed to shattered, and from what he ascertained, the town outside suffered a similar blow. It was raining hard as the lightning snuggled up close to his cell window. Randy peered out the barred porthole at the lands and watched the puddles run towards the jail. The light bulbs flickered into a strobe, barely illuminating the dingy corners of his cell as the wind cut through him, chilling him to the bone. The familiar muggy air vanished and was replaced by dead calm.

Flashes of the tornado destroying his family popped into his memory. Chatter rose from the long row of prison cells, slowly growing in volume as the lightning came closer. From outside, nature hollered, and, from inside, every inmate roared as they all watched a half dozen guards wrestle a man into the prison. A man Randy would never forget.

A few more guards piled on the heap of uniformed bodies and Randy noticed the prisoner wasn't even struggling. The barrage of officers tried to move him but he had planted roots deep into the floor. One officer came from the back of the pile and stood before Randy's cell, wrestling with his keys as he tried to open the door.

"What ...why here? There's an open cell in the middle of the row," Randy complained as he rose from his cot.

"Does it look like we can get him that far? Shaddup and stay there!" The guard panted in his thick accent.

The mob moved in front of the cell and the convict they dragged emerged from the shadows, for they were the only thing long enough to hide his height. The pile of officers stood behind the colossal yet placid man and on the count of three, heaved him with all their combined might into the cell. The convict stumbled a few steps forward. Keys jingled and the guards scurried like rats to close the door, leaving Randy alone with the mammoth man. Randy stood dumbfounded and the only thing he could was assess the convict's hulking mass. Everything about him was square and angular. Box-like muscles protruded quietly from beneath his decayed long black coat. It and the shirt beneath looked older and more worn than time. This convict's hard shoulders, angular jaw, and towering height were frightening. His massive hands were the size of Randy's head. His whole body seemed powerfully angled in right degrees, everything, was sharp and menacing except for his eyes. With wan complexion and round stone eyes, the convict glowed white in the bleak cell. His eyes sat limply in his skull, bulging without a blink, staring through the wall of the cell. Randy turned to see what the colossus was staring at, half expecting to see small burn holes in the cement.

"Not much for talking?" Randy asked in a trembling voice.

The man uprooted and stomped his way to the opposite bunk. The sudden movement made Randy flinch. His new cellmate stretched out and lay down on his back with his hands locked together.

Not a sound was uttered, even the wind stopped. No malicious taunts were slung at the new fish, just silence, as everyone in the prison held his breath. Slowly and carefully, Randy backed up and fell onto his cot, keeping a peeled eye on his cellmate, not sleeping a wink.

Morning slowly broke after stretching on for an eternity, and the guards yelled down the corridor for roll call. Randy sluggishly turned out of bed after scrutinizing every twitch his companion made and stood outside his cell. All the other inmates lined up outside their cells, except for the new convict. The guards rushed in to see him standing next to his cot, staring off into oblivion, with his round eyes jittering and his body twitching. Wasting no time, the guards pounded on every square inch of his nearly seven-foot body, but he didn't even wince, he just convulsed. The guards swiftly tired, so one of them had the idea to strike a hard blow to the back of the convict's knees, stealing his balance.

His collapse was immense and Randy swore he felt the cement shake outside his cell as the giant landed. The convict convulsions lessened and he was as still as a chalk outline.

The rest of the day continued as normal until more new fish arrived. Watching the parade of buses barrel down the dirt road to the prison gates, the inmates linked to the fence, shouting their taunts and bets. Body odor and stale breath filled the air around Randy.

"Dat's da most I've ever seen."

"Shit, dat's half a years worth."

"Der's not dat much room in here."

"It's getting worse."

Randy absorbed the banal prattle and agreed. It was like a levee of criminals broke.

"Hey Randy, what da newy like? Seems hard."

"He just sits there. Strange fella. I'd swear he's a statue if I couldn't hear his breathing."

Randy strolled away from the fence and over to a guard.

"What's going on, Ken?" Randy asked, "How long is the statue stuck with me?"

"You've seen the pile-up we're now getting and things are only getting worse, so you'll only be stuck with him for a day or so more." The guard straightened his posture. "He slipped through the cracks. His execution might be as early as tomorrow night. I don't know how, so don't ask, just be thankful."

"Why be thankful?" Randy asked.

"They found him with a group of murdered kids, eating popcorn. Rumor has it that there's been countless more. Hey, remember that I'm only telling you this for your own good. Just keep an eye open like normal. You may even get out of here."

Randy lit up but the guard only continued.

67

"He's a nasty case so he'll be gone as soon as possible. We'll oblige. It's easy, too. They're takin' advantage of the situation while the public's got their jobs to worry about."

"Thanks, Kenny." Randy slipped him some cigarettes, "Anything on Betsy?"

The guard shook his head.

Chapter 18

Randy paced about the dirt, thinking about his trial and wondered if it compared to the other prisoners' trials. The case was cut and dry to the jury and to the courtroom. All agreed to make an example of him and decided on the swiftest and longest punishment, ensuring that no one corrupted the sanctity of their society. Everyone, including Randy's public defendant, participated in the frame-up.

But Randy was just glad that Betsy was in Boston. No matter how tough those years of living from orphanage to orphanage had been, it was better than living among this crop of fools.

Randy kicked dirt around the yard until every inmate headed back his cell. When he returned, he saw his cellmate standing next to his cot again, breathing heavily, looking like he hadn't moved an inch since morning.

Randy read the day away until lights out. He put the book under his bed and breathed a sigh of relief knowing that his cellmate might be gone tomorrow.

Randy couldn't sleep for the second night in a row, troubled by the monster just a few feet away. His stare was worrisome, like he knew something that Randy didn't. His bed moaned under his restless mass. A lupine groan seeped past his lips as he looked at Randy. Dread percolated in Randy's eyes. The hulk was planning something.

"I'm coming Veronica," the convict said at nearly a whisper. "Just one last loose end to tie."

His words shook the room. Randy slowly turned and looked at the hulk. His bleach white eyes cut the air with a gaze that was heavier than stone. Their gazes locked and froze Randy and just as quick as it began, the convict closed his eyes and turned his back.

Randy's brain seized and his heartbeat and breathing fell flat. Roll call was the only sound that stirred him and he floated like a tired ghost through the motions of a normal day as best he could, trying not to think about the coming night. Two days worth of lost sleep threatened to take him at any moment. He instead thought of seeing Betsy again.

When they were let out into the yard, Randy went straight for a guard to ask about his cellmate's impending execution.

"Is he going to the chair?" Randy asked.

The guard nodded and Randy handed him a small bundle of payment.

Night quickly came and found Randy sitting on his bed, eyes fixed on his enormous cellmate, alert and ready for anything his fatigued body could have thrown at it. The man did the same in return, except he was convulsing. He looked like he was having a religious experience, or about to swallow his tongue.

"He knows he's going to die. It's in his ugly eyes. Oh God what is he going to do to me?"

Randy panicked.

As his fit died out, an almost puerile smirk wiped across the convict's teeth, and Randy's stomach filled with cement. Innocent commotion echoed from down the hall, and Randy hoped it was the guards coming with a priest to drag him to his eternity. If that was them, he would be safe again.

The Goliath sat across from him Indian-style and mumbling. Randy's spine straightened. The convict wrung his hands and glared down. Sweat hung on Randy's lashes, dripping in front of his eyes. The corpulent glob dangling from his eyelash interfered with his concentration, and he wiped it away, fixing again on the convict.

But he was gone. A blur was in his place and Randy looked up to see him sprawled out in a leap. The giant was airborne for a second before he landed with a massive thud that cracked bedsprings and pinned Randy down against them. Huge hands closed in over Randy as the convict's fingers spread out like netting. The pinning pressure stole his breath and Randy couldn't even think about breathing.

The convict crashed a dirty cracked hand over Randy's mouth, clamping down on it like a vice. Randy's mind raced and he tried to scream, but nothing escaped his tightly covered mouth. He wished he could move his arms and legs, but he couldn't even feel them. They strained to beat on the hulking convict with all their might. Randy went limp and tried a different approach. He tried to squirm loose but the convict adjusted and just applied more pressure.

Every futile attempt at freedom was shed off until the massive hand moved away from Randy's mouth. Randy gasped, greedily grabbing in air, ready to hurl out a scream with his exhale, but the convict's mouth came crashing down onto his.

Terrified and bewildered by the unexpected kiss, Randy thrashed about, his limbs finally responding to his commands, but he couldn't break free. It was like a building had fallen on him. The convict took his pointer finger and thumb and pinched Randy's nose shut. His mind raced even faster as he prayed the guards would burst in and save him. He tried to conserve what air was left within his lungs and he prayed that he would live, had to live to see Betsy again. After this night, living was a curse he wished he never wished for.

With his nostrils pinched shut, his air supply and pulse shallow, Randy clenched every muscle he had left to strike out in one last violent shot. Instead, the convict seemed to predict his move and responded by shooting a gust of breath down Randy's throat. The long breath emptied the hulk's lungs and soul. A gale, no different, even worse than the wind of the tornado rushed into him, shaking him with shivers of pain, terror and cold. Ice seemed to form and crystallize throughout his body, stinging inside his veins, chilling every muscle fiber and freezing his organs. Frigid grips clung to his chest and climbed up his throat clinging like a tongue to a frozen pole. Whatever blew inside him began to pulse and breathe and struggle for a foothold, vying for power over everything alive inside Randy.

His internal workings felt instantly rewired. Nerves and fibers severed and reattached in new ways, shocking his system. His heart pounded irregularly, and he tasted sulfur in his mouth. It was as if he was pure ice and his clammy fingers pumped frozen blood yet his skin felt ablaze and his mouth ready to vomit fire.

A faint blue glow emanated from between their faces. It grew brighter. Randy's ears began to attune to faint yells that rattled in his ears, coming from the guards at his cell door as they fumbled with keys.

A cold calm settled over his senses and everything was muffled. Randy could hear nothing beyond the echoing phrase from the convict as his words haunted all the nights of the rest of his life.

"Have the gift."

The guards entered and ripped the pair apart without hassle. Smothered under the officers, the giant burst into laughter, not putting up any resistance as he was shoved out of the cell. The heels of his boots squeaked along the polished floor as they dragged him away. Randy didn't understand but it felt like someone had cut an umbilical cord. Randy frantically reached for the convict, stretching out for an explanation that he wouldn't receive.

The air turned deathly quiet as the man's muffled echoes of laughter and the squeak of his shoes, dissipated down the hall.

Seconds crawled into minutes and still Randy couldn't budge. His chest and head felt like stone. Randy was entranced and could do nothing but stare out of his cell. Somehow, he could still see the convict. It was like a vague, shadowy impression, but Randy could see and feel the guards strap the convict into the electric chair. He could see the convict smirking as they placed the wet sponge on his head and feel the water drip down his face.

In the hushed prison, even the simple unavoidable noises were impeded.

No-one coughed or shuffled, no crickets chirped, no wind blew. The same haunting silence hung around the execution chamber. Randy held his breath and witnessed the guards rattle off the convict's judgment. His lungs felt like caving in until the silence was frightfully broken with a roar. It was a deafening scream from the massive convict that quickly turned into laughter. It hit Randy's ears like a brick shattering a window in the middle of church. Nothing felt right; even the air tasted wrong.

Then reality shifted into a blue spectrum and Randy could feel himself outside his cell. He recognized Ken standing in front the convict reciting condemning lines to him. Every other guard watched the clock and eagerly anticipated both of its hands to connect on midnight. The convict simply chuckled some more and licked his lips happily like he was tasting freedom.

The lights in the prison dimmed as electricity was passed into the convict's restrained body. Ken stood watch.

Strange vibrations blurred Randy's vision and shook him awake. Randy blinked and rubbed his eyes, unsure of his experiences and why the world had seemed so blue before. He sniffed and noticed a stench. He could taste it; the sulfur stink was thick and palpable. Randy could never forget that smell.

Chapter 19

After that night the color of the world looked different, almost blue. Randy couldn't ascertain much about what the convict did to him and what he put inside him. It was just a kiss, the strangest and worst thing he experienced, but just a nasty kiss. So why was he cold all the time?

Why was he relentlessly freezing and shivering in his cell like he was in the Artic and spending most his time under the covers of his cot, rolled up in a ball for warmth?

But the worst of it was the missing time. He would blank out for minutes at a time, every day, only waking a short time later with memories of new places. And those memories were soaked with pain. Days became unbearable, as he couldn't shake an undeniable and untraceable depression. Every time he searched for the source of his melancholy, it seemed to sense Randy's persecutions and fled deeper inside him. The battle with his depression and the strange feelings and memories inside him, consumed Randy and often left him in a comatose stupor. No one came near him, some fearing he was contagious and others fearing he was possessed. The drabness of his cell was the only scenery he saw for months as Randy battled with his spasms. As inmates and guards walked by him, they gazed in-between the bars, some waiting for improvement, some waiting for evil, all waiting for a change in the expression on his face to be something other than frozen hatred.

Randy's sanity quickly began to slip. With every one of his spasms, there was something else that seemed to accompany him. All he could figure was that with each convulsion, his consciousness was whisked away, leaving him with random foreign images. And the trips felt so real.

Nightmares constantly plagued his days and nights forcing him into sleeplessness. The only way Randy found to keep even the slightest hold on his sanity was to deny everything that happened to him, playing his problems off as some constant malfunction of his brain. The more he pushed the visions and the convulsions away, the more day-to-day life became bearable.

The essence that had pervaded his chest often paced about it, bumping into his soul, like it was casing the cell it was trapped in. But when it stopped, it sat like a lump as heavy as stone. Over time it stretched up and wrapped around his throat with a vice grip, making food hard to swallow and breathing difficult. Between the clamping points of his chest and throat, a mysterious flow of loneliness pulsed in cold waves that Randy understood. He craved his family, and the entity inside him felt the same for its own, whatever that was, but had no one left other than Randy. Sharing the common goal of yearning for home, Randy decided they would reach that goal. The second he made this pact, he felt unholy, and that made it all the more appealing. If God was going to forsake him like this, than who was Randy to deny his fate?

Almost everything he loved was stolen from him anyway and this was the only way left to get back the one last thread of his life. Randy had to get out and to Betsy.

Word spread like wildfire around the prison about Randy's insanity, and all the officials decided he had to go. Ever since he rejoined the population, conversations and contracts were made to kill him, but not a one could be carried out. Not a soul in the prison wanted to risk their spirit trying to take his.

On a gloomy late summer day, over a year after he had arrived, he was out in the yard stumbling around, talking to himself, stopping after every convulsion to yell at the sky. After every cry he felt satisfied, and the other inmates backed away. His eyes zeroed in on a random guard along the fence. No one, not even Randy, knew what was transpiring as he approached Ken. Randy poked his finger rigidly against the guard's uniformed shoulder. Officer Ken turned to see Randy suck his lips in under his teeth. The black bags beneath Randy's eyes were deep enough to be fissures.

Randy yanked on his own greasy hair, violently ripping out clumps and dropping them to the dirt. Then his hand moved down to his chest.

"What the hell?" Ken stepped back.

"It's in here," Randy said grabbing and scraping at his chest, "I can't get it out but it's here!"

"G-Get back."

Randy grabbed the guard's hand before he could draw the baton, "Help me get it out dammit!"

"Get the hell away ..."

Randy's right hand sunk beneath his denim shirt and dug at his skin, busting buttons into the air. Randy held Ken's hand beneath his own and stared into his eyes. The guard's eyes gorged open as Randy, holding Ken's hand to his own chest, forced them both to tear into

Randy's skin. Blood pooled around both their fingernails as flesh tore away. Ken kicked and yelled, but Randy held him closer, hearing and feeling nothing outside his head and chest. Other guards emerged from behind Randy in a gloomy fog of shouts and rifles. Nausea climbed into Ken's throat and his head swam. Randy forced Ken's fingernails deep into his skin until Ken's nails scraped Randy's sternum.

"Help me," Randy pleaded teary eyed as he forced them to curl their fingers around a bloody slice of flesh and tear it off. Ken shuddered and fainted.

Guards tore Randy away and pummeled him senseless, leaving the strip of Randy's flesh in Ken's hand as they carried him away.

Chapter 20

Randy became a violent anomaly. A decision was quickly implemented that sent him to the sanitarium wing of the prison were the nights were coated with screams.

Randy wasted away there. Among the madmen, constant howls drowned his convulsions and screams, as he became lost in his arcane mind. Denial soon followed, leaving him standing next to his bed in a stupor, no longer a threat to himself, just to everyone else. When the hunger pangs were overwhelming and the previous day's rations had already rotted, Randy carefully crammed food past his lips, hoping to swallow enough for him and the gift to live off of. He barely lived.

His eyes had aged beyond his years, but his body had not. Other than his eyes, it appeared that age had abandoned him. The years spent in the sanitarium starved his body of hope and stretched on as one long night. Calluses hardened over his senses and dulled his concerns as he felt none of times effects.

On his last night in the sanitarium, far beyond the telling of time and known only because he was forced into it, Randy felt the first reverberations of life in ages. The air shook painfully in his ears and warmth tickled his flesh.

Then it hit. That was all his warning. His existence, for that was what it was, far from life, shook from its catatonic stupor with a huge explosion that shook the atmosphere and sprinkled dust from the ceiling. The mote sparkled in the moonlight and fell on his hair.

The jarring blast ripped through Randy's wing, tearing off the front of every cell down his block and engulfing the patients. The inferno was instant and surprising. Brick crumbled and wood burned. The few inmates that survived smelled freedom and danced around the conflagration. Panic immediately gripped the sanitarium.

Randy didn't budge an inch during or after the explosion.

Small bursts of flames lit his cold eyes and singed his beard. The heat barreled down his cellblock, devouring everything but never invading his cell. Inmates ran by, pounding on the shattered wall that was left in front of him, until billowing smoke chased them away. The gaping hole before him that used to be his cell door sang to him to run, but his feet wouldn't respond. His escape route was laid out before him, but the chilling wind that flowed through froze him solid and took him to the familiarly haunted destinations he knew all too well.

He was drenched in sweat, the fire ready to burn him alive, while the gift kept him busy elsewhere. Flames salivated at the sight of him and crept into his cell slowly, sending smoke ahead to choke him, but the blue light still needed more time. He stood waiting for it. Burning the top of his ears and singeing his hair, the blaze was ready to devour him when, picked up and pushed from his stupor by all his body's instinct, Randy broke into a sudden sprint as the fire engulfed the entire cell behind him. The hallways crumbled at his feet as he ran. Dark ash flakes snowed from the ceiling and black smoke ballooned, gulping peaceful air into its hungry belly. Patients and orderlies fought among the rubble of the corridors.

A convulsion hit Randy in mid sprint and bounced him off a wall and onto the ground. Dull hums ebbed and flowed in his ears, and his head rang with pain. Disoriented and exhausted he tried to stand, when a massive silence confused him. The anarchy hushed for a moment and swept throughout the sanitarium in a pulse. The calm air was eerie until the surge passed and a huge explosion followed. The world shook and Randy fell back to the floor, rolling limply into a corner at the end of a dead-end hallway. Pushing off the rubble that covered him, he watched the corridor surge brightly with fire, spitting about the hallways, ripping everything apart. A massive fireball bloomed, hurling itself towards Randy like an angry sun broke loose. Heat tickled his skin yet again as the fire pulsed closer. Randy sat immobile. The blaze raged even closer and Randy's body grew cold, deathly frozen, as a chilling breeze passed below his skin. The gift inside him began to stir yet again, blowing frigid gusts about his innards. Then the fire and Randy met. The lapping flames bit at his nose until the blaze suddenly lurched back and disappeared, leaving the complex dead and silent.

What was left of the water-damaged walls was scoured black. Smoke had choked everything out and found its escape to the sky. The ceiling was blackened hole. He stood alone, between the dark shadows of the rubble and the shine of the full moon, sucking in all the air he could. His lungs were satisfied and he slowly relaxed. The ordeal seemed over until the walls rumbled yet again.

A distant grumble raced closer. The uproar hummed until another flame shrieked over his head and rammed through the wall. The fire punched through the decaying brick like a colossal fist and dissipated after its duty of freeing Randy completely was done.

The fire passed right over Randy, melting some of the hair and skin on his head and arm. Randy ran right out of the hole in the wall. The grass was long and wet on his bare feet - the caress of freedom he hadn't felt in years. But it was a fleeting feeling. Imprisoned or liberated, he would always shoulder an incredible burden that would impede him wherever he went. But he didn't care. He was free to see Betsy.

The night air was cool and wet, gentle on his face and heart, while the moonlight slowly soothed and healed the charred flesh of Randy's face and arms. Randy stood for an hour that felt like another lifetime, in front of the burning asylum, watching from the lawn like a statue in the mist, feeling all the patients' pain from the distance, taking them to their final destination. He convulsed while the rest of the people inside perished.

The gift eventually released Randy as the embers and screams died out. He ran away wildeyed, a slave to his instincts.

Chapter 21

Wandering through backyards and the countryside, he stripped, and he stole clothes off clotheslines, shoes from stoops, and food from whatever garbage or soup kitchen he could find. Hunger sat heavily in his stomach with the gift. The familiar pains in his knee reminded him of old memories as new pains rotted in his chest. A thousand thoughts of surrender plagued his travels, causing him to collapse often into muddy puddles along the dirt roads, but Betsy kept him from staying down. Strangely, the gift always threatened to break Randy, while at the same time aiding him to get to her. It quickly became a helpful parasite, keeping his hopes up, feeding him thoughts of his sister, while it drained him of every ounce of energy.

But Randy never gave up.

He won every fistfight over a dry place to sleep. He had nothing to lose and, in turn, invented a debt to the gift for saving him in every hopeless situation. More often than not, as transients confronted him for whatever reason, his blood froze, and he slid into a convulsion, leaving all his senses and restrictions behind, quickly turning into a wild man ready to kill to win.

Even though Randy's threshold for pain was considerably higher when the blue light helped, he hated every decaying day they spent together. He had broken more men's bones than he could count, let alone shattered their lives with the gift, but hadn't realized that yet. His mind was a testament to ignorance and denial save for hope. Hope Betsy was still alive.

With hope aside, the gift never let Randy travel far in a day, but thankfully, he didn't have far go. He walked every day, east towards Boston, down dirty roads, trudging along in tattered clothes as rocks jabbed the toes protruding from his demolished shoes. For days he walked and all he heard was the gravel beneath his feet and the light inside him. It was maddening. He had felt more sanity inside the institution among the crazy than in the open world. It was so damned loud, always bustling with crunching and greed and hatred and people.

So, when he heard tires crunch the gravel in the distance behind him, Randy naturally thought it was the sound of his own feet. Other noises were the maddening world and bore no attention. But nevertheless the sound perked his ears and dragged him back into the pitiful real world outside his head.

Randy saw that daylight was waning around the shattered dull landscape. A truck punched through the dust behind him. Randy stopped and slowly turned, hopeful to meet someone willing to help, but fearing, as his irrational past broke the surface of the muck it was buried in and warned him the toad man with the shotgun was approaching again.

Randy cracked a smile, half crazed with the possibility of true revenge on that toad and half fearful of the same thing.

The truck barreled down the hill with the last orange light from the sun. With a sudden brake, the tires dug deep into the gravel, sliding to a halt. Dust billowed up from behind and enveloped the truck. Randy's thumb sat listlessly in the air, all his energy stolen by a convulsion that left him motionless. The gift loosened its hold some as the dust cloud dissipated after passing over the truck's hood.

"Need a lift, bub?" The driver asked.

The dust hadn't completely left a clear view, so the driver asked again.

"Hey man, get in," he said.

The air cleared, and Randy stood there convulsing with thumb in the breeze.

"What's da matter with yah?"

The wind rustled Randy's hair and the driver grew irritated.

"Fine then, you sonovabitch," he said and tore off down the road.

Seconds later, Randy awoke with a jolt and watched his ride leave him behind.

"Awh, dammit." Randy shook his head and walked to the tree line of the road, where he scavenged some berries and fruits.

He walked on again, gazing at the soft grass and the dirty families squatting in the fields. At least they had each other making their situation more bearable, even though the fetor of death covered them all. Randy couldn't get away from the sulfur smell, and it was so heavy that Randy thought he was carrying it around with him. Dirt and grime covered the souls of these people that were following rumors of work. And Randy fit right in. His stolen clothes were tattered and torn to rags, and his boots wore down to sandals, though he couldn't complain as the first wet and muggy blossoms of Spring arrived. The rain fell and dispelled the humidity but didn't water the people lying desiccated along the roadside. Never before had Randy seen desolation so vast, even compared to the asylum, and all he could think of was the town square and the decadent folk.

Then, as if he felt every transient's pain at once or relived the shotgun butt to the forehead, Randy's body gave out and fell face first to the soil. He didn't even feel it, but his body, out of sheer habit, forced a few feeble last steps towards the shining horizon. A mountain of weight sat in his head, and he lacked the strength to hold himself up. The ground had his complete and relentless attention.

But a bright beacon glared from over the hill, enough for him to notice without breaking his attention on the soil. At first, it was a small glint, and then it was a quick flash. A splinter of light squeezed from the top of the hill, and powered a deep hope that drove him towards the horizon.

Panting and struggling up the rest of the hill, Randy reached out to grab a hold of the light, but instead crashed to his knees far away from the summit. His left arm kicked out and tried to brace for the fall, but it failed. He rolled onto his shoulder, completely drained of energy. Wheezing in the dry dirt, the world around him spun in a starved blur. His legs kicked. They persisted without his efforts, jerking in instinct, forcing him into a crawl. The gravel road tore into his face and arms, without regard to pain, as he pressed on. Legs slithered, his body inched up the hill, leaving bloody pebbles in his wake, but his feet tired quickly and his muscles strained to work. The road hungrily chomped at his flesh until his wounds were tapped of blood.

Randy, amazed to do so, found himself draped over the crest of the hill. There he could see a blanket of lights. Not sure if he had flipped over onto his back, Randy could see the stars, and he watched them spin around the sky. His legs kicked one last time and pushed him over the hill. He tumbled and twisted forever, rolling towards the bottom.

A wooden fence post stopped Randy's weak bones, and that's where he stayed. People strolled by, noticing his disheveled body, without moving a muscle to help. He gazed up with a gaping mouth and an outstretched hand, trying to utter a plea, but nothing came. His hand clutched at open air, tenderly hoping to connect with a compassionate hand but all he uttered was a stunted breath; it was his last before he passed out alone.

Chapter 22

Randy awoke in a small tin makeshift house. The musk of sweat and tears lined the walls and offended his nose. When he fully awoke, he thought he was in prison again.

"How long have I been..."

"A day."

The voice was sweet. This kind stranger brought him a small tin cup of water and a hunk of bread. By the dullness in her eyes, Randy could tell this food was a generous portion that would leave her hungry. She was as skeletal as the others he had seen on his travels. Her children clung to her with bony arms, cringing away from Randy as he ate their bread. Their young faces looked so weathered. Not a single child laughed or smiled. No playfulness existed, except in her smile. She watched as Randy carefully poured water on his lips, being mindful not to spill. A wet gleam covered her green eyes as he passed half the loaf back to her.

Randy's mother had green eyes. They both had the same shining smile. He wanted this woman to wink the way his mother did. The perfect signal that he used to receive; it soothed him, told him everything would be all right. But she saved that for her children.

Randy's strength recovered by nightfall, and he waved goodbye to the kind mother and the huge squatter city. They waved lightly in response. As he left he turned back and noticed their fires were so bright and abundant that the area lit up like the night sky.

"I'm coming Bets," Randy said to those lights.

He turned and traveled towards the lights in the opposite direction, towards Boston, and something happened that hadn't occurred in a long time. A smile grew on his face; it was his own hope and not the gift's. It made him happy, something else he hadn't been in awhile.

Boston strolled up and welcomed him as if it knew what he had gone through. The dust and dirt, like burned remains, looked like a golden payment to start him off on a new life. Walking through the streets in awe, he never let his persistent convulsions ruin the amazement. From that point on, the convulsions eased, and Randy became master over the light within him. That morsel of hope outweighed the years of turmoil.

Automobiles sputtered by and the buildings grew higher, leering ominously down at Randy, but he breezed past the clamor until he arrived at Betsy's door. Before his hand could curl into a fist to knock, his fingers spread and caressed the grains in the door, wondering if he could handle the news if Betsy had died from the illness the letter suggested.

Randy rapped and nervously gulped. Eons seemed to pass before a few chains jingled and locks clanked. Sweat pooled Randy's palms and back.

"One moment," a woman's voice softly sang. The door creaked open.

"What can I do for..." she began.

After rubbing her eyes a few times, she saw Randy's sweet smile. "Oh dear God," Betsy exclaimed.

Her five children raced to the door and watched Betsy wrap Randy into a hug. Her husband watched from the hallway.

"Come in, come in, dear brother," Betsy ushered him in.

Randy sat on the sofa. The children gathered around with their parents to hear Randy's tale of the past several years. At any one time, three of the five children would be on Randy's lap or in his arms, taking to him immediately. And his love facilitated it. He smiled at Betsy and she smiled back. They talked for hours until her children and husband Ted went to bed. Betsy and Randy continued until the break of daylight, seeing Ted off to work at the courthouse and the children off to school.

Chapter 23

Randy stayed with his family for a couple weeks and tried to find a job. Ted tried but couldn't swing an opening in the courthouse for him. The search grew futile, but had no effect on Randy's happiness. Every morning he woke to a peaceful unity that surrounded the house. He knew he could go on living like this forever, or at least die happy.

But plans different from his were unfolding and Randy knew it, felt it in his gut and in the ache of his right knee.

It was at night, two and a half weeks after he had arrived, that Randy found out what the terrible gale beneath his skin and the obstinate tailing convulsions were.

He had hid them well from his nieces and nephews, along with the story of the sanitarium, but couldn't hide anything from Betsy. She knew everything.

"What's da matter, Uncle Wandy?" the second youngest asked as Randy shook during a late dinner.

"Nothing, baby," Betsy told her, as his writhing slowed and mottled color came back to his cheeks, "Eat your food."

After a moment, Randy spoke as if time hadn't passed, "I'm alright."

When the convulsions occurred in front of the family, he'd play it off as something distracted him and he'd continue on as if nothing happened.

The gift was able to be contained somewhat and the promise of a normal life seemed possible. The family sat and listened to the radio in the evenings, just like Betsy and Randy did in their childhood. After an evening of radio theatre, everyone headed off to their rooms, and Randy feel asleep curled up on the couch. Resting peacefully, he snored away until a flash woke him. A reflecting glare bounced off the glass door of the tall wooden grandfather clock nearby and shone right into his eyes. Bright white beams of moonlight bounced off the pendulum, and illuminated the dust in the surrounding air. The time etched on the clock, an etched in his head was ten after ten. Randy was rarely woken by convulsions anymore; he knew something so he knew something was actually happening. But he ignored it and flipped away from the moonlight to fall asleep again.

But another flash bombarded him and he saw Kara, his youngest niece. The flash rapidly turned into a convulsion that rumbled into reality. He found himself in her room, staring down on her sleeping in her crib, next to her two other sisters on the bed. Kara barely twitched or peeped as Randy moved closer. He peered over the wooden railing at her sleeping peacefully, curled up into a chubby ball. The mechanical ticking sound from the pendulum punched against his ears.

Randy was disoriented from sleep; he tried to wake and clear his mind but couldn't. Nothing felt right. His body was light and the railing of the crib had no texture; it put no pressure against his hands. This feeling was familiar, but what was once a vague impression was now as tangible as reality; this didn't feel like a convulsion because he didn't feel the light's frigid hold. He felt like he was holding the light. For all the time the light had been inside him, emitting warning signs that he hadn't caught until tonight. Randy walked in this waking dream, without an ounce of clarity or reason. He felt like he had mastered it, beaten it down to the depths of his soul to where it had to obey. But it quickly became crystal clear that he was at the light's mercy. He closed in on his baby niece.

Panic invaded his mouth and head as he tried to scream, but only the sweeping silence of the house responded. Without his command, both of his hands landed on her little lumpy body. He stared at them in confusion and noticed they were blue. She cooed as he reached for her face. His right hand moved up and pinched her nose shut and his left crept into her mouth and probed. Every movement was beyond his control, his hands, his motions, everything was swift and automated. Kara's breath slowed to sweet purrs. Randy breathed in a heavier panic.

He couldn't feel his hands moving as he watched his fingers pinch a soft, thin object in her mouth. Randy tried to stop, pushing away with his lower back and yanking with his shoulders, but his arms were anchored to his wrists as his hands worked. The hand in her mouth searched until it pulled out with a snap. The other hand let go of her nose. And then she was sweetly still and all too silent.

Deep creases stamped into his face as his bottom lip curled up in-between his teeth. Through the welling tears, Randy stared at an odious blue light clenched between his fingers, feeling the essence of her soul radiating from it. Pulsing between his fingers was her life. Agonizing over her empty body, gazing with awe at her pinched soul, the blue light began to fade. It twinkled into smaller pieces until it dissipated into blue specks that Randy frantically tried to grab. The vestiges danced about the air and avoided his fingers and floated to the dark shadows of the room. The blue tint faded, making her soul indiscernible from dust in the moonlight, then vanished into nothingness.

Wonderment captured him until he leaned over the crib again. Kara was deathly still. Her mouth gaped open like she was yawning and her green eyes were glazed, spouting out over her long stiff lashes. He desperately wanted to scream and wake up the world, but no sound came. Trying again, he prayed for his voice to boom loud enough to wake the dead, but instead his voice was blurted out in the back of his head. An inaudible murmur and nothing more. His sinful blue hands stared up at him and he began to fear himself. Looking over himself, he saw an ethereal skin covering his entire body, tinted a light blue. There was nothing real or tangible about his body; he didn't feel like he existed until a tug on his backside pulled him away. An unseen force was dragging him, slowly at first, giving him enough time to look over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of his body hunched on the couch, tightly wound in sweaty sleep. There were two Randys until the tugging snapped the two bodies together on the couch, slamming him awake. His eyes glowed in the dark, and he darted up and over to her crib, finally emitting a scream to wake everyone in the house. Everyone except for Kara.

The whole house erupted into waking mumbles and groans as Betsy raced over. Her anxious eyes scanned over her daughter, looking for oddities, as Randy held the infant in his arms. He couldn't peel away from Kara, cradling her, exaggerating his every move just in case she would awaken. Lips puckered against his teeth, Randy gently combed over the wisp of hair that curled on her forehead. Betsy reached out and scooped her from him, hollering for her husband. Betsy's baleful outburst stunned the family as they gathered.

Betsy ran out the door. Her husband followed with the children, and they headed for the hospital. Once there, the doctors tenderly exchanged the limp, doll-like body for promises and prayers. The family followed the child except for Betsy and Randy. The hallway was silent.

Betsy turned to Randy, desperate for some sign to her baby's condition.

The space between them ate at their hearts. He sat penitently with his head buried in his hands. Tears crept from his palms and down his wrists until they met with their bloodshot eyes.

"What happened?" She asked, taking one of his hands.

"Get away!" He leapt back, pushing her away.

She held back tears, expecting the worst, but still hoping that her youngest child wasn't lifeless.

"Don't touch my hands," he trembled, "They did this."

"Randy..."

"I ...I ...I saw her, Bets. I saw her there, all sweet, and I took it away. I don't know how ...I didn't want this. I just took it away!"

"Took what?"

"I saw it ...I did it. Something made me," Randy looked at his hands, "It was here tonight for Kara and for me."

"For God's sake, stop it! You're scaring me," Betsy pleaded.

The white door banged against the hushed hallway, and her husband appeared.

"Betsy, come quick."

Her husband went through the doors and Betsy followed. She paused before the doors swallowed her and turned back for Randy.

"Come with us..."

His chair was empty.

"Randy? Randy. Randy!"

Her cries echoed through the hallways and Randy's head as he ran through the hospital. The sterile walls closed in on him as he stumbled through them, the clean air burning his nostrils. Slipping about the maze of corridors, shoes squeaking along slick floors, he ran as fast as possible.

Among the blur of his retreat, something stopped him in his tracks; something dark and cavernous. An open doorway beckoned at him. Bewildered by why he even thought to stop there, Randy peered into the vacant room with curiosity. With contorted fingers, he pushed the door aside and unveiled a gloomy chapel. The atmosphere was stale and sacred. Curtly passing through the shadows dancing about the room, he came to a small cross jutting out of a stout altar. He glared then genuflected before it. His torso collapsed over his leg. His hands folded together atop the crown of his head as he wailed.

"Lord, what am I?"

The room was silent.

"God, help me."

Branches brushed up against the outside of the window. Random beams of moonlight sneaked through the glass and splashed the wooden cross.

"How could you hate me so much?"

Dead calm.

"Am I an abomination? Will you chase me through the ice and snow after I destroy all my loved ones? I am a prophetic soul bound for an unhallowed fate of tears and remorse?"

The tiniest squeak arose from a distance down the hallway.

"Am I to sulk in the night's shadows, pilfering little children?" Randy slung infuriated accusations at his God.

The cross sat in the mellow night, moonlight fluttering around the wooden surface like a misshapen spotlight. As the illumination waved around the room, turbulent as an ocean storm, a sickness tampered with Randy's stomach and created a queasy swirl. He rubbed his palm into his right eye and shook his head. Confused and jilted, he craned his head towards the icon, squinting at its shape. Something wasn't right.

"It's crooked. No, it's moving. Must just be the shadows."

The sound of wood creaking made Randy's heart pound bloody panic in his throat. A chaotic dance of light and shadow made the cross appear like it was bending towards him, bowing before him. Bowing to him. The head of the cross leaned closer to him as Randy scuffled backwards.

"This can't be happening..."

He scooted further away from the cross in fear as it bent itself at a right angle, creaking more and more. Everything empathic within his soul snapped apart as splinters from the genuflecting cross exploded about. Shards of wood shot over his head, but the cross was still whole. Before him, the stout top of the cross stared him down. Terrible thoughts flooded his body and soul and a haunting decision made itself apparent.

"Or am I a vigilante?" Randy asked the cross. "Am I your unwilling tool to take life? You choose, I kill, and you sort them out when I'm done? And I'm supposed to live with that?"

The shadows shifted with the branches as the cross nodded.

Randy began to cry as he realized what he had become. Not everything made sense right away, though clarity came with time. The sacred and the secular resided all within him.

Randy rose from his knees and turned his back on the cross forever.

Walking out the sterile halls into the living night, Randy existed within that decision for the next sixty years, sitting in solitude and holding the light.

PART THREE

George

Chapter 24

"Your turn, sir," I told my father, fingers pinching the smooth rook.

"Humph," he mumbled, staring at the board and assessing my move.

Resting my elbow on the mahogany table, cupping my chin in my palm, I looked into my father's cold, blue eyes. With a raise of his thin eyebrow, folds of skin bunched atop his wrinkled nose, and he smirked, creating an age-old dimple in his cheek. It was a look I had seen time and time again that often preceded my defeat. He chewed on his bottom lip, still pondering his next move.

We both sat staring. I was fixated on him, thinking about how old he was. I never noticed it before, but my father was rather old to have a son as young as me, being over fifty and myself in my mid-teens. I think he was born in 1945, but I can't remember if that's right. The life within him never matched his age though, whether he seemed older or younger at any particular time. He was a tough man and even harder to pinpoint; the only true thing I could ever get from my father was criticism.

"I'll have to find out his age from Mother," I thought.

Through all the bad times, he often found a way to calm the throbbing of my youth, even if he was the one that usually started the problems. He became so good at dissecting me that I grew to see him as a genius, versed in the world; combined with his charisma, I believed he had a plan to show me how to prosper as a man.

Being no slouch myself, on high honor roll and the best on the chess team, I realized that no matter how stubborn and unbreakable I could feel, his help was always necessary. My father fixed everything from scrapes on my knee to when a friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. In my young eyes, he knew everything and shared it all with me, giving me a huge jump-start on life. I felt I could do everything quicker and faster, but I had grown up too quickly. Age stirred inside of me too early, twisting and weaving out before my eyes could handle the images of adulthood.

"Checkmate," my father gloated, clinking the ivory knight on the marble chessboard and leaning back in his chair.

"Awh, we just started. Can't you win slower?" I said, gazing over the board in disbelief.

"Maybe this will teach you a better strategy."

The room grew a cold layer every time he said something demeaning, and that sentence gave me a shiver. My gaze wandered about the den, hopping from trophy to trophy, remembering all the rewards I earned over the years that my father kept on his shelves. Dull artificial light bounced off the gold painted plastic and I wondered if I ever deserved any of them. The only reason I won them was because of him. They would all be mine if I could beat my father one of these days.

Without breaking his tradition of never smiling, Father cracked the corner of his mouth without an iota of amusement.

"That's amusing," he said.

I'd pay him a million bucks if he'd actually laugh, but I always play along.

"What is, Dad?"

A frown quickly killed his pathetic smirk, and then he tried to squeeze a sentence past his lips. Heaven forbid if for once his father's words would just be said and he could actually connect with his only child.

"Your fly is down," he said pointing.

"Yeah," I said embarrassed, zipping up.

"Yes what, son?" He said condescendingly, adjusting his pendant pipe into the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, sir," I reluctantly corrected myself.

The room was cold with his compassion. An awkward silence loomed. His emotions quickly climaxed into a small coy cough and then he scratched his arm. All I wanted to do was to deck him. How the hell could my father be so blind? I was bigger than he was, but I could never match his strength. All those years behind him, all his knowledge, all spurting off like radiation that burned within, ceaselessly feeding off his energy. The day I was stronger than him was the day I was going to leave.

The doorbell chimed and my father began to rise, but I wanted to get away.

"I'll get it."

I rushed into the hallway with enthusiasm and looked up the stairs, past the teardrop chandelier, to see if my mother had emerged from the bedroom. Not a sound stirred, so I turned back and ran to the big, brown, oak door, loaded with decorative carvings that covered every square inch. I could sit and study it for hours, but I never really gave it much thought until then. It always seemed to be a waste of time.

Stepping onto the throw rug in the hallway, I made an awkward run for the door, slipping on the polished hardwood floor like always and smashing my scrawny body into the wall. And, like always, when I hit the wall in this way, a loud clank sounded against the floor from the other side in the living room. Speeding into the dark room, I picked up the sheathed sword that my dad kept and hung it back in place gently, trying to cover up any evidence of the fall. It was a sword from the 18th century that Dad purchased in an estate sale. It was his pride and joy. I could just see him in my mind, shaking his head disapprovingly every time I knocked it down.

Once at the door, I flipped the outside light on for the visitor. The stoop illuminated and through the small glass portal, I saw a head of frizzy black hair. Slowly I opened the massive door and saw Carl politely standing with a box of candy bars and an envelope in his hand, with green bills peeping out. Just seeing the money, I knew that he would have a smile from ear to ear.

Carl was in the chess club and also in my history class, plus we were pretty good friends. He looked up from his envelope and his thick glasses glided down his nose but his chubby pointer finger shoved them tightly back in place.

"Carl, what ya doin' here?" I chuckled.

I often giggled when people from outside my family talked to me. I always thought other people had a way of living that was more fun than mine.

"Selling candy for band. The winner gets lots of prize money," he said, his eyes shining.

"Let me get my dad. He'll probably hook you up. Hold on, Carl."

Leaving the door open, I went back to peek in the den.

"Um, Dad, sir, um, one of my friends is here selling candy. Could you?"

Clanking his heavy wood pipe in the crystal ashtray, he slowly rose and walked to the door.

"Hello, Mr. Gabney," Carl loudly engaged his sales pitch.

I stayed in the den looking over the chessboard in disbelief. Nimble gray smoke from the pipe curled about my head and hovered throughout the brown den.

"How could I loose so quickly?" I whispered over the board, "Could he have cheated? No. He had to have won fair and square. I have to beat him one of these days."

"No, no, no!" Dad barked and slammed the door shut so hard, the chess pieces danced and the sword clanked against the ground in the living room. Slowly making my way to the hallway I looked at him in the doorway. Anger swathed his face, the only emotion he knew how to show.

"No more of that, son."

"Um, but?" I asked in confusion.

"But what, George?" He demanded, "Are you disputing me?"

"No sir."

We stood still for a minute in yet another awkward silence, both wondering what the other was thinking. How could I dispute him if he wasn't making sense? Easy, tell him he's a stubborn jackass.

"Well, yeah, I'm going upstairs," I shuffled my feet the rest of the distance of the den submissively and then bolted up the stairs to my room. It was getting late anyway and I had school the next day. Going to school tired was something I never liked. It interfered with my studies too much; and that's me talking, not my father.

I laid down on my bed and punched play on my portable CD player, put the headphones over my ears, and let the first few minutes of Hey Jude take me. Paul's voice washed around in my ears. Most times I listen to this song my mind immediately wanders to the little conspiracy that my uncle revealed over Christmas dinner. All I remember are snippets of his tale, but he said,

'Mr. McCartney died in a car crash and a guy who won a look alike contest took his place in the Beatles. The new Paul broke up with his girlfriend and started dating Linda.' He also had a little scar but, hey, no one ever gets scars from car crashes. My family can be pretty stupid sometimes.

Resting atop of my covers, I wondered why my dad acted so strangely towards Carl. There must be a hundred different reasons for his reaction, but he still could have helped out like he had done in the past for my other friends.

After skipping to I am the Walrus and listening closely to the end of the song, trying to hear John Lennon say 'I killed Paul,' I ripped off my headphones. I felt bad for Carl, and I was enraged for the way my father treated me like a child.

I pounced to my feet and strode over to the wall and punched it harder than normal. My fist sunk hard and fast into the drywall with crackles and snaps. Flinching in discomfort, I gazed curiously at my hand in the wall, as pain began to surge. Slowly jiggling my hand out of the plaster crevice, I walked over to my closet. Little maroon droplets oozed from my knuckles as I slid open the closet door. Fidgeting deep in the mess of hanging clothes I pulled out a Cure poster. On top of my desk was the double-sided tape and I hung the poster over the hole. Smiling, I felt like I was actually fooling someone. I looked around at the multitude of posters hanging in my room, then back at my hand. Strangely enough, the noise of punching through the drywall never alerted my parents. It's hard to make a noise louder than their yelling.

Tired of the day, I hopped into bed.

Chapter 25

In the morning, my alarm went off late. I rushed to dress and barely made it downstairs in time to grab a sack lunch and out to catch the bus. Onboard, I rummaged through my bag to see what I had crammed in. I knew I had had a dream that kept me asleep through the alarm, but I couldn't remember it for the life of me. The dream seemed violent somehow.

I felt angry and wronged; though I knew it was an important dream, and I hoped I would have it again. My hand began to throb and I was distracted so I began to talk with the other kids.

The bus arrived at school and the day was the same as any other. After my third class, I saw Carl passing the mural by my locker, heading for the band room.

"Carl," I yelled and waved my bruised hand. "What happened with my dad?"

From the distance his face looked different. He was frowning and his right eye looked darker than his chocolate skin. A cheerleader passed in front and blocked my view of Carl and glanced at me. I smiled at her and she scoffed and frowned in response and scurried off. When Carl was within arms reach, my jaw dropped.

"Man, you need to send your dad to anger management or something,"

Carl barked at George.

"What did he do to you?" I nearly yelled.

"He friggin' slapped me!"

"Slapped you? You're kidding." But bubbling in my gut was my subconscious nagging that Carl could be right.

"No, I'm not kidding. I asked him if he wanted some candy. I told him what it was for and all that stuff. He just looked through me frowning like I wasn't even there! He refused a few times. After that I asked again, saying something like 'Hey, don't ignore me, its rude.' He said something like 'The day I take that from someone like you boy,' and slapped me in the eye! In the eye! And hard. I was stunned. He slammed the door in my face before I could say anything. What a giant asshole!"

I was speechless. Slapped him? Why? What would make him slap Carl?

"I ...I ...I'm sorry, Carl," was all I could get out. "I have no idea ...He hit you?"

"Yeah well, I had to run outta the house this morning so my parents didn't see me.

My first period teacher asked me what happened to my eye and I said that I ran into a tree branch last night, not paying attention. She bought it. I'll tell my dad something similar ...God, you're dad's a dick!"

"I can't believe it Carl," words began to come to me. "I'm gonna yell at him.Yeah, I'm gonna tear him a new one. That's just bullshit, he can't do that to you!"

"Whatever man. I'm gonna be late, George, I'll catch ya later."

"Yeah," I mumbled and returned to my locker.

God, what got into him? I don't know what was with him. He was probably just tired. Yeah, tired enough to slap a friend of mine? No. I fumbled with the rest of my books as I headed to my next class. The teacher let me alone as I spaced out through class, stunned to hear the bell ring. I collected my things and lugged them lethargically to the next class. When I arrived, there was a television on a rolling stand by the chalkboard. I knew what that meant and let out a cheer in my head. We were going to watch a movie and not listen to the teacher drone on. I tossed all the paltry notions bouncing around in my head and prepared to watch TV. Taking my usual seat in the back, the rest of class filed in during the next few minutes and Carl plopped down next to me. The teacher came in, turned off the lights and stood next to the TV.

"Since it is almost Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I decided that we'd watch some footage and discuss his accomplishments," the teacher said as she turned on the television and sat at her desk to grade papers.

Everyone usually became more talkative every time we watched something in class, until the footage started and we were reticent. I turned to look around the room and stopped at Carl, who was engrossed.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Carl quickly whispered to me, "he's the greatest."

"It's more fun watching Jordan though."

"Yeah, but King was a martyr, and that's real greatness."

I couldn't imagine anything worth dying for at that time. But I couldn't argue with Carl, I knew he was right somehow.

I watched Dr. King's persecution. I watched and hoped, almost convincing myself that he wouldn't get shot at the end. No one should ever have to bear that much pain and responsibility. My world shrunk into the solemn light emanating from the television as everything peripheral disappeared into the dark surroundings.

How could people hate so much, for no reason? I knew life had always been easy to throw into the grinder from history class and the news, but it seemed to me that history can only wash its hands so many times before the blood permanently stained. Watching with close precision, squeezing every detail out of Dr. King's speeches, I stored much of what he said in my mind. Fixating on his eyes, I searched for more of his wisdom that could be buried within his soul, but was I preempted by something.

The camera cut away from him to the surrounding crowd. His words hummed from the television speakers as the camera panned. People of all kinds were there and everyone was shouting for a different reason. I hadn't seen a huge crowd together like that before when they didn't all believe in the same thing. The panning continued and met a protruding sign. I blinked, shook my head, and stared at the screen. Scanning the crowd as much as the old footage would let me, I saw a familiar man holding a sign that said "Go Home Niggers."

With weak knees and prying eyes, I watched the scratches of the old film march across the screen, trying not to look at the horrible sign. I pulled back and rubbed my eyes because my dad said starring at the TV could ruin my eyesight.

"Holy shit," I muttered, jumping in my desk like the TV punched me.

Shock scuttled up my spine and into my veins, forcing my hair on end, as I realized why my dad hit Carl. I felt the decency and innocence of my childhood wither in my chest.

"My dad hit Carl because he was black. My dad's a goddamned racist!"

I thought so loudly that I nearly said it.

The tape finished and class continued into a very brief discussion, but all I could see was the sign in my head. Every time I tried to recall the face, the sign came barging forward into my mind's eye instead and my dad was holding it in my doorway waving it at Carl. The white-hot board showcased the hand written words, burning them into my mind, searing a stain on my thoughts that spat 'Go Home Niggers' everywhere. I saw it on the walls, on everyone's clothes, and written on the chalkboard. The chatter of the class discussion ended quickly with the ringing of the bell I quickly abandoned the classroom and headed to my locker. Once I arrived, my knees gave way and I slid down my locker to the floor. I leaned back and gazed forward at the wall, stewing over what my father really was.

"All that hate ...what possessed him? Why?"

Someone passed by with an odd glare as I talked to myself. I ignored my tears and gazed at the mural painted on the wall across from me. The detail, the swirling colors, the effort, the symbolism behind the mural; it was all swimming in my head. I had passed by it so many times and never noticed its complexity before. It forced some beauty to burn inside of me, but that was quickly killed and all I saw in the paint was violence. The mural was giving me things I couldn't deny or identify.

The rest of the school day was spent in the same details and subtleties. My last class let out and I decided to walk home. The air was crisp, as spring usually made it, and the smell of blooming in the air tickled my nose. I felt so alive that I almost considered skipping down the sidewalk, but I didn't want to look weird. Trying to pay close attention to the colors and smells, I realized how brown and drab spring really looks. The green grass and trees were apparent, along with other lush images, but the mud and ochre that nature wipes away on her sleeve after winter, seemed overabundant. I never noticed spring was so sloppy, how it mashed about the other three seasons without a shred of dignity, almost thumbing its nose at the three other times of year and their beauty. I took it all in with a new appreciation.

Chapter 26

Home was a long walk yet worth every step. I had enough time to see all the mundane things in a separate glow that encompassed my attention. I had a new view of the world and needed to see more of it. Walking through a muddy field of matted grass I eventually emerged along the byway to tides of headlights. I turned away from the bustle and smoke. The traffic sped far and wide in an ocean of steel and cement, squealing down towards

Boston. I listened to the bustle fade as I turned and walked to the giant water tower, standing like a dormant sentinel. The nearby railroad tracks shone like streaks of ice in the twilight as I crossed over and came to the town square.

"It's not a square, it's more like a circle," came out of my mouth and I shook my head at the stupidity of it.

The townies called the town's center a square when it's shaped in a circle. I laughed my way up a one-way, cobblestone street into the square, wading through more traffic and shops until I found myself beneath the gazebos shelter sitting on its bench. I sat and watched everything and nothing, lost in my tumbling thoughts, until time had no feel.

Night stumbled in like a drunk. The theater in the square had already spouted a line of people, and it traveled down the sidewalk. The scent of popcorn floated through the air.

Lightning threatened overhead and thunder followed. The strangest feelings emanated from the theater. The smell of popcorn filled my mind while the humidity pushed the cool breeze of threatening rain across my face. But there was another scent, something putrid, almost like sulfur. It sent shivers across my shoulders, down my arms, and hit my hands with a trembling jolt. The shivers shot out my fingers, bouncing and reverberating about the shelter of the gazebo, ricocheting like a pest around the shallow ceiling over my head. People wandering about picked up the pace as rain began to fall. I was cold and agitated so I headed for home.

The rain wasn't torrential, but I got soaked anyway. My demeanor worsened with every step down the streets of my youth. All my innocence felt so ancient as all my compassion washed away with the rain, tumbling down the sewers as I thought of my treacherous father. Thinking about him fouled my head and bent my love. My blood began to boil and it burned away my patience.

"Good, if it boils, that'll kill all the bigotry he gave me in his rotten genes," I said to myself.

Sick of hearing myself, I was actually glad to see my house even though I saw his car in the open garage. My driveway shined in the rain, as it kicked up corpulent drops from the tarred surface. God, I was pissed off. I was angry at his anger. My emotions swirled in my head, wanting to lash out against my father. Gliding over the grass and the cement sidewalk leading to the porch, I brushed the huge door open and strolled into the hallway. I grew angrier with each step I took. I scanned the area for immediate clues to my father's whereabouts and walked into the living room. He was sitting on the sofa watching TV with his back facing me. Rage filled me and I could feel my face turn red.

My feet paused for a second as something popped into my head. Taking a few steps sideways, I reached out my left hand and pulled back my father's sword. Its weight felt extra heavy in my hands as I stroked its sheath and fingered the raised decorations. I noticed black and blue bruises had appeared atop my knuckles. My hand tightened around the sheath, and I slid the sword free with a soft hiss. The volume of the television masked the noise. Staring at the silver blade, I yearned to turn it bright red. My fury began.

Chapter 27

Panic raced in the front of my mind as I stared at the back of his neck. I was running on fumes, not fully in control of my actions, but I knew what I was doing. Didn't I? My pause allowed my father to notice me in the reflection in the TV and he turned to see me.

"Hello, George, I ..." he stopped when he noticed the blade in my hand.

He was confused at first, but he saw the anger in my face. His face returned with a sloppy form of irritation.

"What the hell do you think you're ...?" he said before I grabbed his tie with my free hand and pulled him over the top of the couch with a surge of adrenaline, finally using my size to some advantage. He landed squarely on his back. The fall rattled him. I placed the sharp edge of the naked blade against his neck.

"Boy, are you insane?" my father asked in a dreadful voice, attempting, with not much success, to mask his fear.

"You lied to me, you sonvabitch!" I spat in his face, breathing hard and heavy.

My muscles pulsed with strength and hatred, as they turned into steel cables while I pinned him down. He struggled to break free but I seemed incredibly strong. No more would I comply with his pontifical demands. I was the one in charge and I felt no pity for him. Times had changed. No more crawling. No more bullshit. No more.

"Whatever it is, you're deep in it, boy."

"All these years you told me to treat others like you want to be treated! You said that is the way life should be and you lied," I said starting to cry, pushing the sword down on his throat. Blood gently oozed out along the blade's edge. I wondered if this was how he felt when he used to hit me and mother.

Gurgling and struggling more as the blade cut, my father finally realized my rancor. His eyes trembled as they followed mine, both sets were effulgent with tears, but fear pulsed within his bloodshot eyes. His mind must have been a tangled web, but mine had a purpose. I finally stood up like a man. But once I looked at his face, I saw he was smiling at me. Right at me. It was sadistic and it told me that he had a plan.

He had probably planned this to ready me for something. Looking up at me, the sinister glint in his eyes proved that I would never be bound for any other plans than his own. My blood boiled over and I had enough. I caught a glimpse of his tie draped over his neck and grabbed it, tightening it around my hand and choked him. He cackled and I returned my focus to the sword. Leaning down over the blade, pressing down harder, I eased out even more blood while I finally told him my reason. Not the only reason but the one I focused on.

"You hit Carl because he was black, you racist sonvabitch!'"

He paused and watched my tears.

"Is that what all this is for?" He stared at me with a chuckle. "They have no right."

The filth he spoke burned up my decency. All I could see in him was a bully. I half hoped he'd come up with some miraculous explanation, clearing him from his actions, reviving the man I once loved and respected.

"But ...why? Why do you hate a whole race?" I said, letting pity barge onto my lips and the emotions that had taken control of me run further.

Too many things were in my mind; clarity wasn't one of them.

"Boy, you don't need to know - I didn't tell you for a reason."

I pressed the steel down harder. He coughed and rolled his eyes, surrendering under his own sword to talk.

"One of them killed your grandfather in a bar fight over a couple of dollars when I was a few years younger than you are now. Over a couple of goddamn bucks! A man lost his life," my father said, riled by the memory.

"Just plain ignorance, I say. And my father never had a chance, that boy was on him so quick that the only time we knew what had happened was when the bar emptied."

"We?"

"I saw it ...I ditched class."

"Grandpa? Killed? How? He's alive you liar!"

He paused to gather himself, "Your grandfather now, is my stepfather."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I asked, not sure I believed him. A tension built in my head. His story seemed so unreal.

"You didn't need to know about the violence that made me. I wanted you to have a better life than I did, but prepare you for the one I had lived. For you to live the life I was robbed of and to teach you what I could so you could survive without my help."

"No. No way Dad. You just wanna keep me from the truth so you could shape me into the boy you wanted to be. To keep me under your thumb as a model of yourself to see what you missed."

"Relax the blade son, you don't know what you're doing. You're letting your emotions get the better of you and you can't control them well enough. I haven't taught you that yet."

"Don't tell me what to do! I can figure this out on my own," I screamed, feeling the strain snap in my head.

"That's enough," he barked.

"No more orders. Not now, not ever again." I slid the blade along the top of his throat, not digging into the skin much and watched him wince.

I placed my hand around his neck to pin him down. I situated my weight on his chest, removed my hand from his neck, and put it with the other one onto the handle of the sword.

"You don't have the instinct, boy," he said, "No killer instinct. You're bound to be a spineless coward the rest of your life. You won't get anywhere without me!"

"Watch this, Dad," I said, shutting my eyes so tightly it hurt.

Whether time passed slowly or fast, I hadn't a clue. The only grip I had was on the ribbed hilt. I raised the sword high over my head and slammed it down. The blade plummeted and stopped abruptly. Dots of color swarmed about the inside of my eyelids, dancing about in a sordid writhing that made my stomach churn. I felt ready to vomit. The dots quickly exploded into fireworks. Light streaked my vision and quickly scurried away. My eyes peeked open and to a world hued dark blue.

Slowly, I removed my sweaty hands from the sword. I saw him lying in the bloody retribution he deserved. The swirling and swelling emotions that once ate at me subsided as I looked to see what I had done. The blade pierced through his necktie, stuck in the floorboards, only slicing him a little bit on his neck. His eyes were turned up into his lids and he was unconscious from fright.

All I was left with was the question of what to do next.

Standing over him for a moment, I let my brain catch up with my actions. Seeing my father sprawled out on the floor with a sword through his necktie, I felt an insatiable urge to get away. Instinct begged me to run.

"I should have killed you, you rotten bastard. But I won't. I won't be like you," was all I could say to him, as he lay prostrate on the floor.

I turned and ran out the door, knowing nothing other than if I stayed, I would be a dead man. I ran and left it all behind in a blur.

Chapter 28

It took me years to return home. Far too much smoldering rage nested inside of me. And I only went back because of the pleas from my mother so see my father's final waning days. Over the next few years, I had called her from friends' houses and shelters, remaining in contact only when I knew my father wasn't around. She begged me to come home, but she never gave me a good enough reason. I continually refused her, even she revealed, in a tear filled confession over the phone, that I had a sister, Amber. She was so young. It was a half-year after her birth and several days before my father's death when I appeared.

My father and I didn't speak, as he lay broken and coughing. I stood over him in the bed and was stoic. On that singular occasion in which I visited the stark hospital room where he lay dying, my lack of regret surprised me. The distant years of ubiquitous hatred and the solace I felt from staying far away from him purged my pity and muzzled my soul. I grew tired of staring at his decrepit body and turned to leave.

But he wanted the last word. He always wanted it.

"George," he muttered.

I stopped dead in my tracks and shuddered with my clammy hand on the doorknob. I was so close to leaving him in the diminishing confines of my memory. With a deep sigh, I turned knowing I would regret it.

His slithering hand, laden with tubes and liver spots, came closer to me as he beckoned. Against my better judgment, I took his hand and listened close enough to hear his whispers. His breath had a few small, but resilient bubbles of life left.

"Listen to me," he said.

I shuddered again. His voice was hideous.

"I don't believe in death, you know."

"Well, you better, old man," I shook my head, "Because you're dying."

"True," he coughed. "But I'll live on."

"Listen, you sonvabitch, I don't need to hear this shit from you now. Don't get all sentimental, it doesn't fit you." Sweat soaked my escalated resentment. Years of pent up pain flooded my eyes. "I wanted to forgive you but ..."

"I'll live on through my kids," he spat, interrupting me. His higher volume alerted my mother, who ran into the room with my sister in tow.

They stared at me.

"Maybe in Amber but never in me. You'll never get that right from me."

My anger peaked as high as I could stand.

"You'll see," he coughed harder. I could see him stubbornly holding me liable for his lineage.

"You'll see the curse when you have kids, boy."

"I'd rather remain abstinent than spread your seed."

His raspy laughter surrounded my head, stinging like wasps in a nauseating swarm. My hair stood on end and shivers of frigid lost love cascaded down my back, plucking each bone like they were harp strings.

My mother and Amber ran to his side and I ran from them all. Inarticulate appeals cried from my mother's mouth as she clung to the doorframe, imploring reconciliation, but I ran on. His coughing rang out throughout the hallway. It sounded like uncontrollable laughter. His laughter still rings.

Many more years later, when my sister was old enough to grasp the story, she burned with her father's anger for me. Even though neither my mother nor Amber heard what transpired between Father and I at his deathbed, it was enough for her to damn me. I knew I was to blame since I didn't come to his funeral. Mother couldn't pry the details out of him before he died, so she could only tell Amber what she saw and pieced together.

Even more time passed and Amber grew to become more and more like her father, as Mother went fanatic with guilt and bills. I still kept away but talked to Mother often, sending her money whenever I could. On one of our many long phone calls, her ardor for my return began to melt me again. Her facilities and memories were slipping and I pondered if I could handle that house again. But on that phone call, during an indelible silence in which I could hear sorrow drip from her lips, she pleaded me to come home and rescue her from the anguish of a life that incessantly raped her heart in dull frigid thrusts.

A few days later, I walked in through the door, and regretted my decision to return almost immediately. My family had fallen apart; I vainly tried to patch it back together. I attempted to mold a happy new life for my family, but more often than not, I wanted to run again. Distance, I found, made my heart feel safer. But I stayed at home and found a job, packing away every penny I could for college as I failed my family.

My mother slipped away silently over time while my sister and I fought about anything and everything. Granted, at times, I got carried away with the arguments and never tried to stop them; I just saw too much of my father in my sister. My mother would shake her head and cry with her hands over her ears. I would often run after her but my sister would tug on my shirt, never allowing the argument to die, not caring what it did to Mother. Just like Father did. Both her and her father let Mother die by robbing her of her sanity and love.

Memories from these times played out in my mind for most of my life.

They always lingered in the back of my brain. They always hid away like I wanted to do myself. My teens passed into my twenties and time quickly moved me towards my demise.

Chapter 29

Time never felt linear for me after that. Barely did beforehand either. And this little bit is just a snippet as well. I realize that now, with the wisdom of age finally behind me, as I look back and see all my regrets. People often seem to do that in when they're in the state I'm in.

I figure, as I stand before the entrance of a darkening graveyard, that if time had felt linear, I would have never made this far. Remembering my life in a jumbled fashion is the only way that makes sense to me. It is simple, too simple in ways, of that I am sure but it is how I am and I cannot change that.

Pausing before I went through the entryway, guarded by two stone pillars eroded from time and pressure, I had to take it my surroundings. I never noticed all the detail before; the detail in life, in a person, in all of fates little intricate weaves, and especially in the ironwork arch stretched above the entryway of this cemetery. My eyes captured them now and brought me a smile for my trouble. But I couldn't linger, I had to keep on.

Traveling into the cemetery, I was struck, realizing I had walked down this path before, noticing the details for the first time. Even with the directions, I never knew it was here. The coincidence of it all was amazing. I had done this without my wits about me, completely oblivious to all my actions last time I was here. But those were dark times and I didn't see much of anything.

The path into the cemetery was tunneled in by aged trees that rained their leaves in an array of warm colors upon the dirt. The middle of the path was raised like most dirt roads, with tire divots on each side of the median. It was about twenty minutes before dusk and the brilliant red sun was casting down in the darkening sky, running to warm other people than me. While gazing into the sky, a misstep sent me to the dirt road. My black trench coat flapped up around my ears and the lantern clanked around, but never left my hand. My fedora sailed off my head and tore down the path with a gust of wind rolling like a coin, destined to roll as far as imagination could take it.

"Shit," I cursed, "Just my luck. If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

I rose and chased the hat down the dark path until it was tripped up by a tree root and settled next to a gravestone. Reclaiming it, I crouched next to the slab of cement and ran my fingers across the divots that spelled out a woman's name and her life span. It was polished and gentle. It felt different, cold to my fingers but warm to my heart.

It held my attention and I stopped for a moment. 'Beloved wife', it read.

That was it, like that was all she was, a whole life squished into one sentence.

Of course, the people visiting should know the story, but the gravestone was just like any another. Saddened, I gazed at her marker lovingly for a moment wondering if I had put her there. I must have. But I was there for a reason and I had instructions to follow.

I slowly rose from the tombstone, using the stone slab to get up, and teetered off towards the oak tree on the hill. My short journey was slow though I knew I had little time left. Drained and agonized, pain throbbing in my side, I trudged on. More gravestones littered my walk and I wondered, as I always do, how many I put there.

The wind picked up. Lights dimmed behind clouds and trees. The soil crunched under me. A very thin fog veiled and swirled around each tomb. Human features rose from the gravestones, peaking out from the mist as I passed. Faces emerged and screamed at me. Fear scrambled in my belly. My hair stood on end. God they all looked the same. Every last damned one of them over the years. And they looked at me for mercy I couldn't provide.

I had to avert my mind elsewhere before I crawled up in a ball and died.

I turned and walked up the hill and sat down Indian-style at the foot of the grave below the tree. I placed my lantern down on the green resting place of my friend.

The sun was in its final retreat, taking all the lingering light from the graveyard, and yanking it over the horizon in a swift pull, stealing all the security I had left. I have been waiting for this moment for quite some time, whether I knew it or not. The thought weakened me. My vision blurred as my mind wouldn't stop wandering. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths.

I had to calm myself because this was the hard part. Hard because I wasn't sure what was going to happen but no longer frightening was the unknown.

On top of the hill, overlooking a dark and shadowy graveyard with the languid city lights in the distance, I placed the lantern down and thought back on my life. The details eluded me but from somewhere in the forgotten depths of what I hoped was my youth, a surprise phrase surged to my lips so hard that I blurted it out.

"I am the lantern and you are the light."

The blues and blacks of the night were banished and I sat patiently waiting for the light.

Chapter 30

Basking in the new light of that desolate night, I found myself young again, back in college. Back when I was free. I was in math class, as I recall, and if I continue to recall correctly, I was testing. It was five minutes into the test and I was on the last page of seven pages. I stared at the final question and carefully contemplated my answer. It was a problem that took the whole page to show the process of the solution so I placed the pencil to write:

"Not only am I never going to use this again in my life, this has got to be the piss poorest problem I have ever encountered. Let me explain this to you plainly so I can be off and not waste my time any longer. First, you have the Roman numeral one on the last page and seven on the first, Dick. Secondly, you have I instead of A, for answer. Slightly inebriated when writing this?"

Flipping through the blank pages of the rest of the test, I wandered up to his desk and slammed it down and left the classroom. My whistle echoed loudly throughout the empty hallways until I left the school's confines.

The day was sweet and I laid down on the green courtyard and lit a cigarette. The grass was soft and damp, hugging me in irenic comfort. After fifty minutes of basking in late spring sun, Jessica flowed out the school doors towards me. She led the herd of vacating students out and then broke away from them to me. I looked up and saw her strawberry blonde locks dangling and her green eyes peering into my forehead. Her sumptuous lips puckered into a smirk that was her sign that she was ready for a good explanation. Her beautiful eyes blue could never let me lie. They shone and held me in a gentle azure light of hypnosis.

"How'd your test go?"

"Pleasantly," I replied with a sarcastic tone and smile.

Jessica stuck her tongue out at me and rolled her eyes.

"Alright," I conceded. "I'll be good from now on."

"Yeah right, George. God, if I had a grand for every time you said that ..."

"We could get out of this place."

I rose and we ventured off over the hill towards her dorm. The wind blew gently and conveniently, cooling the air just as the heat rose. It was so nice that I unbuttoned my shirt a bit to let that breeze in. We walked up the hill giggling.

God, we were good together. That was until she had to leave. Her Dad was laid off and her family was forced to move to the Midwest for work. Since they paid her tuition, she had to go because the schools were cheaper in-state. And she didn't want to leave her family. I never understood why they wouldn't let her stay. Many days I sat in my apartment at school and wondered what life would have been like if I would have just stopped her from leaving or gone with her. But I was scared and unsure about leaving. Who would take care of my mother? Not Amber, she had her own self-absorbed life to lead.

As Jessica and I climbed the hill, we came across a strange man. Planted atop the hill was a tree and the man leaning against it. Sitting in the shade, the dark figure was shrouded by a heavy black trench coat and a black hat. The front of his fedora hung down, almost touching his nose, and covered the majority of his face. His square jaw rubbed against his shirt collar and I could see a slight scowl on his lips. As we passed him, I stared and wondered who would wear that hellishly warm coat on such a beautiful day.

"Hello," I said to him for fun.

"Yes?" he queried with a wink of his eye as he lifted the brim of his hat.

Confused with the queer reply, I raised an eyebrow and turned to my girlfriend whom was tugging on my shirt.

"Don't talk to him, he looks devilishy," she said.

"I never thought I would hear someone who hasn't ' found God yet,' say such things, like she believed," I said sarcastically.

"I'm only perfect," she smiled at me.

"Is devilishy even a word, my perfect?" I asked with delight, enjoying the game.

"Yes, because I just made it up," she said with a sheepish grin as she grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dorms.

I looked back at the tree as we darted forward, and the man in the long coat was nowhere to be seen. Gone, like he was never there. I dismissed him and made for her dorm.

The next day I looked for him on the same hill after my math class, but saw nothing. I retreated to a nearby bench and retrieved an apple from my bag. I just couldn't let it go. I was too curious about his strange man for some unknown reason. Once I'm into something I can't seem to quit and I wondered why I was so intrigued. He didn't seem real.

It didn't matter though; there were tons of strange people in the world. Far too many for my liking, especially in college. Too many kids trying to be different from what they were in high school. I shrugged it off, thinking I really didn't need to know these answers, even though I could never understand why people shun their similarities. Humans are naturally social and thrive off contact. You can't beat instincts.

Anyway, I figured he was trying to be different and draw attention to himself while actually saying that they don't care about the attention. I finished that thought and stared at my apple. I rolled it over in my hands and went to take a bite. A gush of wind brushed by my face and my apple flew from my hand and it wobbled through the damp grass.

"Are you following me? Do I owe you money?" The man in the black coat demanded.

"No, I was wondering who you are?" I replied rather plainly.

"What are you after?" He accused.

"Just what I said before," I stubbornly pressed. "Stupid curiosity. I've never seen you around before."

"I am Randy and I do not like to be bothered," he offered.

"I'm George and I like bothering," I probed, realizing that he may not be the rebel jackass I had pegged him to be.

"Well, in that case," Randy cocked his head with a curious look at my apple and kicked it between his feet. "Give me a smoke and I will be happy to talk to the first person to approach me instead of turning away."

I handed him a cigarette and we talked and smoked on that bench for hours and began our friendship like we were boys. It started up that quick. We sat and talked about our similarities and differences and what our backgrounds were. I told him I originally hailed from outside Boston and planned on moving to the city when I graduated. He wanted to move there also, but never talked about school with great frequency or seriousness or his past. After we got to know each other, I often pried about what he wanted to do with his life, but he always said that he was at college just to see if there was anything different. He never seemed to have a problem paying for school and I often wondered if he was even enrolled. Randy never really had a problem with paying for anything, attributing that to his wise saving habits over all these years. All these years ...he was in his late twenties, like me, but always talked about the past like it spanned for decades. I just wrote it off as one of his quirks.

Most of our time though was spent in college splendor. We went to parties and even Jessica came to like him, though she swore she wouldn't. A stubborn one she was, if you ask me.

Randy and I would always seemed to find our way into a little skirmish, but would back each other up. These were often in response to doing stupid tricks to impress women after I lost Jessica, to restore my ego back to almost indestructible. Randy never really needed much help with his life. He seemed to have everything figured out and that made me want to figure out life as well.

It was strange to me that a man the same age as me had his life figured out. He knew what he wanted for himself and was only at college for the fun of it. Or so he said. But that was his business and I never worried about it. Sarcastically, Randy said he was well off, and that was the only thing that he told me about himself that I didn't have trouble believing.

I think Randy was about the same age as me but I was never sure. I never felt like asking him, I just assumed, it just never seemed that important.

We became the best of friends and that was what was important.

Chapter 31

We lived in a time I liked to call the Syntax Era, in which the computer language spilled off all our tongues. Abbreviations, acronyms, and all kinds of slang came out of our mouths but Randy, on the other hand, was a straight talker. He never used cliches or talked like a computer nerd. Nothing that resembled less than perfect English came from his mouth and that was the way he liked it. Erudite like the people of years past, he seemed out of place in the late twentieth century.

Whatever he hid about his past was wrapped up so tightly in his mannerisms that even air couldn't enter or escape. No man I had ever known was able to outrun his past, except Randy, it appeared. I have seen him as sober as a nun and drunk as a wino, but he always appeared genteel. I also understood that some things he might have left for the right time to tell me. So I waited.

There were times when something would haunt him with convulsive shivers, as a distant look seized him. I would see him suck into those moods most often when college let out for vacations or holidays and Randy would come home with me.

As I drove us home, many miles outside the city, we'd pass through a small town that was surrounded by nothing much else than grasslands. Waves of eternal green as far out as the horizon. Randy would stare out the window, never allowing a thing to break his concentration.

With my driving, the world sped past the window in streaks of yellow and green, but he always watched one house pensively. The shack he eyed was meekly carved out of the massive overgrowth, floating like driftwood in a green sea. His head remained fixed on the decrepit house as we passed it, following it with his eyes until it disappeared.

On the last trip home, right before my mother's funeral, Randy spoke up before we reached the rickety old house.

"Would you stop at that house for me?"

"What is it Randy? Why do you look at it?"

"Please, could you just stop there?"

I pulled up and parked under the lone maple tree planted in the center of the yard. The lot reeked of abandonment but the air smelled clean and crisp. The front of the house drooped like a sullen brow. The only thing that held the porch upright it seemed was the house's resolve. The foot-high grass was patchy and somewhat dry, growing out in small colonies within the gravel driveway. The shingles had rained off the roof into small piles around the house and the chipped brown paint might as well have been the only load bearing support left, but the dilapidation was no deterrent.

Randy stepped in and walked with care. I watched him, from the distance, pass the large picture window before I followed him inside. Everything in the house creaked even when we weren't walking. Low moans came from the floorboards and ceilings as Randy glided his fingers across the abandoned furniture. With sealed lips and enthralled eyes, Randy had some esoteric conversation with the walls. They comforted him with some all-encompassing feeling from his past. I felt bad for him as he wandered the place. He looked as lost as the old, broken-down house.

"What do you see in this dump?" I asked Randy.

His hands ran along the wall and paint crumbled off. He poked a finger at a drawer and it fell. Everything he handled broke. I kept my hands to myself.

We passed carefully through the kitchen to the back door. Randy pushed the white door open revealing acres of land. Below a vast sky, there was green and inviting grass all about. Scattered ruins of an old barn sat like a lump in the distance but it was no more than a skeleton. Randy held onto the doorknob as I sneaked past him, off the small porch, damn near tripping on an old rusting tricycle.

"Why did we stop here?" I asked wanting to leave before the house caved in or some locals showed up.

Randy was about to speak when the doorknob rattled in his hand and his face clouded over. His eyes were as clear as stone. He stood there for a moment then snapped awake and looked at me.

Towering black clouds dropped from the heavens and a storm rolled in. Thin strips of lightning shot from the gloom and quickly beheaded the peaceful sky. The day went from pure blue to ominous black very quickly.

We both stood on the porch and watched. I glanced over at Randy for a brief second and looked back again. His jaw had dropped and his eyes were wide. I looked out into the field to where he was fixated but there was nothing but oncoming rain. The static charge in the air tickled my hair. I began to worry.

Another flash of lightning flared and I finally saw what he saw. As the heavens dumped rain miles away in heavy sheets, the lightning showed us a silhouette. I had to rub my eyes. I looked back at Randy, but he didn't budge an inch. Thunder followed and I jumped with the noise, losing the silhouette, half-believing I never even saw it in the first place. The lightning picked up in intensity and with each burst, I could see the shadowy figure again. And each time it came closer. I couldn't distinguish any features on the face. The sky was as dark as it could be. The ghostly person floated our way without moving a leg, gracefully gliding along the emerald grass. Another flash of light revealed long hair curling in the wind. She was dark no matter how much light was produced, and didn't look real. She appeared more like a pencil drawing.

Flashes rapidly multiplied and the silhouette came even closer. I was scared stiff. The lightning created a strobe effect on the woman and it entangled me completely as I watched her features appear. She had come within thirty feet of us.

She was strangely beautiful, macabre with a dark serenity. I wanted to say something but the air around me was still and wouldn't move into my lungs. Pure like a memory, as if the atmosphere was my skin extended for a moment, I felt like the electric charge of the storm under my skin. The charge activated my senses and I inhaled. The air smuggled panic back inside of me and I was poised to run. Fear warned me that the approaching woman was a ghost and my common sense screamed it wasn't worth staying there to find out. My arm darted out and pulled on Randy. Trying to move him was like towing tons. I pleaded and yelled for him to move, but he barely swayed. The dulcet figure, enchanting Randy, closed to within fifteen feet when I sent a kick to the back of his knee. His weight stuttered and I caught him.

"Let's go," I barked as I dragged him away.

"But ...it's her," he pleaded, reaching out for her.

With my hands locked around his chest, I pulled his body as I walked backwards around the outside of the house like a mother pulling her kid through a toy store.

"We need to go back now. We need to," Randy said hysterically as I lugged him towards the car. He had no strength to fight me.

"I don't care," I mumbled tossing him into my passenger side. I slammed the door and the clouds let the rain loose as I drove off into the downpour.

On the entire drive home, he never looked anywhere but back and out the window.

Chapter 32

When we got home, my mother was ailing. Her face was ineffable. I prayed she'd make some show of emotion or at least crack a smile at dinner, but her eyes were glazed and her face was pale. I hoped she would fill with vigor after a night of sleep, but at breakfast she carried her tiny body awkwardly, limbs pendant as she struggled to raise a spoon to her thin lips.

"You boys headin' back soon?" she asked with the slightest smile.

Randy cracked his traditional smirk whenever she called us boys.

I spoke quickly, "No, Mom. I wanna stay with you."

"Yes, we would love to stay in your company," Randy added.

"Absolutely not boys, I won't have it," she said with the only fervor she showed our whole visit.

"Mom wait ..."

"I said no, dammit," she raised her voice, "You need to do well and not worry about me. I'm the mom. I'm supposed to worry about you, not the other way around."

I stood and took our plates to the kitchen as Randy and she talked. I returned and we talked for a couple of hours then left, on schedule but off kilter. The last thing I wanted to do is leave her alone at home but it was worse to get her all riled up. My goodbyes to my mother were long and emotional. We drove halfway home in silence as Randy pondered and I worried. I couldn't stand the quiet for long so I broke the silence.

"Randy?"

"What?"

"What about your family?"

"What about them?"

"Exactly. I don't know anything."

"I have a sister named Betsy."

"How old?" I asked with an excitement that I was actually getting some information.

"She is the youngest, but she is getting so old."

"Where's your family at Randy?"

"Around here."

"Well let's visit them," I said cheerfully, "I wanna meet them."

His lips pursed and a trembling hand covered his mouth. "All of them but Betsy are dead," he stated coldly and reluctantly.

I stopped questioning. Thoughts of my mother dying flooded into my mind and I could barely hold in the tears. The last thing I wanted to do was remind Randy of his losses. Angry images of my father popped into my head. I cursed him and drove on in silence.

Chapter 33

On an unseasonably warm spring morning, a day and a half after I visited home, I woke to the ringing of the phone. The sun heated my bedroom as I crossed in front of the window. I cleared my eyes and groggily answered.

"Boy," an effeminate voice said. I needed a couple of seconds to realize it was my mom's brother, Uncle Bill.

"Yeah," I answered still half asleep.

"Boy, I don't know how to tell you this..." he said sibilantly.

His lisp always annoyed me. As he spoke, I could see his fat jowls bouncing with his labored speech. Corpulent everywhere, his breathing was heavy in person but much more arduous over the phone. In all my experiences Bill came around for only one thing, money, but there was something genuinely turbulent humming deep within his throat, alerting me to a real problem.

"Your ma, her sickness yeah, well ...she's not gonna make it," Uncle Bill's voice crept with a sob, "Come home now."

I hung up immediately, told Randy and we both left.

The drive was dead silent. Randy seemed jittery.

We arrived at my mom's house late. Cars lined the driveway and people lined the hallway. I could see it in all of my relatives' eyes that my mother had died before a word was spoken. Amber had found her lying in her bed, quiet and still, just an hour or so before I arrived. I went straight into my old room and spoke to no-one. I didn't want to mourn or cry; I just wanted to sit. People came into my old room and asked me questions. I could see their lips moving, but I understood nothing. All I realized was that Randy was sitting on the bed next to me. My brain cataloged not a single shred of input until the day of her wake.

On that day, my senses devoured every detail. Amber, Randy, and I sat in the front row of seats at the funeral home. Rows and rows of relatives filled the space behind us. There were so many huge bouquets of flowers arranged around the casket that the room's white paint had no choice but to reflect all the reds and yellows. It was so bright it hurt. Tears stung my dry eyes. Saturnine pats on my shoulders expressed condolences as people walked by; they shook their heads and then visited the casket. But nothing blocked the red and yellow shine. The bouquet conflagration drove tears down my cheeks then the heat on my face evaporated them just as quickly. Sweat beaded along my brow and down my collar, while yet more relatives' added new floral arrangements to fuel the fire. The heat forced more perspiration down the small of my back.

Ready to burst into flames, I fled outside to cool down. Out in the open air, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes. My eyes cooled down quickly and I was relieved. Leaning against a support beam, I lit a cigarette. The damp, cool air tickled my pours as I puffed. Smoke in my eyes was better than tears. I was at peace for the moment. That tranquility collapsed when my sister burst out the doors. She swung the double doors open so hard they almost hit me. She was furious. I felt more heat secreting from her than there was inside. Just like her damned father.

"What're you doingm George?" she hissed, looking for a reason to explode.

"Um, what's it look like I'm doing?" I wanted to push her buttons. She never cared about Mother. The only good thing Mom did, according to Amber, was marry Dad.

"Get in there dammit, people are talking," she ordered.

"Tell them to fuck off."

"Dammit, George!" She blew up with a shocked look. "Don't embarrass me here you prick!

Show some respect."

"I am. I actually loved her."

Her cheeks ballooned into a violent crimson. Insults rushed to her conceited little head. She prepared to retaliate, but quickly kept them to herself out of fear of embarrassment.

"You know, sis," I posed, "What do you believe?"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" All her anger drained into confusion. Her short temper pulsed behind her eyes.

"What do you believe, Amber? Do you think she's in Heaven?"

"Um, yeah, sure she's in Heaven," she guessed as I tapped away ashes.

"Why do you think she's there?" I had no idea where I was going with my questions, but I just wanted to press all her buttons. She reluctantly pondered my questions and I waited for her to respond venomously.

"I hope she is, I know she is," Amber said triumphantly.

"You know she's there?"

"I hope she's there," she amended, following my lead.

"And what do you think Mom hoped for, sis?"

"What ...why? Huh? Where are you going with this? Tell me if you're so smart."

I leaned right into her face with my cigarette hanging out the corner of my mouth. The smoke made a thin, translucent shield between our faces and she squinted from the sting of the smog. She deserved this. My actions weren't venial, but the way she treated Mother...

"She got just what she hoped for. She escaped."

My sister's face sunk and she covered her mouth. I strolled out from underneath the canopy into the light rain, satisfied with my affront. She followed, hair draping into her face.

"Are you saying she committed ..." She gasped.

"No you idiot, she waited for her time," I interrupted. "You would think that."

"What the fuck are you saying, George?"

"You wouldn't know, would you?" I took another drag of my cigarette. "It's in your eyes, Amber, but you can't see it. You never cared. You'd rather see what suits you and not what's in front of you."

"How dare you. Aaargh. Asshole!" She yelled through her tears, "She was my mother too, damn you."

"How about Dad? You hope for him, too?"

"Leave him alone, you deranged freak." She whimpered.

I blew my smoke at her.

"It's your damn eyes again. Man, what it must be like to be you," I dug in on her. "You never knew him, Amber. He was nowhere near the idol you make him out to be."

"You're the one who left. You ran. I stayed. I may have been young but I remember that he was a better man than you'll ever be ...and that's what drove you away. You were jealous. You were the bad one."

I quickly grew sick of her. She wouldn't swallow the truth even if I forced it down. The rain began to fall harder and I enjoyed it. Water ran down my forehead and I stared at my feet, and then lifted my eyes to hers.

"Believe what you want sis," I said plainly. "But people are like clouds. If you look at them hard enough, you can see anything."

I turned my back on her and she cried. I crushed out my cigarette. Randy came out and she pushed past him as she ran back inside.

"You sure are good at that, George," Randy said watching her run.

"You want one?" I offered him a cigarette as I lit another.

"Yes," he said looking at my feet.

Randy looked more ravaged by depression than I felt. Under the awning, he puffed on his cigarette and watched me stand in the rain. The smoke encased his head, circling like a crystalline ghost, until the smog whisked off into the breeze. He bent his head into the wind and it blew by like an elusive memory. Stepping out into the drizzle, he let the rain patter off his trench coat and avoided eye contact with me. Sulking like he would burst if our eyes met, our moods blended into the misty rainfall.

"Are you alright, George?" He asked as the gray rain pierced the smoke hovering around his head.

"I've been better. Can't look me in the eyes, eh?"

"I just felt I should ..." he attempted, "I just don't know how to act ...I cannot do this."

"Don't worry, old bud, I don't know either. Just no acting, okay."

"I am sorry," Randy said after a moment's deliberation, "No acting."

"Was it painless?" I asked Randy, clearing the air. "Do think my mother suffered?"

Randy looked at me carefully, eyes glistening, staring past my eyes and right into my head. Everything on his face was rough. His heavy stubble and deep lines around every one of his features told me he was drained.

"George, I do not want ..."

"Tell me what she said to you when I was in the kitchen when we were here a couple days ago."

"I do not think I ..."

"Tell me!" I demanded.

"She was scared for you." A long, clear vein of tears streaked down his cheek, "Worrying about you and Amber. She did not say it, but I saw it."

"What did she say?" I almost yelled, pressing hard on him.

"Alright!" he almost screamed as well, "This is against my better judgment."

Randy grimaced and choked out a cough.

"'Do not let George run away anymore, Randy,' she said."

"Run - RUN! Dammit ..." I exploded, "She was the one that married that asshole."

Randy stood sulking in front of me, hating himself for having to tell me as I barked at him for my mother's words. It took me a few minutes to calm down. My eyes burned again. I walked in circles in the rain trying to cool off.

"George I am sorry, I ..."

"She's right, you know," I spoke up into the rain, "I ran from them. I ran from my problems. I run from it all."

"Do not worry about it George ..."

"I have to worry," I interrupted, "I'm the only one left to care."

"Come in George," he elbowed me, still keeping from eye contact like he knew something I didn't.

We slowly lumbered back inside and I stood before my mother. She looked cradled in her coffin all wrong. Her hair was done wrong. There was too much make-up on her cheeks. She was free, though. Finally she would able to be whom she wanted. Strangely enough, she looked more comfortable and relaxed I had ever seen her. I wondered if she really was that peaceful she must not be anywhere near my father. No, he shouldn't be anywhere near her where she is now.

The small seating area of relatives erupted into a hymn and it startled me. The room spun into a jumble of monotone lyrics. The flowers burned my eyes again but this time I stared at them without blinking. The fiery yellows and bright greens eddied together as my eyes blinked out of focus. The stems and blossoms melded into an inferno as I broke down and cried.

Chapter 34

After the funeral my family fell apart. Amber ran off to Boston, hoping to get lost in the crowd at age eighteen. I got the family affairs in order in her absence. She didn't disappear for long, though. She reappeared when I moved to the city after college. We crossed paths mere days after I arrived. I ran into her at a restaurant and we nervously exchanged numbers after awkwardly attempting to catch up on each other's lives.

"With the money willed to me," she said, "I'm set for college and an apartment. It's pretty damn cool."

"That's good," I took a swig from my beer. I wasn't about to tell her I was executor and gave her that money, but I think she knew and that was why she spoke to me. "Well, for me, well ...I haven't really found any work yet."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find something," she uttered, trying to be civil.

"Yeah," I replied unenthusiastically, "Um, Randy's doin' good."

"That's good," she said.

Amber took a swig of the mixed drink I bought her. Though she was underage, I figured alcohol would be a good gesture for us to build a concord from. Her pinky finger was in the air. The drink drooled down her chin. The drops beaded atop her chin and shot down to the bottom of her jaw. She moved the glass away and wiped away the liquid. That's when I saw something new.

"Hey Amber, what's with that scar below your lip? When did you get that?"

"Oh, um well," she stumbled, taking her time to answer, "In school ... I uh, was kinda drunk and met the corner of a counter. Bled like a stuck pig."

It was a labored and strange response. She chuckled a bit.

"It looks like a divot, more round than straight. Not like a counter's edge."

"Hey, I was drunk, alright," she snapped.

"Okay whatever," I said, writing it off.

The rest of the night went just as well, but we managed to maintain civility, even with so much animosity lingering.

After that night at the bar, we only talked when one of us needed a favor.

Chapter 35

Several weeks passed and she asked one of those favors of me. She asked me to watch her place while she was going on a trip. After ignoring her long list of rules for apartment etiquette, I waved goodbye as she slammed the apartment door, scampering to the car waiting in the street.

"I need a drink," I said.

I called Randy and we decided to go out to a bar. We hadn't been out drinking much since college ended.

Randy rarely drank heavily these days. I did. He always stayed sober. But this night turned out to be very different. He decided not to only drink, but to get drunk.

Even stranger was the fact that he never shivered. He had been doing that for as long as I knew him. He was always cold to the touch, especially during his strange convulsions, shivering from being cold I guessed. But he was flushed this night, drinking fast and playing with his cell phone. It worried me some, but I never asked about it.

"I'm sick of living like this," Randy stated after slamming down his sixth beer. A static hung in the air immediately followed his words. A heavy and foreboding sensation that I tried to shake off my shoulders.

"Like what?" I responded.

"Like prey."

"What? Oh, it's not another one of those beautiful poor, poor girls, chasing you down to judge more wet T-shirt contests."

"No, that was a once in a life-time event," he said half seriously and half joking, recalling that exact event from college.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I asked, realizing he was actually worried.

"You are one of the best friends I have had in all these years. You know that," he stated coldly, staring at me with trembling eyes.

I was scared. He was different; he seemed scared. I had never seen him like that. Something was definitely wrong.

He snapped his head up from his beer, raised his eyebrow, touched his finger to his nose, and then shook his head. Sniffing the air like a dog, it looked like he caught an aroma. He looked about the bar and stopped abruptly. Dire emergency spelled out across his face as if he had been spotted on a hunt. He turned to me.

"Let's go," he whispered.

Before I could think, he grabbed my hand and whisked me out of my seat. Money fluttered down onto the table. With a clank of the door we were outside, standing in the dispelled dusk with the moon at our backs.

Before I could take a breath, he cut left down the street, jerking us into a full sprint. The city lights blurred by. He ran with such speed that I quickly fell behind. I dragged my feet along the cement trying to keep pace. A hidden hole in the sidewalk caught my shoe and I tripped. Randy's hold was steady and my knuckles popped in his hand as my face plummeted towards the cement. I tried to brace for impact with my free hand, but I was trapped in Randy's grasp. He heaved with a massive jolt and ripped me away from hitting the ground and swung me into an alley.

Randy pressed his back up against the brick wall. He was still for a moment then slowly slid back towards the corner to watch the street. His leather jacket quietly hissed along the red brick as he inched along. The moonlight beat down through the gritty city air and perched on his head and shoulders gently. Randy peered around the corner and scanned for something or someone. I, on the other hand, was bent over in a heap, tired and panting.

"What ...what the hell...was that for?" I wheezed.

"Listen, I have to tell you something ..." he looked at my trembling body and continued, "I spent some time in prison years ago, before I met you. Times were rough then and I was actually somewhat glad to be away from the world."

Randy slowed his speech and caught his breath. I tried to catch mine.

He settled for the time being, apparently feeling safe enough to burst into a story.

"You were in jail?" I asked. "What for? What does this have to do..."

"I had a cellmate," Randy continued, ignoring my question. "He gave me something and wants it back. I never thought I would have to deal with him again. He was put to death for Christ's sake."

"He's dead?" I rattled off, trying to absorb the tale.

"Yes and after me. Oh God. I lulled myself into false confidence after all this time. I have been foolish."

"How? Foolish? If he's dead, he can't just run around after you, idiot," I snapped feeling like he was pulling a prank.

"He is. He must have made a deal with that damn demon to come after me. Raised from the dead to kill me to get the gift back," he said.

"Oh yeah, that's good and all," I said, walking away from him, "But what about the fact that, um ...you're fucking nuts."

"I do not expect you to understand. I just ask you to believe me right now."

"You're right, I don't understand and I think you've lost it, man. You drank too much. It's been awhile since you've been drunk ...if this is some damn prank like when you ..."

"It is not."

"Alright, fine then, I'll play along. But if this ends up being another prank I'll kill you. So, let's just say you're in danger. What the hell is the gift? Why does he want it back? And if you do have it, just give it back."

"He wants it back because he loved doing what the gift does," Randy said looking around again.

"Well, that's helpful."

Randy's voice relaxed and his body loosened up. His face unwrinkled and his shoulders sank. And as quickly as he dragged me away, Randy walked into the street as if nothing happened like he was taking a stroll. I stood in the alley perplexed and angry.

"We are safe, I think he left. I cannot smell him now. But we will have to keep a look-out," he stated.

"Oh no, you don't. You have to explain this," I demanded.

"Just wait and ..."

I knew one moment could change a life. I think of my father to answer that. But this moment was far different and it came from nowhere. A black smudge of a figure, shrouded by a flapping long coat that spread out like bat wings, pounced on Randy. I stumbled backwards into the brick wall. I was stunned.

The dark person was so large that he eclipsed Randy with darkness as he pounded on him both fists. The attack happened so quickly that I barely had time to gasp. They struggled on the sidewalk. Randy writhed, trying to break free. The dark figure landed more jabs until Randy collapsed to the ground and the figure fell off him. Randy stood and grabbed the figure by the shoulders. With a grunt, Randy heaved him out into the street. The figure's black coat fluttered around his head and curled him into a ball as he rolled.

I ran over to Randy to see if he was all right. His left had landed heavily on my chest, holding me back. His shoulders heaved as he caught his breath.

"Hey, Randy what the hell is going on?"

A rumble sounded. A delivery truck screeched down the street. The dark figure slowly rose into a hunch, his dark coat dripping down to the oily street. There was no difference between his darkness and the streets. He stared at us from the middle of the road, anger and grit smeared across with what could be seen of his face. With outstretched and contorted fingers, the massive figure stepped forward to charge, snarling in the bright streetlights. The city lights blinded me, but the headlights were brighter. The horn had less than a second to sound before the truck barreled into the dark figure.

The hulking shape tumbled on top of the hood. He rolled up the windshield and onto the top of the truck. He slid, face first along the entire length of the top as the driver slammed on the brakes. The giant figure dropped from the top and down the side. He quickly found a grip on the edge of the truck but couldn't hold it for long and plummeted down the side. A bloody stain streaked a swift brushstroke of maroon along the stark white frame. His body hit the ground and the truck rolled over him, coughing the body out further down the block.

"We are leaving," Randy ordered and grabbed my hand. "Now!"

Running swifter than before, Randy never looked back. But I did. A crowd began to gather around the run-over figure. Several huddled around him as some shouted out for aid. From what I could see from the corner of my eye, the onlookers around him backed away from him as he picked up his own hulking body off the cement.

Chapter 36

We retreated to my sister's place at Randy's request. I mulled about the place while Randy slept. I was pacing over every inch of the apartment. I walked a few steps, ran into a picture of Amber, took a few more steps away, and ran into more pictures. Her face and the faces of her friends littered every open space. I grew tired of seeing her and wandered into the bathroom. I washed my face and looked up into the large mirror. I turned and caught my reflection in three other places. How vain do you have to be to have four mirrors in your bathroom? I shook my head in disgust and walked into the living room, beginning to worry about the problem at hand.

Randy awoke from his nap on the couch. I sat on the recliner adjacent to him, impatiently playing its arm like a piano, wanting to ask him thousands of questions. My mind was swirling and I couldn't figure out what to ask first.

"What was with that guy? Why did he attack you? You said he's dead? How? What? And you said something about a demon," I said, finally spewing all my curiosity.

"Can I wake a little more?"

I gave him a wide-eyed stare. I couldn't wait. Already waited long enough.

"Well ...um, I ...well. To explain the demon part ...well I am not totally sure what it is," Randy said, rubbing his eyes. "All I know is that it is watching me. I only see it once in a great while. I assume it is a demon because it is always dressed in dark robes and has red glowing embers for eyes and charred skin. It torments me, like it did the convict. It loves to watch me work. Sick one it is."

"To do what? To watch what!"

"Kill." Randy locked with my eyes, cutting up the air between us. "To take the lives of people when it is their time."

"Kill?" I asked, fearing he had lost his mind.

"Yes," he said. "The gift was forced unto me by the convict and was given to him by the demon. The convict enjoyed it, like I said, but had to give it up before he went to the electric chair." Randy looked away from me and towards the crack between the drapes. "It has been sixty years since I last saw him."

"Sixty years! Impossible. You don't look a day over twenty-five," I yelled, "How do you expect me to believe all this."

"The gift slows the aging of its symbiotic host. Listen, I went into prison in the thirties, during the depression, for something I did not do. On a terribly rainy night, that still crashes in my head, I met the convict."

"Good God," I uttered.

"Not to me."

I didn't get it. A bit of an overload, if you ask me. He was crazy. He had to be. But as I thought on his words, strangely enough, I believed him and then knew I could go crazy.

Between the attack and Randy's certainty, I had enough trust in him that I

wanted to believe him. But that was as far as I could leap at that moment.

"You think I am mad."

"It's a lot to ...I just think ...oh shit." I leaned back further in the recliner, gripping the arms tightly, not knowing how to react. The soft velvet bristled against my hands as I tore small finger holes into them, feeling the soft fluffy cotton inside. "This is all too sudden."

A rancor wiped over Randy's face. He looked pained. The muscles in his face quickly loosened as he leaned back in his chair and began to convulse slightly. He rubbed his palms along the cushions of the couch, lightly at first, like he was caressing a woman. Then his chest erupted skyward into a violent heave and his hands slinked into his black long coat. His back arched and his convulsions grew intense. His eyes rolled back in his head to where only the whites showed and his blue button-up shirt strained and stretched against his chest. I watched him go into a fit. A horror built inside me that made my hair stand on end.

"Watch this," he whispered, "You will believe me."

As quiet as his whisper, he let out a breath that shot out a thin blue light. The light was so brisk that I wasn't sure if I even saw it. Then his body went limp. I released the arms of the chair from their torture and leaned in towards my best friend. Hovering over him, I surveyed him with my eyes as much as possible, not trusting the unpredictable situation. I held his right wrist and couldn't find a pulse. He was clammy and cold, enveloped by a strange sense of frailty. Lumped in the chair like a sick infant without the means to move, a frigid air circled around his body.

Dear God, he's dead!

I tried to shake him awake, but no matter how hard I pulled at him, his body was limp. My mind raced and I panicked. I looked about the room searching for something, but I didn't know what. I rested my finger below his nose and felt no breath. I contemplated CPR but I didn't know how to administer it beyond what I've seen in TV. Gathering my wits in a solemn breath, I stood and debated to move him; he looked so uncomfortable slouching in the chair.

The room's stark white walls became bright and I had to squint. I carefully reached to lift him up, but goose bumps littered my skin and stopped me. I didn't want to touch him. I didn't know what to do. I took a deep breath to calm myself. Slowly and safely I reached my hands under both his armpits. I locked my knees and lifted him. His head cocked back on his limp neck and I jerked trying to catch it. His gaping mouth shut with a hard snap of chattering teeth and I jerked his body to get a better stance. Protective of his head as it rolled onto his left shoulder, I flinched, thinking I was hurting him. Silence tickled my ears as Randy limply pressed against me.

"Sorry," I whispered to him.

No breath or sound stirred anywhere. I put my ear to his chest and it was vacant of a recognizable heartbeat. My eyes were wild. I scanned over his pallid face and felt nauseous. I thought I was holding a corpse. My fingers trembled and I began to loose my grip.

"No, you can't be dead Randy, no ...I don't know what to do." I said beginning to sob. "This isn't real, you feel like a doll. You can't be dead!"

I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself again. My teeth began to chatter.

"911. I'll call 911," I rationalized.

Through my wet eyes, I scanned the apartment for the phone.

Randy's head rolled back. I stopped. I looked at him curiously. His limp body became heavier and my muscles tried to compensate. His muscles tensed and I held strong. His pale skin began to color. A shiver ran over my flesh like a frigid stream as life flushed back into him. My heart skipped a beat and I let go of him. Randy shot back to life like a bolt of lightning powered him. Color returned to his face. I stumbled backwards and hit the floor. He rolled his eyes forwards and reached out to me.

"That was a really long one," he said.

"What the HELL was that?!"

"The gift in action. No-one has ever seen it take place like you just did. Well, that I know of. Tell me, what exactly did I do?"

"Al ..." I muttered in shock.

"What? Al?"

"Al .... Al ....Alcohol. I need a drink."

Chapter 37

It was hard to settle down and even harder to find a bottle in my sister's house. Thankfully, a bottle of whiskey was hidden behind the breakfast cereal cabinet in the kitchen. Pouring a full glass, I splashed in some ice and sat back down. Even after a few big gulps, I was still bewildered. I scanned around her apartment looking for a distraction, but came across more pictures of my sister littering the walls. I rolled my eyes and scanned further until I came across a small crucifix. It was our grandmother's; it didn't seem to fit well in her place. It captured my attention. The depiction of Christ was dreary and his penitent eyes stared at me. Our eyes locked until I shook my head and realized I was staring at a sculpture. I looked at Randy but was quickly drawn back to the sculpture. Then it began to hit me. I wondered if we'd ever be safe from persecution.

I swirled the ice around the walls of the glass to distract myself. In vain, I repeatedly attempted to talk to Randy, but when I opened my mouth my bottom lip would just dangle. With every failed word that wouldn't come out of my mouth, I compensated with another drink. He had explained so much to me as I drank yet so much didn't want to make sense. It all seemed so damned magical; like some unreal fantasy. I stopped believing in such childish things long ago. But that massive convict was definitely not fantasy. Larger than life but not fantasy.

"The convict will come again," Randy warned. "He is linked or informed in some manner. He knows when I kill and seems to be able to hone in and follow some trail I leave. I will be found no matter what efforts I make to stay hidden."

I noticed he called it killing, like he was fully responsible. He didn't seem responsible for much when he was dead limp in my arms.

"What's the deal with him anyway?" I asked.

"The convict? Well, from what I have pieced together, he is old. The demon had made a deal with him centuries ago. His soul for the gift. He lived on but was apprehended in the thirties and pushed into my cell. That's most of what I know. His arrest was the end of him and the beginning for me. The demon obtained the gift somehow, gave it to the convict, and he gave it to me. I've searched the gift, asked it questions and probed it for information. But I cannot seem to wrestle much out of it."

"Why now? Why is he after you now?'

"I have been ...well, let us just say that I have been less than enthusiastic about the role I have been playing. Since the convict died, it appears I have been given a trial run to fill his shoes. I figure the demon uses the gift to torment the convict. After many decades, the gift has grown and taken its toll on me. The demon knows that the convict is faithful and maybe even addicted to the gift. The demon knows it has a servant in the convict. Which makes me expendable. He brought the convict back for an encore because it is sick of dealing with me."

"Alright. Whatever. It's still a bit of a tall tale, but I trust you. I don't know why, but I do. But now what?"

I watched him rise and walk to the window and realized why I believed him. I knew I was tangled in this already, somewhere deep down I knew, yet I couldn't help but to wonder when I knew. With my mother? With my father? I could never know, I can only remember what seemed important. But I think I believed him because deep down I knew much more than I was willing to admit. That and, as I retell this, I cannot remember a time, it seems, that this gift didn't haunt me in some way or another.

Randy brushed the curtain aside and looked toward the afternoon sun that illuminated him for the first time in hours. He leaned his left hand onto the window and sunk his head down. My sister would have instantly yelled at him for leaving a greasy handprint, but the scene looked like a painting. All the glowing brightness of the sun peeked through the crack in the curtain as it tumbled down on Randy, over his black trench coat. It was a painting that a master would have done. The moment carried the burden he was lugging. His life, my life, and everyone else's in fact were resting in his hands. Resting there, waiting for their fate. As his shoulders drooped I could imagine that he could see all his victims asking him, with their big, round, childlike eyes if everything was going to be all right. Hoping that he wouldn't fail.

He lifted his head and turned to me, revealing a twinkling wet line that ran down his cheek.

Randy had never cursed, been derogatory, or shown an abundance of emotion until recently. But now, he was crying. I knew that he had more years than anyone to reflect and change his ways, but he was stubborn and all his years had probably made him even more stubborn. Seeing him cry, I knew he was scared for his life for the first time in his six decades, but I don't think that was why he cried. I think it was for me. He had dragged me into a situation of life and death and didn't know how to save me.

The difficulty of understanding his own death, since he had been Death for a lifetime, was understandable. Yet he knew more about demise than anyone. Randy had seen plenty of people scared to die, but experiencing the fear of death for the first time in ages was completely different. His tears told me that he realized he hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with it. Knowing he was being watched and his days being numbered finally broke him down, but with a stiff hand and pride, he wiped his tears away.

"No. Death comes only in moments of weakness and I will be strong. I will beat this demon. My own and the other," he spoke to the window.

"We will find a way," he said, turning to me. And I believed him again.

Chapter 38

We tried to stay out of my sister's place as much as possible, only using it for sleeping and bathing. Randy figured the convict and the demon would show up there once I was involved. We ate out often, caught lots of movies, and wandered the city. We did whatever we could to stay occupied and keep our spirits up, but we only had a week and a half left until my sister came home and only so much money.

One sunny day, when out walking to get groceries, I noticed a church up a block ahead of us.

"Could we hide out in a church Randy?"

"No."

"Why not? It's holy ground. Demons are unholy. Makes sense to me."

"That does not matter," Randy answered.

"Fine then," I pouted.

Randy let out a sigh, "What do you want to know, George?"

Biting on my lower lip, I asked, "How did this all come about? Why doesn't the church protect us?"

"I truthfully do not know. I have pieced together much from the sparse memories of the convict left in the gift," Randy replied then sighed. "It is all about sparse memories. And only the bad ones. It skips over all the good in my life and the convict's life..."

He paused and in his head, I'm sure he followed with "...and your life."

I might have caught it then but I didn't realize it later.

"Yet" Randy continued. "I have no idea where or how the gift originated and I really do not care. There is no reason to wonder."

"Is it the devil?" I asked as we both stopped in front of the church.

"No, I do not think so."

"This all doesn't sound much like what the Bible or anything else says about death," I queried.

"I have given up on figuring that out. All the holy books are either misinterpreted too much to trust fully or this may have nothing to do with any religion."

"How can that be?" I asked. "What else is there?"

"Everything. Everything is your answer. Everything down here. All I know is what I am. Nothing else matters. The best that I can figure is that I am to play this game and take lives from people. From the good and the bad. I am not privy to the great scheme of life, if there even is one. What I do know is that I feel like a vigilante. All the evidence I have gathered is so shaky that no logic stands strong. All I do is take souls, I do not even know where they go and why I take them."

I could tell Randy was growing weary, but he knew I was curious. It was better to have me know the ropes than go into the ring blindfolded.

"All right, that's enough school for now. Let's go home," I concluded.

We walked in silence for a moment. My legs and arms felt heavy.

"Let us spend the rest of the week here and then head to my sister's place," Randy added, changing the subject. "It is only fair, plus she is not too far from here."

"Oh yeah, that's right," I said, "How old is your sister?"

"She is about eighty," Randy answered.

My eyes bulged in amazement as I stared at him. I quickly blinked and shook my head. "Yeah, I forget that you stayed looking like a super-model."

"I guess," he smirked. "Do not make fun or I will get a group of my model friends to vomit on you."

He lightened up for the first time in days. That quick smile he flashed got me thinking about our carefree college days. He reverted back into the Randy I knew so well, the one I knew before I knew he had the gift. Well, before I knew he had it. I began to wonder how he was so carefree in college with such a depressing burden on his soul. I guessed he had gotten used to the struggle, but my real worry was that if he was able to be so jovial with the gift before, why is he so sad now? Does he know something? Does he know he or I will die?

I cut off my line of thinking and focused back on Randy. It was nice to see him this way again even it was only for a short time.

"So I guess it must have been hard for your sister to watch you stay the same age while her and your family grew old?" I questioned.

"I imagine her friends thought she had a young gentleman caller as of late," Randy laughed and then quickly turned serious. "Her and her husband had been the greatest help to me all these years. Well, until her husband died."

Randy became encompassed in a far-off and remorseful gaze then continued, "I wish I could see my niece and nephews more, though."

"Seems she's quite the sneak," I said.

"She was and still is perfect."

We continued to walk until we passed the church and a gated cemetery appeared from around the corner. Randy quickly became fully engrossed with the graveyard.

"What do you see?" I asked.

In an unexpected turn, Randy ran for the cemetery. All the groceries he was carrying plummeted to the sidewalk and he sprinted away from me. I leaned over and scooped up the bags between the things I was carrying and watched him. He stopped at the fence that lined the cemetery and stared in. Walking along slowly, he gripped each thin metal bar of the fence like he was hunting something. Eventually, he stopped and peeked his nose through the bars as if he spotted prey.

I slowly followed, but couldn't see much. I tried not to disturb him. We both must have looked ridiculous. I got about ten feet from him when he slapped his hand against the bars, creating a low vibrating hum.

"Damn it," he said.

"What?"

"Come out you coward," he yelled, ignoring me, "You are always around, stalking, lurking, scheming - just show your putrid face!"

A flock of pigeons fluttered a fit into the air, scattering off far and away.

"What're you ..."

Randy ran around the fence into the cemetery, erratically weaving past headstones. His boots were loose and he couldn't maintain much speed, but didn't go far until he slapped his hands atop a tombstone.

"You are worse than a disease," Randy said, turning around and walking back towards me, "At least a disease has the guts to stick around to fight."

A little rattled and confused, I watched from behind the bars as his shadow stretched out towards my feet. Randy flipped up the bottom of his black trench coat, leaned up against the palisade with his back facing me, and sat on the grass. He raised his hand and gave a big wave for me to join him. Air hung low and damp around us, heavier than the surrounding smoggy streets. Wind trembled by unevenly, but never disturbed the humid air. It became cumbersome to breathe.

"Come on in," Randy beckoned. "It is safe."

"No way, graveyards give me the creeps, and especially more so now," I replied as I leaned against the fence. Dusk was falling fast yet gently.

"Come George, this is the most peaceful place I know of," Randy implored.

"There's just something about a place with a bunch of dead people...it's unsettling."

"George, you have no idea."

The graveyard was spacious. It looked too big to be inside the city. It should be out in the open, not able to be compared to the skyscrapers. Yet Randy fit right in with the tombstones. I had a strange feeling so I stayed out.

"It is nice not to see faces, though," Randy blurted.

"What faces?" I asked trying to keep up.

"Anyone's. These people here don't have faces anymore. They're all dead and gone, only left in someone else's memories. Not mine."

"What're you talking about Randy?" I asked, growing worried.

"I have to look into their faces, into their eyes. I retrieve their souls from their mouths so they see me when I take it. All of them, every single one, look into my eyes. Then they give me a look."

"A look of what?"

"Of terror, of hope, of distrust - the point is, whatever the look is, it is their last. And it is horrid. I have to see his or her eyes tremble and lips plead, and it seems to be a new look each time from each person. Their souls get sucked out so quickly, that it is like looking at the sun. The image is permanently burned into my mind. After awhile, I got used to it and began to purposely look. Now, I have to see. I had to remind myself of just what I am. I am a killer. A vigilante. I just wish I knew my purpose. Death has me and life cannot outweigh it. I cannot ..."

"Take it easy Randy," I interrupted.

He sat there for a moment, deciding not to finish his sentence. He diverted himself to the ground and dug into the soil. Fingers burrowing deep, he slowly scooped up a chunk of dirt and grass, lifted it up to his face, and stared at it strangely like it induced a memory. A recollection that hurt him deeply. The way he was examining it - the sorrow in his face - began to worry me.

Randy studied the clump briefly, dust and dirt raining through his fingers, as the grass danced free into the wind. He fixed his gaze to his feet and wiped away some of the dirt that trickled onto him. The wind quickly changed directions and gusted back at his face, stabbing the grass blades that blew away, against his cheeks.

"You see? Everything I do will come back to me. I am going to get what I give."

"Randy ..." I nagged.

"Do not worry. I am Death," he replied looking up from his boots.

"Don't do this to yourself Randy."

"The people in the crowds hold the most anxiety though," he interrupted, "More than what will happen to me. For them, anyone could be next; no-one knows. At least I know what my fate is."

I couldn't help but think about the simple tasks in a day that are devastatingly impaired by the gift. Even just walking down the street must be a chore. The people in the crowds must have given him a kind of opposite paranoia. Instead of someone in the crowd looking for him, out there with anonymous iniquity, he was looking for someone in the crowd. Never knowing whom. Everyone was painted with a bloody target; a mark that can't be seen until it's too late. I finally realized why he kept to himself. Once he got to know someone, he could be sent to take his or her life without warning. It was the unluckiest draw, chosen from some other authority, and he didn't want to get close to any potential victims. Close to anyone.

"Hey Randy, let's get out of here. Everything has come to a head and you need some sleep."

"Do you ever wonder if you're going to Heaven or Hell, that is, if there is even the choice?"

Randy said, focusing solely on me with his big round eyes.

"Until a little while ago, I wasn't sure if there were such places," I said.

"I wonder all the time."

"Obviously. You deal with death everyday," I tried to comfort him, still wanting to leave. My feet itched to run away.

"Besides, it is different for me. I do not think it is a tough decision with me."

"How do you mean?"

"I am Death," Randy said, letting his legs rest limply on the ground, leaning his full body weight against the fence, "I am not exactly the highest on the good list."

"But people have to die, it's a part of life. There has to be someone to take them there. Wherever that is. So what, you're not a saint, big deal."

"Yes ...but when you get the gift passed on by a demon ..."

"You don't know, so don't assume you're doomed," I scolded.

"Guilty by association," Randy said, "I have to be just as evil as the demon who gave me this. I still cannot believe I got you into this, George."

"Hey, I could have walked away, but there's no way I'm doing that to you. I'll see this through. Besides, you admitted you don't know all the facts. This all could work out."

"You are right, but I should not have burdened you with this."

"Over and done with, Randy. Let's just focus on what we know and what we can do, alright?"

"Alright," Randy said gathering himself.

"So," I said. "What do we know?"

"That for the last two hundred years, Death has been misplaced, infecting only two people."

"Sounds like a virus."

I shivered under a sudden realization. He was there when both my parents died. I felt like a fool only realizing it then. Randy noticed and paused.

"Indeed," Randy continued. "One that needs to be diagnosed. Over two hundred years without a cure. I was always hoping in the back of my mind that some mystical creature would just come down, find me and the gift, and end everyone's misery. But it is time to look at this more scientifically."

"Well, we can't cure death. Right? I wouldn't want to."

"True, but I feel like I want to. Death is different when it is inside you. Violence is prevalent, but the world is still caring. Existence is brief, but drags on. Life is precious and belittled. There is no fear left when death cannot scare you. No safety either." Randy's face grew melancholy. "I bet it was beautiful before the convict took over."

"Dying?"

"I bet Death, whatever it was, saw dying like it is suppose to be. Another stage in living and not a pitiful, degrading hindrance that ..."

Randy jittered into a convulsion. I knelt, staying behind the fence, and watched through the bars. He stared out into the rustle of green leaves, gray tombstones, and navy blue sky. The sun spewed long, warm shafts of light across the city, delaying its duties on the other hemisphere to hover around Randy, melting his stoic nature and frozen skin. He jolted awake a few seconds later.

"...cries within their eyes."

"You alright, Randy?"

"Yes." He sat sullen. "I am glad some people put coins over the deceased's eyes so I do not have to see them look for long."

I wondered more about my parents, hoping my father was far away from my mother.

"The bad people must go to Hell, though," I hoped.

"They're still human. Even Hitler. I do not lose any sleep, but the others..."

Hitler. Randy had taken millions of souls in the wars, plenty of famous people; popes and presidents; he knows lots of secrets.

I was lost in the thought and missed Randy's change in mood. His face drowned under a realization as he jumped to his feet. Drawn by the cemetery, Randy sprinted deeper inside towards some unknown goal. He meandered around gravestones and followed the breeze like there was a compelling scent upon it. The wind stopped him before one grave. Mounds of dirt were piled up like a wall, pushed up by the casket lid, which overshadowed a six-foot deep hole.

"Well, there it is," Randy said looking over the chasm. "Proof."

Randy looked skyward and closed his eyes, wiping his hand over his face repeatedly like it was covered with foul sludge. He violently scraped at whatever he thought soaked his skin, but it seemed to stain him all the way to his tormented heart. The blood of the souls sullied his hands and smeared across his face in shame.

"HE gave me what killed my niece," Randy muttered as he pointed to the empty grave. "I came here once, and only once, right after I left my sister in the hospital. I wanted to put a boulder over his grave. Or dig him up and drive a stake through him or tie him down so this did not happen. But I never thought he would return."

He snapped out of his reverie, but continued on the same subject.

"I have to take the children too. All ages. They stare the worst. They look straight into my black soul and know what I am taking and scream for mercy until my ears bleed. They almost trust me at first, like I am an imaginary friend unlike anyone they have seen before. They...they do not deserve that."

"Let's get you out of here," I said, desperate to leave the graveyard.

He slowly nodded and we walked back to my sister's place. Fear seemed to have clawed deep divots of weakness into Randy. I hoped he could find a way to heal or work past it. I still had to help him no matter how much my gut screamed for me to run.

Chapter 39

I stumbled around Amber's apartment, cleaning to stay busy during the day while Randy slept. Tremors troubled his sleep, and I couldn't imagine what kind of dreams he endured.

The following afternoon, he shot upright and looked around for clues to where he was.

"Well hello, you've been sleeping for almost twenty-four hours," I informed him.

"We need to leave," he insisted.

He rose and picked up the phone. He called Betsy and alerted her that we would be heading to her house immediately. Randy wrote down directions on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. We hopped into the car and took a long quiet drive in which Randy slept even more.

"So can the demon be killed?" I asked as I turned down the street Betsy lived on.

"I do not know. I have never tried to kill it," he said sleepily. "Never had the opportunity."

I should have started talking earlier because he pointed to her house. I stared at the numbers on her mailbox and pulled the car up. It was about an hour and a half drive out of the city to her house.

After Randy fully woke, we sluggishly got out of the car and walked up the old cement steps. The house was a simple brick ranch with a porch in front, in which I imagined she would sit in her wicker rocking chair. I could see her bring the radio out to listen to as she knitted a quilt or stitched a Christmas stocking for her grandchildren. The grass was a long deep green, uncut for months. The neighboring houses were almost identical, lined up in unimaginative rows. I envisioned children playing about the streets, footballs and baseballs cutting across the happy atmosphere, far from dark troubles.

Randy rang the doorbell. Floorboards creaked behind the door and a misty silhouette appeared in the clouded glass and hobbled towards us. Chains and locks disengaged along the jam as Betsy, wearing a blue robe, answered the door with a smirk on her face. The smile grew to twice the size when she saw Randy. She scooped him into a tight hug and began to cry. After a minute of joyful sobbing, she very slowly retreated to look him over.

"Looking the same I see. Who's your friend?"

"He knows, Betsy. We need to talk," Randy quickly said, placing his hand gently on her cheek.

"I'm sure. But after I entertain you both. More pleasantries and less business, Randy. Come on in, any friend of my brother's is a friend of mine."

She was a sweet lady. Her white hair hugged her round jaw and pink cheeks. Beautiful features hid behind her wrinkled skin, bristling with the life of a teenager, but impeded by frail bones and a weak heart. And never mind her ailments, she insisted on waiting on her guests and making sure we were comfortable.

Randy sprawled out on her couch and I chose one of the chairs next to it. I looked around and noticed the pictures of family and friends on her wall. I left the plastic-covered chair, making for the pictures while Betsy was pouring drinks. I glanced over a few images of her immediate family and all the grandchildren she held dear, until one struck me. The picture was ancient and slightly tattered and yellowed. It was a man in his early teens in a cheap suit and tie, holding a smile that must have been forced on at gunpoint.

"It's you, Randy," I blurted stupidly.

He groggily turned and looked, checking what I was looking at.

"Of course," he said and turned back to his blank stare.

He probably knows his face better than anyone in the world does. Even better than the actors and models that see themselves on television all the time and stare at themselves in the mirror. Even better than Amber. Sixty years of staring at the exact same face, at the exact same features that haven't aged at all.

"Young man! Get your feet off my couch," Betsy blurted at Randy as she emerged from the kitchen with glasses of wine.

Randy shot up straight on the couch. I turned and sat back down, making a louder crinkling noise than when I stood. Randy stood and walked over to the wall of pictures, fixated on his picture. He pulled it off the wall and studied it. Apparently bored of his ancient image, he placed it on the nearby desk, and scavenged about for a few things around the desktop.

"You forget that I am older than you Bets," Randy jested as he fiddled with the picture frame.

Randy gazed at his picture and rubbed his thumb along the wooden frame.

"And you forget that I actually am old," she retorted. "Keeping your secrets gets harder when I can't remember much."

The wineglasses trembled and clanked while she balanced them on a silver platter. I assisted Betsy with the drinks. I noticed that neither of the two wished to start talking about anything serious.

"Come and sit down, Randy," Betsy asked her brother.

He stopped fiddling with the picture frame and sat back down. We each grabbed a glass of wine and I drank while Randy held his in his hands, swirling the liquid around in the glass. It took a moment for him to lift his head up to look at Betsy. I didn't see the look, but I saw Betsy's response. Her eyes were sweet until they met with Randy's. The twinkle left her eyes and concern spread over her soft face and cracked her eyes bloodshot. The lines in her brow chased after her receding hairline. Her smile disappeared.

"You've been through worse, Randy, whatever's going on," she said.

"No, I have not," he stated and proceeded to tell her about what had happened.

"Well you're not going to beat this by bitching, dear."

"You are right, I know, but it is just getting so much harder than ever before."

"Welcome to getting old. Besides, you say that every time I see you. Speaking of which, why did you come this time?" Betsy asked. "Don't get me wrong, I love the visit, but you have that all-too-familiar expression that you need me to help out."

"No ...Yes, I just ...I needed to see you and I wanted you two to meet," he replied. "You two are all I have got."

He glanced at me then moved onto her. He looked like he could have busted out crying at any moment, but he held the reins on his emotions tightly.

"I haven't always been able to understand what you live with Randy, but I do know that life is more than the opposite of death. We must all share to get through it."

"Betsy, you are always right," Randy said, appearing comforted.

My heart lightened just seeing him smile at us. Betsy successfully reaffirmed his stubborn shell of persistent hope, telling her brother without words that this is just another obstacle in his life of death. Fighting his hardest against his lingering and compromising fears, I watched a solitary tear slip from his eye and it disturbed whatever confidence he gained over all his blackened years. It was almost comforting to see him cry though, seeing his humanity, until I remembered that he isn't healing or venting, but slowly losing his grip.

"Excuse me," Randy said and rose to go to the bathroom, crinkling the plastic covering of the couch.

Chapter 40

I sat sipping my wine, transfixed on my half-empty glass. It sure wasn't half full. I began to swirl the crimson liquid around the cup, watching it flop around clumsily, jerking with my unsteady hand. The flowing red thickness of the wine looked like blood. I dismissed the notion immediately with a quiet laugh at myself for being so superstitious. I had a gulp. My throat closed off instantly and the wine tasted putrid. I swished it around my mouth, but once it was on my tongue, a gag reflex begged me to spit it out. Tears began to brim and I forced myself to swallow the liquid in one hard and labored gulp. I was never so glad to get something out of my mouth. I flopped my tongue about and couldn't get rid of an acrid metallic taste.

Gazing at the glass, I placed it back on the table carefully and gently, nearly scared of it. I began to wonder if it actually transformed right in my mouth. With all the oddities that I had been experiencing over the last few days, I began to believe that the wine had changed.

Something stirred inside me that began to reassemble the pieces of my youth. My incredulity and skepticism started to dissolve under the mighty force of faith. I quickly found myself with the ability to believe in the supernatural again.

"How long has he been like that?" Betsy asked once Randy closed the bathroom door.

"A while," I replied, pinching the top of my nose. I shook my head in disbelief at the taste still in my mouth.

"Dear, you must listen to me carefully." She paused to lick her lips and beckon me closer.

"He has never been this bad before you know." She fixated on my eyes, trying to beat answers out of my brain. "He hasn't cried since he was a schoolboy. He didn't even cry at our parents'

funeral, and judging by how placidly you reacted to his tears, I gather this is not the first time?"

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"You have to help him. I trust his judgment, but I don't want to lose him again ..."

Softly sobbing into her cupped hands, her sorrow disturbed me. I reached out my hand and it landed on her knee in a futile attempt at comfort. She looked up at me and her face hit me like I was watching an old friend suffer. Pity and love welled in my belly. Her face was a pale, snowy white with her eyes sunk deep into her skull, as if grief had been punching her for years. Her mouth was a small line cut into lifeless cheeks. I could see every puffy blue vein on her hand as it landed on mine.

I didn't cry; I was too tired. But I leaned over the small distance between us and hugged her. She released the slightest sigh of relief in my embrace. I hoped it was because she knew that I wouldn't let him down.

A crash broke us apart. We dashed to the bathroom to find Randy convulsing. We stood in the doorway and watched like young children observing a dying animal, gazing in a frightful and all encompassing awe. Twinges shook down his limbs, flickering in unison with the lights. The strobe effect made it difficult to see him. Betsy slid a feeble hand over her gaping mouth and shuddered.

After a moment the lights and Randy stopped sputtering. He awoke to find himself hunched over the sink, braced on the porcelain, sweat soaking his shirt. He cleared his hair from his long face and wiped his mouth.

"It was the old pervert from the end of the block, Bets. I just took him. They have found us," he rattled off with wild eyes, urgency written all over his face.

Betsy nodded and Randy grabbed my sleeve tightly and led me out of the house. We crashed out of the door and into the dark street. Orange streetlights shone down in rigid sheets. As far down as my vision would allow, I could see nothing other than pockets of light on an old road.

Randy paused by the car and scanned the penumbra of the night, but found that it wouldn't yield any of its secrets. We appeared to be alone in the street but my senses tried to convince me I was in danger and implored me to flee.

"I am not sure if the ingrate down the street was supposed to die or if the demon is killing people just to get to us," Randy said.

"Can it do that?"

"I would not put it past him," Randy answered as he searched his pockets.

"Keys," he demanded of me.

I dug deep in my pocket and flung them at his chest. He bolted into the driver's side and unlocked my door with the automatic switch. I hopped into the car to the sound of the engine starting. The door flung closed on my leg as he took off. We left, leaving black tire tracks on the road and raced back to Boston.

Betsy watched from her doorway with a trembling hand over her mouth.

"Where to now?" I asked.

"I do not know. I am exhausted and out of ideas, so I think I am just going to sit and wait," he said.

Steering cautiously, Randy was rigid like a beginning driver. His hands were at ten and two o'clock, or how I learned, ten after ten on the steering wheel. He never drove like that; he was always laid back and carefree with one hand on the wheel. Those little signs worried me the most.

"Wait a minute," I said, "you just want to wait? To confront him?"

"Yes."

"Sure about this?"

"It is about time I stop hiding from my fears and ruining your life," Randy glared at me.

"And the shit hits the fan," I yawned.

His decision was acceptable. Dangerous as hell, but acceptable. I would have had no problem with running, but Randy had begun to help me believe in new things. Running gets tiring. So very tiring.

Chapter 41

"We are in the city, George," Randy said, shaking my shoulder to wake me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Rising from the slump I was in, my blurred vision struggled to fix on Randy's profile. He was driving laid back again, slumped in the seat with one hand at the top of the wheel.

"I cannot believe you fell asleep in that position," Randy said, talking to try and wake me. "I'm pulling over to get some coffee, on me."

"Don't do that," I grumbled sleepily, "it's hot. It'll burn if it gets on you."

He let out a laugh louder than the joke was funny.

"That is a new one," he continued laughing. "When did you get a sense of humor?"

"Since I gave up sleeping," I yawned.

With a sulking glance he looked over my face, dug the corner of his lip into his cheek, and gave me a look I understood as a 'yeah, I know.' Contemplative, he focused on the road and pulled the car over.

"How do you want your coffee?" he asked.

"As big and black as the space between the stars," I replied, gazing upwards, out the car window.

Hidden behind the ambient city light, I hoped the stars would punch through and talk to me. I wanted to know what they were chatting about all the way up there, but the void that was the sky was as stagnant as a puddle.

So I waited in the dark.

Randy stole off into the store with a clank of the bell on the door. Looking out the window, I tried to wake up. I hadn't the slightest idea exactly where we were so I sluggishly tried to recognize the buildings and landmarks.

An eruption of mumbles from barflies and businessmen rattled into my ears from the sidewalks and stole my attention. Not a soul among the sickly bunch looked happy. I glimpsed past the bustle of life and over the buildings to the blanket of stars above. Lazy clouds boxed in the moon and glowed in its harsh light. It was eerie but peaceful. I basked in that tranquility as every tumultuous action in the streets seemed to screech to a dead halt. I smiled. But the calm was the gasp for air before the scream.

I fumbled around with my sleeve and pulled it back trying to see the time, but my awkward groggy motions knocked Randy's cell phone from the center console. I moaned but didn't have the energy to lean over and pick it up. I looked for the time again. Ten after ten. Supposedly the most visually soothing time on an analog clock. For me though, ten after ten froze life to a standstill. I can't see that time without remembering the passenger side door ripping open to the sight of the convict staring down at me, breaking me so suddenly from tranquility into a racing heart attack.

Chapter 42

Instantly waking with the sudden movement, I clawed and scraped backwards into the driver's seat. The convict crouched down, placed his hands on his knees, and cocked his head to look at me like he'd never seen a human before. Intriguing little creature I must've been. The lighting was poor, but I couldn't avoid his putrid face and the rank his rancid breath. All the shadows of the night couldn't cover the signs of his decay. His features were torn apart, beyond dead it seemed. The red fiber of his muscle tissue peaked from underneath a flap of skin hanging on his cheek, and his yellowing skin was blotted with blood, open sores and contusions. From the convict, far more than Randy ever could, exuded death so completely I had to wonder if he still had the gift. It raised all my hair on end. His breath reeked of age old carrion and it scurried through the air like crazed rats. His eyes dwelled deep in their sockets and were curious and crazed. All recognizable signs that life once, or ever twinkled within those glazed orbs was gone, replaced by the cast aside fervor of desperate greed - a drooling greed, that the convict wore like a badge in a half smirk on his bloated purple lips.

The convict, hunching his immensity to peer into the car, continued to study me, his hulking frame slightly shifting around caging shadows to get a better view. He wore an ancient, tattered, long black coat with a yellow-brown collared shirt beneath, and black torn pants. He seemed docile, almost dumb, and content to gawk at me, until something snapped in his battered brain and told him that I was the enemy. Foolishly subdued by the unexpected calm, I was shocked when it broke. He shot his hand into the car in a heartbeat that he stole from my chest. Bunching up my shirt with his rotting fist, digging his fingers into my skin, he pulled me out of the car. I desperately clawed at the car's frame, trying to hold on as my joints and muscles strained to keep away from the monster. My fingers and arms stabbed signals of pain into my brain as my fingernails scraped across the plastic roof supports so hard that I left scratch marks. I mustered up my strength and pulled backwards in a vain attempt at retreat when my shoulder popped. Blinding pain cursed throughout my arm. It fell limply to my side as my other arm struggled even harder to pick up the slack. The searing pain blurred my eyes and my stomach birthed queasy worms of nausea that peaked and prodded in my throat. Agony welled up to unbearable heights as my heart pounded in my ears, throat, and mind, until my body surrendered to the pressure.

Without strain, the convict pulled me straight out of the car and held me from my shirt and chest skin. I dangled a foot off the ground. My neck lost strength and my head flopped back. I could see the clouds in the sky start to spin around me, forming a celestial halo miles above. I couldn't run for my life this time.

With a violent shake from the convict, my head flopped down and I saw my limp and crumpled arm flailing about like a rag in a dog's mouth. All I could think was that Randy wouldn't even get to be around to try and save me. That I would die right there in the hold of a corpse, trying to control to keep control over my bladder. That all the faith that had begun to grow in me would die in a moment.

The convict pulled me within inches of his face. His decay was keen. Rotting sulfur billowed from his pores, playing hide and go seek with the food in my stomach. I swallowed lightly trying not to vomit on him, but the sulfur catalyst worked and sent a full and thick rush of puke to my mouth. I spent all my energy trying to keep it inside and it hit the back of my teeth and I swallowed most of it with a heavy gulp. Coughing and spitting from the effort, I lost a bit and it splattered on his face.

From underneath the abrasive ledge of the convict's brow, deep in the cavernous hovel of his head, his misshapen white eyes emerged and ravenously fixated on me. The convict bent his head back and erupted into a bellow. It rang throughout the streets, alerting the wandering pedestrians. It came out like a pack of coyotes screaming at the top of their lungs, crying bloody murder without using words. The air turned cold. The surrounding people were terrified. All feet simultaneously planted onto the cement and their eyes turned in amazement on the hulking dead man. It caught Randy's attention as he walked out of the store with two coffees. The convict lowered his head from the howl and immediately locked eyes with Randy.

I was instantly flung aside into the open car door. It slammed shut behind me, shattering the window into a sharp array of glass over my head. Crunching into the side panel, pulsing pain ate into my skull as I slumped over, blood streaming down and around the stubble on my chin.

The convict hunched over and flashed a wicked smile. He flapped his long coat from his side and lunged towards me. I panicked and attempted to cover my head, but my arms wouldn't respond. I prayed for no pain.

A few feet behind me and the car, our coffee plummeted to the cement. Randy's boots clopped lightly along the sidewalk and stopped. Time stretched into eternity and captured my breath as the convict landed a foot before me, his gaze drilling into my forehead. But he quickly leapt again, right over me. The two black blurry masses of men collided in mid-air above me with a thud that cracked in my ears. Randy and the convict's long coats flapped around them like leathery black wings that carried them straight down onto my car hood. The convict landed squarely with Randy on top of him punching away.

My arm and legs curled together and I huddled in a petrified ball with my lame arm dangling at my side. I shivered and swallowed a lump of blood.

The convict landed a massive jab into Randy's mid-section that drew my attention. He grabbed his shirt and balled it up around his fist and raised him into the air. Without time to respond, Randy was catapulted from the car onto the street. He hit with such force that I swore I felt it rumble through the cement. He bounced and rolled until he hit a curb. A narrow red ribbon of blood erupted from his face and splattered onto the sidewalk.

With Randy disabled, the convict crept over the edge of the car and peered at me from above. My eyes aimed up to see an upside-down massive hand crashing down. I scurried away yelping. As he brushed his fingernails along my shirt, Randy reappeared and grabbed the convict's arm with both hands and twisted it around in a full circle. Bones cracked and moaned like the crisp snapping of celery. The convict's arm hung from his shoulder awkwardly, his elbow facing outwards in the wrong direction.

"Run, George," Randy gasped.

The convict wailed and cradled his arm. Fury burned in his eyes, and he swung his good arm across Randy's face with a hollow thud. Blood and teeth danced through the air, leaving Randy in a heap on the ground.

The convict looked down at me again and pushed up with his good arm off the broken hood. The steel moaned under his pressure. Scampering with paltry feet, I tried to stand and flee, but my dislocated arm was pounding with pain and I tumbled back down. I crawled away from the car as his hand dove at me again. My heart pounded louder and harder, swelling in my ears and temples, waiting to burst out into open air. With a short hop, the convict was in front of me. He stood over me for a moment, watching me scurry like a wounded animal, and scooped me up by the shirt again. He let out a chuckle as he watched me dangle, and then reached behind him and underneath his coat. My imagination raced to figure out how to break free. Sweat and blood poured into my eyes, but I saw him yank out his butcher knife. It gleamed at me in the moonlight.

The convict cocked his head and looked into my eyes. A shivering bolt down my spine as he smiled at me.

"Never," he murmured, "stand against me."

He jerked his head over towards Randy and I looked as well. A glint off the knife was my only warning as a cleaving pinch hit my belly. I grimaced and shrieked as it slid deeper. The knife pushed and stretched my skin, piercing into my right side slowly. The convict struggled to push harder with his broken arm. The ripping sensation was a strange hell that shook me with grinding agony. I could see half the blade protruding from my torso and shivered.

I looked back to him and his smile widened. Oh, bad idea. He wiggled the blade. Blood shot out over the knife and his hand. I screamed. I balled a wad of the convict's coat in my fist, clenching my teeth together as I cried. He pulled the knife out and I bellowed on, holding on, clinging for dear life, to his decrepit clothes as he stepped away, but I hadn't the strength. Landing flat on my back, I rolled into a ball and covered the wound, hoping I could stop the bleeding. Or the pain. But blood still poured. I shakily pulled my hand away and saw more blood than I knew to be in me.

Chapter 43

I hastily slammed my hand back over the gash, pressing down with my palm, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. Dear God get back in me. Nausea gurgled and sharp pains rooted deeply onto every one of my nerves. An acrid sting undulated in my mouth. I pulled my cupped hand away again and the blood pooled, my praying did nothing stop the damned bleeding, turning my pale skin maroon.

Stirring and moaning, Randy pulled himself up to me.

"No! George!" He screamed. He held his stomach and winced with each step. Huddling next to me, he cradled me and pushed my hands down over my wound.

"Man, you look like shit," I felt my trembling lips whisper.

"Save it, you need your energy," he prescribed as he took off his coat and bunched it under my head. Randy wrapped the sleeves around my neck into a makeshift scarf. He knew I was cold, but I later wondered why he didn't press it against the gash in my side.

"Where's the convict?" I asked with a calm I shouldn't have had.

"He is standing over there watching. I think the demon is watching this through his eyes, seeing first hand how this is going."

"And how is it going?" I asked with a coughing chuckle.

My hands trembled and my body grew cold. All sensation left my fingers and toes. My calm turned callousness and I wanted to sleep.

"Stay awake, George," Randy pleaded. "Please, dear God, stay awake!"

My eyelids sank like shades and my eyelashes crisscrossed over what sight I had left. All I saw was Randy covered in my blood and calling to a God he didn't believe would intervene. A deep and somber sleep climbed into my head. A slumber that wanted to bring me to the God I believed in - the same Randy forsake, until now it seemed. The muffled sound of his cries was the last thing I could fully remember of the real world before an icy wave washed over me. And how wonderful it felt. There was no light or a flash of my whole life. Just cool calm. No thoughts, just the fading sensations of my body failing. I felt my heart slow and my breath shortened. I stared off into the sky, trying to get my last view of the world until a sensation snapped me away from the peaceful mood. I was enraged at first until I felt Randy. It wasn't me trembling I realized, it was him. Short choppy convulsions rumbled through his arms and shook me. Then, he abruptly stopped.

"What a great time for someone else to die," I thought naively.

But I no longer had a grasp. I remember flopping my head back to look at the moon again. One last look before my sight was extinguished I thought. But a shape blocked my view. I forced my eyes open with sputtered anger and saw Randy standing over me.

"What the Hell ..."

From my peripheral vision I spied his arms holding me in a slumping unconscious mess.

I turned my head upwards and saw Randy standing there as well, as Death, tinted a lucent blue.

"Shit," I thought, looking at the azure spectral Randy.

Something wasn't right. Something was amiss. Something beyond dying. I figured the demon probably loved the fact that it could watch Randy involuntarily take his best friend's soul. But that wasn't it. No, a feeling of misplacement blew below my skin. This unnatural sensation ripped through and divided up my innards. All warmth within me retreated deep into my ribcage. There my every emotion and memory, all that felt to be me, congealed into the tiniest pin-point of a ball.

The spectral Randy crouched down, wrists on his knees, and leaned over me with an ineffable face. I tried not to look at him, not wanting to risk some pathetic expression, but it didn't matter, he was more grief stricken than words could explain or a face could show. Instead, as an omen as well as a turn of events for him, Randy's face contorted with the look I imagine every dying person gave him. Feeling this all in vague impressions, Randy reached down and pinched my nose, while his right hand probed around my lips until his index and middle fingers gripped something. There was a jolt in the back of my throat; some taught string-like object became ostensible but halted, sitting heavily in my throat. Randy tugged it between his fingers, pulling the string fragment of my soul out through my mouth. No tears or gag reflex came to me, it was all strangely calm.

"No."

Randy stopped pulling mid-stroke. The soul string was released and snapped back down my throat like a released tape measure, tumbling clumsily back into my torso like it fell down twenty flights of stairs. The pitiful sorrow on his face flashed into an eruption of rage as every wrinkle on his diaphanous appearance of flesh ran together. He strained, no raged, to fight the gift, struggling to keep away from my face. He pushed with all the loathing he gathered over sixty years with the gift and balled it into one rush of defiance.

The convict was motionless in the distance with his arms crossed, glaring with crimson eyes that were not his own.

The Death-Randy rose slowly from his crouching position with a hulking presence that matched that of the convict. Randy glared at him with reprisal. Ethereal and frail, Randy belted out a roar that steadily grew louder until it was a high decibel yell. The shriek rocked the area as bystanders looked on yet saw only me, talking to the sky and a limp body next to me. When the howl ended the Death - Randy disappeared back into his corporeal body and jerked back to life.

"We do not have much time," Randy muttered, shaking off the disorientation from his reanimation.

The convict was still in a trance. The scarlet glow in his eyes grew more brilliant, probably in rage, radiating like a beacon on the dark sea of his face. The convict shook his head as the demon moved his legs for him, awkwardly walking towards us. The feeble steps quickly lumbered into a sprint. The convict raced along, apparently trapped in his own body, reaching out like a zombie for Randy. The convict wrapped his right hand around Randy's neck and lifted him into the air. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity.

"No longer, puppet," the convict spoke with a massive, resonating and hissing voice not his own.

"Fuck you," Randy choked out.

That's when I saw his eyes change. Change into something I prayed I'd never see again. Once Randy looked into those red eyes of the demon, borrowed from the convict, his mind caved in to dread. I knew he could see his worst failures and all he ever feared in those eyes. I knew that look too well.

From the distance I swore I heard an infant cry. I thought it was a trick of the brain, but I saw Randy follow the same sound with his eyes. We both looked about but I saw nothing. Randy, however, saw his niece bathed in a blue fire.

He again, bore terrible witness to the haunting vapors of the life he took from her. Blue waves fluttered about, haunting his every cell, and stole what hope he had left to survive. I could see it leave his eyes. Randy made a decision right then and there that he was no better than what he had done. He was lost right then and there.

The convict raised Randy higher into the air and tightened his grip on his clothes. He hung from the convict's arm like a prize catch and just as limp. With a strain of his colossal arm, the convict heaved Randy, head first into the concrete with such force, that it felt to rupture my skull, let alone Randy's. A scarlet spray of his blood and bone scattered into the air and over the street, as the convict grinded his face into the cement. The red eyes glared down, satisfied with the carnage and revenge.

It was quick, painful, and over before I finished blinking. The impact of his face and the loud snapping of bone told me his brow had shattered. My eyes snapped open to find Randy's dull pair staring at me, his life-blood quickly billowing out towards me. His nose was a flattened, a red pulp of cartilage that strung webs of blood across his crushed white teeth. Randy blinked and tried to talk.

I gazed at him and sobbed my life out as the convict's shadow spread over us. I yelped weakly. Randy's body shuddered as he slid his face over towards me, his mangled features resembling the convict's. His blood flowed out and touched my face almost welling up high enough to seep into my eye.

"This ...only answer," he murmured, chewing on blood, "Your destiny..."

Painfully, and by all rights impossibly, he shifted and pushed up, his body creaking and moaning as he covered my nostrils with a shaky hand. He put his mouth over mine and breathed into me. Giving me life and death.

Chapter 44

I remember the chill as the gift entered. It was the coldest sensation a man could ever feel. Worse than betrayal, I thought. Icicles should have broke out all over my body, but all I got were goosebumps. This icy blight cursed through my veins, tingling my innards, prying up a distance between my skin and muscle. The frozen shock made its way to my feet and bounced back, freezing my body and heading into my brain.

My limbs were numb, but I could see them jitter and smack Randy's limp body as well as the street. My spasms continued until the convict barreled down on my frail frame, lifted me again by my tattered shirt, and whisked me away. He ran with me for an eternity until I flattened against a wall. The impact plastered my lungs against the front of my ribcage, ramming the air out of me. My shoulders and the back of my head cracked against brick, chipping chunks of the wall to the ground.

Panicked voices crept from the emerging crowd as I was pressed helplessly flat against the wall. I wondered if I was still dying or if Randy had healed me. My eyelids fluttered and my fatigue retreated. I looked around wildly as the convict huffed into my face.

My dangling feet itched, no begged to run. They screamed for any ground to sprint across and follow far, far from here. But there was no such surface. Just air. Just goddamned air. Nothing to stand on, no retreat this time, no fucking chance...no fucking Randy...no fucking anything!

My brain instantly leapt to the only other reaction I had beyond flight.

"What do you want now, you sonvabitch?" I barked into his face, blood and spittle sailing into his eyes.

He responded with a slow blink then cracked his bloated earworm lips.

"Death," it snarled at me in a voice that boomed inside my ears and soul.

The convict switched his grip from my shirt to Randy's coat, still wrapped around my neck. He tightened the sleeves and made a noose out of it. His large rotting arm was wedged underneath my armpit, supporting my weight as I choked. I was hanged, tilted off to the side, trying to reach my hands under the makeshift noose. I choked and coughed. His dead breath stung my nose. I struggled against him, mustering up my weak and well atrophied fighting muscles and couldn't break his grasp. I wiggled my hand up to one of his and grabbed his finger like a baby testing his grip.

With all my might I heaved it back. It barely moved. It was like trying to break stone. A surge of strength bubbled within me and flooded my legs. If I couldn't run, I'd kick.

It didn't faze him. The convict watched me hang with disappointment. He let out a grunt and shook the noose then dropped me to the ground. I landed on my hands and knees, gasping for air. I sucked it in with long greedy gulps. Caressing my neck, coughing and wheezing, I glared up at him. Rage filled my arms and fists, but quickly drained into my legs. I gnashed my teeth and rose to run.

Before I ever really found my feet he readjusted his grip and hoisted me back up to the gallows. I crammed my fingers below the noose. My neck swelled as I hacked and gagged helplessly. The convict smiled and roared laughter. You know you're having a great day when you can die twice.

Disjointed yet honestly, I wondered where the hell the police were. Serve and protect, my ass!

But what good would they do? How do you stop a dead man anyway? They wouldn't know. I didn't know. Nothing had stopped him before. Not even the angry mob that dragged him through the streets. Wait, how the hell do I know that?

The convict grumbled and let drop me, breaking my concentration and God knows what else. I fell to the ground again and hard, coughing and spitting up blood, trying to recapture my breath.

Strange energy welled within me again. It tried like hell to channel it to my feet but it flooded my hands and curled them into fists. I looked up at the convict, ready to swing away, but it was halted. It wasn't him anymore. There was a blush to his cheeks, hell there looked to be flesh covering his cheeks, and a noticeable change in his demeanor. His rampant rage had turned calmed and collected. The red tint to his eyes grew deeper. A blood-like liquid flooded over and enveloped his eyes. He cupped my chin in his palm and pulled me right up to his smiling cracked teeth. With this close view though he still smelled and looked like the convict.

"Go fuck yourself," I said, drooling blood.

"Now you do not want to get off on the wrong foot with me, do you puppet?" the convict asked in a voice not his own. It was raspy and high pitched; ancient and condescending. "You have a chance at redemption now."

"What?" I was all I managed to utter while engrossed in the curling flames of the convict's new eyes. It was sickly tantalizing. He drew me in closer and a strange fever blanketed my mind. The closer I came to him, the sicker I felt. The cold presence inside me released a shiver that drifted below my skin, pulsing frigidity through my flesh, repudiating my rising body heat.

But the convict responded and pulled me even closer. My body leapt from cold and strong to hot and weak as the two sensations fought one another in my mind and chest. I wanted the warmth but once I felt it, nausea was hot on its heels. I yearned to expel the cold within but couldn't; I need the strength it gave.

"Will you take it? Or will you die? No one is around to save you this time." The demon's voice boomed from the convict.

I recoiled and his smile grew larger. Dying wasn't an option. I had to believe. Randy died to keep the gift away from the convict. I am the only one left to carry the burden. My burden, my destiny; just like Randy said. It had to stay out of hands that could use the power to kill anyone or even everyone. Fear soaked my clammy skin as I realized my choice. Die or be

Death. But it was still a choice. My choice.

A smirk crossed my lips as a realization hit. The demon couldn't get around free will. It was my choice to keep or lose the gift and that gave way to a fundamental flaw, I prayed, that I could expose. My hopes rose. I closed my eyes and gasped for air.

"I will take it."

And to my everlasting shame, it was kept.

All sound stopped. A hot and heavy mist of breath slammed into my face.

"It's all yours, puppet. Learn from his mistakes," the demon said, turning his burning gaze towards Randy, then jerked it back. "But by the by, do try to enjoy it, it'll be around for a long, long time."

I was dropped, quite gently to the ground as the demon restored possession of the convict's body back to the owner. The hulk stood before me lost in defeat. He sulked, grasping to figure out with his rotted brain as to why the demon had stopped him and let me, this puny coward, have the gift. The prize that had been his purpose for so long had eluded him again. I could see his yearning for the gift and his wife in his cold dead eyes.

Disgust and revenge engrossed me. I've had to run for my life for weeks, watch my best friend die, and get killed myself because of his damned convict and...and he wanted to just stand before me and sulk like a child that knew he did something wrong?

"Hell, no!" I said responding to my own question, eyeing a large piece of glass nearby, "you'll pay for this."

He looked genuinely surprised that I wouldn't just let the gift go. He reached down for me again when I secured the piece of glass. I held it tightly, letting the jagged edges tear into my hand. I rolled away from his grasp, landed between his legs, and stabbed the glass blindly upwards. I jabbed with all my strength until the shard wouldn't go any further. I let go and rolled away as he bellowed at the top of his lungs. I opened my eyes and saw the end of the shard sticking out from between his legs. He wailed louder and he fell to his knees. I scurried away to Randy's body.

He lay sprawled out near my battered car in a puddle of his own blood. Glass was strewn all around and I knelt in it as I landed at his side. I lifted his head and patted his cheek. I hoped he still lived, but once I saw his mangled face and limp body, my hope vanished. Blood crusted around his mouth and I couldn't bring myself to even look at him. I shut my eyes, trying not to cry. I fell onto my backside and hugged my waist, rocking back and forth. My heart pounded in my chest, smashing against my sternum and I found myself sweating for the last time. My body chemistry, all my internal clockwork felt rewired and, strangely I felt new in a very old way. My fingers, on what felt like on their own volition, slipped into the hole cut in my shirt and I felt my skin. Teary eyed, I curiously examined my shirt and saw my mid section stained with blood. I looked closer and felt around for the gash the convict inflicted but found only a mere slit. The stab wound had shrunk. I looked back at Randy.

"What do I do now?" I blurted at his head as it limply swiveled as I gently moved it into my lap.

"What now!" The salt of my tears seeped into my mouth I screamed up to the heavens.

They answered with tears of their own. The rain poured down and washed away the dried blood from my face. It washed away so much more than I couldn't have known.

My hand stroked Randy's clumpy, blood matted hair until I ran across the fissures in his skull. Shuddering, I gently rested his head back on the concrete.

"You better have him up there," I threatened the sky and turned back to the convict.

The convict roared like a lion yanking at his crotch, desperately trying to yank out much, much more than a thorn in his paw.

Chapter 45

The crowd drew closer. Tiny sharp raindrops pinched at my face. I barely heard the baleful whine of police sirens in the distance, probably writing it off as screams, as I watched the convict rise. He awkwardly and gingerly pulled out the glass shard in his groin and glared at me. I met his hateful gaze all the while fighting to keep my feet planted. He released a raged roar, then a second and started towards me. It wasn't a human sound in the slightest. Barely even animal. The flashing lights of all kinds of cars stopped his approach though and he jogged away bow-legged as fast as he could manage.

A few fools from the crowd chased after him, but he brushed them off like flies. My knees quickly realized how weak and fragile they were once the adrenaline stopped its flow, as I stumbled forward, still futilely trying to follow my rage and make chase. I tumbled to the wet cement, unable to pursue as my energy drained and the crowd caged me in.

The mob quieted and gazed down at me with pity and so many more emotions that I couldn't comprehend. A couple leaned in closer to offer me assistance, but I quickly waved them away. No one could help me. No one was on my side. The only one who was lie dead mere feet away.

Faces began to blur as my vigor slipped away. Whatever gave me strength before had abandoned me. My legs and arms shook. The world retreated into a whirl until one man opened his mouth.

"I'm with the big guy, kill all the faggots!" He blurted in a southern accent.

I didn't hesitate for a second. I didn't let the absolute strangeness of his shout deter me. I leapt at him so fast that the surrounding people never saw it. Landing squarely on top of him, I knocked his wind out, which gave me the critical time to beat him senseless. It was a thrashing that I never knew I had in me. I swung with the left and the right without any pain in my dislocated shoulder. One punch after another came with my knuckles digging into his face for what felt like days. I happily watched his teeth dance onto the sidewalk. I think I saw my father in his face for a moment. Enraged and confused I never regained control of my fists. I let them soften his skin into bruises as he whimpered for mercy. His bones caved with every swing, as fear no longer gripped me. Fear couldn't touch me any longer - I'm Death. Everything that scared me about life, all that burned inside me as terror, was always somehow related to dying. And without ties to that fear anymore, an immediate wave of recklessness buried my pity and pushed my fists down even harder. Enveloped with mounting anger I hadn't a harness for, I leapt off the man and lashed out at the mob, unsatisfied with just one beating. My right hand connected with a random face in the crowd.

The people quickly fled in fright and I couldn't help but laugh at them. They were shackled by such an irrelevant fear. Not me. No longer!

My body shook so much I should have fallen apart. In a way, I did though. My temples and throat pulsated with so much pumping blood that my veins strained to hold the gush. All my skin felt light around my bones, almost flaky, like it was levitating off the muscles. In the middle of a wild swing aimed at random escaping people, I lost my balance and plunged to the sidewalk next to the bloodied bigot. I trembled in what seemed to be gallons of blood. Shooting pain erupted up my hand and shoulder. I twisted and riled in the rain until the tremors stopped.

The downpour pelted harder. I was soaked and angry. I felt like an animal, wrapped in the damp darkness, ready to viciously strike out and protect myself. My primal instincts took me and I crouched, searching for threats. I balled my hands into fists but only one responded. My right hand screamed in pain. I pulled it close to me, ignored the pain, and leaned onto my heels. Yells sounded out through the rain. I looked around, curious about what was coming, and saw uniforms mixed in the chaos.

Threats, they were all threats, and coming right for me. The uniforms were red flags that egged me on. My humanity had run dry. I was alone. Abandoned to Death and everyone came to take it from me. And they were closing in.

"You're ...you're ... No." I pleaded and leapt up from my crouch, ready to fight but yearning to run.

But instead I hobbled backwards. I could smell carrion on the approaching threat.

"No more, no, I can't take anymore!" I screamed.

Adrenaline surged within me and I prepared to attack anyway, but in my hurried retreat, I stumbled backwards. My fists flailed wildly in the air until I landed in someone's arms. I turned to look at who restrained me but a convulsion took me. My limbs stretched to their limit, jarring themselves away from the connecting joints. I tried to struggle free but the pain was too fierce. My head swam and darkness washed over me with the rain as I sunk into blackness.

Chapter 46

Somewhere between sleep and sedation a poignant reverie came to me. Or was it me; I couldn't tell. I was consumed by it.

I was the sun, warming all the worlds from the vast coldness of space. I spat light across the universe, never caring where it went. I felt and was so essential and pivotal to life, so assured. No one could live without me, but no one could look at me. I was great yet alienating. But off in the distance there was a little blue ball, soaking up my rays, appreciative of my gift.

I smiled as I looked down at that blue place, with their little laughing clouds and serene pools of oceans and jagged chunks of continents. I was overwhelmed with delight. If the sun could smile, I did. My yellow and red corpulent body reveled in happiness, as the constant frigid vacuum of space nipped at me no more.

But time elapsed too quickly and joy can only last for so long. My streaming emissions of light, spreading all my happiness, abruptly screeched to a halt. I pushed and pushed to emit more light but could not. I was crushed.

Reluctantly, I took in a forced nauseating gasp and my light blinked out. Off like a light switch. I sucked in my massive, spherical body full, engorging myself, dangerously replete. No longer could I hold the enormous inhalation. I spat it out in a burning eruption across the galaxy, violently returning the light that was held so dear, in an explosion that charred the entire little blue planet.

Chapter 47

Shock welcomed me to wake. I was depleted. My conscious and subconscious streamed together in a blotch of cool colors that mingled on the inside of my eyelids. I thought of the mornings of my youth. I remembered praying and squeezing my eyes shut so hard that spots danced in the blackness, I would wake completely different from the person I had been when I fell asleep. That some previous event would hit like an epiphany with the sunrise and alter me. Change me into the man I should be; into something better. This time, my prayers were answered and I did wake and was something different.

"But not better," I sighed, barely parting my lips.

A rush of frozen air blew below my skin and told me I was not in my childhood bed. Light from God knows where hit my eyelids. A white haze surrounded me. I squinted to adjust. Everything seemed calm.

A headache stung at the top of my nose and when I went to rub at it, something restrained my hand. Pulling harder out of instinct, I tried to break the unknown resistance, when my shoulder throbbed in stabbing pain. I tried to rub my head with my left hand and it was inhibited as well. Pulling with both hands and arms, my skin began to lift. I looked down and was startled to see an IV needle tapped to the back of my right hand. My left arm was in a sling. I leaned up in the bed and attempted to get a better view of the room. It was a hospital room alright, with a TV high in one corner and a green hanging curtain that divided the other bed from mine.

My throat was swollen. I gulped, trying to swallow whatever plagued my throat. It didn't budge. I coughed to force it up, but it stayed put. There was a similar grip in my chest, sitting like a lump that weighed more than the world, nested near my heart. This burden, my destiny, brought with it misery and hopelessness. I felt kidnapped by my own innards.

"I have all the time in the world for you," a voice inside me seemed to say.

It was commanding. I could almost see it standing over me angrily, with its fists on its hips, sounding like my damned father.

"Can't bully me - I beat that bastard and I'll do the same to you," I muttered. "You will never become a part of me," I whispered. "Merely a parasite."

But the gift's misery loved my company and told me so with a shiver that ran right through my body. A flash of light blinded me and I saw a stranger approach me and scream. Then the figure was gone. Another shiver shot down my spine and tickled out all my remaining warmth. Gloom perched on my brow, pecking at me with a strange sadness, threatening to gather into depression.

Muscles tightened as my body fought with the gift. The two pushed and shoved their way upwards, writhing all the way up to my head in an all-out war. An explosion of blue light expanded across my vision and just as quickly, my courage was defeated. Fragments of Randy's and the convict's lives seeped into my mind, blending with my own memories, blatantly reminding me of what I had become and the new lineage I belonged to. With the small amount of valor I had left I vowed to be the last to carry this burden.

Chapter 48

Sick of my situation, I leaned up to change it. Pain responded by shooting through my abdomen. I pulled up my drafty gown and stared at a long slit littered with stitches. Another sigh bubbled through the small space between my pursed lips. I fell backwards not wanting to discover anything more. I just wanted to sleep.

The pain dulled as my eyes adjusted to the softly-lit room. I diverted my attention to the TV

and tried to bore myself to sleep. Fumbling around with the clutter on the stand next to my bed, I found a few remotes. After adjusting my bed, I found the correct remote and turned the television on. The picture swelled from a small dot into the image of some odd commercial. My eyelids sank low.

The bed's cushioning cradled me towards sleep until a nurse burst through the door with an earthquake of clamor. Scaring the hell out of me, she entered like a child racing down the stairs on Christmas morning. Her cranberry scrubs were infuriatingly bright.

"This is a hospital you know, not a cemetery. Most of us are alive enough to be annoyed," I said, half hoping she was carrying some sort of tranquilizers.

"Oh my God! You're awake!" She yelled, her blonde hair wrapping around her face.

"No thanks to you," I groaned. "Could I get extra blankets in here? It's freezing."

"Oh, turn on channel five, it's almost time for the six o'clock news," she exclaimed, looking at her watch. She snatched the remote from my hand and switched channel.

"You're not going to get my blankets and leave me alone are you?" I asked.

"Shush, silly, don't you want to see the news? It's about you," she said as she came around to the left side of my bed, plopping into a chair by the window.

I looked back at the television screen to see the beginning of the broadcast when the seat she was on caught the corner of my eye. I looked back and saw black cloth reaching out from beneath her. I was sure it was Randy's trench coat.

"Can you at least get the coat from..."

"Wait a minute," she said, loosely flapping her hand at me as she watched the TV intently.

"Ugh. I'll yell at you later," I whispered.

I didn't have the energy to fight her. I watched as much as I could while my hand scurried aimlessly around the bed, searching for a crevice to tuck my blanket into so I could keep in heat.

"God it's cold," I repeated.

The news segment ended and I missed it all.

"Well?" she said.

"Well, what? Just gimme the goddamn coat you're sitting on then tell me what the hell I just tried to watch,"

"Geez, what a grump," she added while she laid the coat over me like a blanket.

"Perfect," I sighed. "Thank you."

The coat warmed me within seconds and I wrapped up in it snugly.

"You've been here three days," she finally said.

"Oh," I muttered. So much for only being here a day.

"That guy hasn't been found yet and that other guy was buried today," she finished. "I've been keeping track for you, I've never met anyone who has been, like, on TV before. Except for this one time at a club ..."

"What did they say about Randy?" I interrupted. A fury of guilt built inside me if I heard her right and had missed his funeral.

She looked at me blankly.

"The guy that was buried. Tell me!"

"Oh, nothin' much. They were focusing more on you and the attacker. They think it was like a hate crime," she said shyly while playing with her nails.

"I see," I said, unsure why that came out.

I was disturbingly happy that everyone thought that it was a hate crime. At least no one would spend an exorbitant amount of time researching Randy's past. Hopefully everyone would forget about it in a few days. If they ever found out that Randy was an eighty-some man in a body appearing sixty years younger, the questions would never stop. I began to plan the story I'd tell the police when they questioned me. They wouldn't forget about me I'm sure.

"George ...if I can call you that?"

"Uh huh," I nodded, not wanting to pay attention.

"Were you two ...um, really lovers?"

I paused and contemplated my answer.

"I've had enough for one day," I sorely replied.

I almost denied it but I had to admit, it was a good cover. It allowed Randy to rest in peace and permitted me to live in silence. "Just believe the news like everyone else."

"But ...but."

"Don't make me mad," I demanded, and she complied immediately.

I released the breath I didn't know I was holding.

"God," I said irritated with myself, "what am I doing?"

My life felt so inverted all of a sudden. I was lying about my identity and trying to stay inconspicuous like I was a fugitive. The idea of hate was so repugnant to me just a short time ago, and now, it seemed, that it was what I embodied.

"No cure for me now, no fix, no ..."

Randy was gone. It hit me like that. Gone. He had to die to save my little life. Depression and denial chilled my quivering bones, but they were already frozen thanks to the gift that cursed through my veins.

"...no rest for the wicked," I finished, as another convulsion rumbled deep in my chest.

The cold air inside me dispersed in a whirlwind and raised goosebumps over my flesh. The convulsion echoed inside me and rushed outwards. A second passed then the sensation returned with visions of unfamiliar faces. The sights of the dead. It retreated and hid deep within my chest, taking the images with it. I was left exhausted and frightened. I curled up in Randy's coat, to the only comfort I had left in the world, and fell asleep.

I dreamed of Hell and its burning wrath. But at least it was warm.

Chapter 49

If the candor of men sheds all burdens than the earth would crumble under that weight. I, as it was with the gift, was Atlas below, trying to hold it all together. Or pick up the pieces, I could never tell. What I could tell was the gift's retention of all that the previous hosts had shouldered, all that Randy, my poor old friend, and that monstrous convict imbibed. As they fell from the earth they cast off their hopes and fears with this little blue gift, giving it weight. But its true blue massive load was born from the thousands of souls it stole. That total, growing everyday, is what began to change me. My very cells knew just that, knew as the two before me did, and altered under the gift's chemistry, doing so from the inside out. My mind most of all. Yet one crucial iota of my old ways remained. My need to run.

I ran the police off track and told them I had just met Randy at a club that night and didn't know him at all. They hounded me about every aspect of that night and I was able to lead them where I wanted. I was released a short time later and ran free. With Randy's trench coat flapped around me as I bolted down the hospital stairs, I thanked God for the chance to run free.

But as I left the changes made to me became apparent. It was strange to step outside of the sliding doors of the hospital. The cold breeze hit my face but it sent no chills through me. Wrapping my coat up tightly with the collar flipped up, a toasty circulation immediately engulfed me. I smirked, cuddled in the warmth.

"Randy always wore the coat," I mumbled, "the gift must freeze its host body ...and slow aging. I've found eternal youth." I quickly frowned. "Eternal damnation is more like it."

That must have been why Randy wore the coat all the time. The convict wore a long coat too and he lived even longer than Randy.

"And now I'm bound for the same," I frowned, thinking of the prices paid for this eternal youth. "God, the irony of it."

I proceeded down the steps and into Boston with my hands crammed in my pockets. Like an axe to a tree stump, a splitting pain quickly cut into the top of my skull. It splintered down my spine while the cool breeze of the gift swirled below my skin as I walked along.

My eyes were enervated with guilt as more faces were slapped across my vision. I walked on aimlessly. Depression and anger welled within me and I was ready to panic. I had to run and my feet did work on their own until I found myself in a park.

"Anyone of you could be next to die," I whispered at the surrounding people ambling about the open park before me. "Anyone but me."

Roving through park's paths, I fixated on my shoes to keep from eye contact and tried to get a handle on myself. My emotions felt different within me, almost foreign, like they had already become of little use. I began to realize why Randy was so cold and emotionless most of the time. Even being near people made me uneasy. Anyone that I passed could be the next victim of the gift. I'm sure Randy felt the same. How the hell did he live with this? I had to think about something else.

Brisk autumn winds filled the air. The trees were already withered. Loose pebbles and fallen leaves crunched under my feet. The people were bundled in warm attire and everything seemed in place. Life seemed good to everyone surrounding me. I peered upwards and saw a dark blue and gray sky cradling foreboding clouds that sagged at the bottom. A few bright green leaves still clung to life on scattered trees and shone against the clouds in defiance. A thin gray shadow passed overhead and the leaves quivered on their branches. The trees that lined the path I walked creaked, actually leaning away from me as I passed, trying to run from my plague. It didn't matter how far they tried to tilt backwards and uproot themselves, there was no escaping me. No escaping death. Bowing in demise, every tree toppled as soon as I passed them. Their massive trunks crashed to the cement and shattered into dust on impact.

The path ahead narrowed and I floated along the dark grass. Branches closed in, attempting to capture me. Little yellow leaves clawed at my face and shoulders and the sky turned to black. In a panic-stricken heartbeat I sprinted off and eluded the clutches of the park.

"Can't take me," I yelled, shaking my fist.

My shoulder jolted and a pedestrian bumped off me.

"Prick, watch where you're going," barked a teenager. I looked over my shoulder to apologize when I caught his profile and recognized his face.

"Randy?" I said, mouth gaping open with astonishment.

I fidgeted and started to panic. Air solidified into a lump in my throat and my heart beat rampant against my ribs. With little hesitation, I sprinted to the man and grabbed his shoulder.

"Randy, is that you?"

The kid spun around and glared at me, revealing a face that was clearly not Randy's.

"Get away from me, you freak," the stranger commanded.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," I said and eased away.

The boy traveled on, but another man turned to look at the scene. He looked just like Randy as well. He was walking up a dirt road in torn overalls. Randy looked so young. An ancient truck rumbled up from behind him on an old dirt road and it looked like it was going to run him over. I rushed up to yell at him to watch out and when I got to him, Randy and the truck disappeared. The park reappeared and the man I thought was Randy punched me in the face.

"Only in this city could someone punch a man with his arm in a sling," I murmured nursing my jaw.

I took a good look around and noticed that everyone in the park resembled Randy in some way. A deep and hot panic clamped on my throat. Breaths came to me in short choppy patterns and my heartbeat pounded harder in my temples and throat. Pain from the knife wound jabbed at my side. Sorrow ran free within my veins and drugged me with its flow. Gloom lingered everywhere and it was sickly sweet. The more I consented to the dulcet feelings, the more I felt sorrow sway me. If this was the commiseration that was going to be forced on me, I wasn't going to lie down and take it without a fight. I checked every soul I came upon to see if they were Randy. My eyes quickly grew tired from the constant scrutinizing and I couldn't stop from shaking. The possibility that Randy could still be alive quickly became the only important notion.

"George?"

I was shocked. Could it be? A person ran to me from the distance. I could see Randy again.

He dropped the two coffees he was holding and charged at me.

"George!" The voice said again. My name sounded so strange.

"Randy?" I muttered, ready to cry.

I fell to my knees on the cool cement, ranting and reaching up for the heavens, thankful to have Randy back. My head filled with things to tell him. I wanted to say how much I missed him and that I was losing my mind without his help. I was in way over my head and I needed his guidance.

I was embraced into warm arms as I cried onto a woolen shoulder.

"Oh God I'm so happy," I ranted, "I can't do this alone, I just can't ..."

"George, are you all right?"

"I am now."

"Oh God, what happened to you George?"

"Since you left?" My teeth chattered. "Everything, but it's fine now. I'm safe now with you here, Randy."

"Oh God you poor man. You're delusional," a familiar voice said. "It's me, Jessica."

I looked up into her face and watched the features morph into her soft cheeks. Randy's short black hair blossomed into resplendent, beautiful hair. Tears cleared from my eyes and locked with hers. She gleamed into my soul and reminded me of all my past regrets. All my misjudgments from when we dated in college flooded back.

"Good God, what has happened to you?" she repeated.

Fear possessed my tongue, blockading my words off the back of my teeth. I felt powerless and washed up; nothing made sense.

"The ...the ..." I muttered up at her, still tasting my tears and holding her tightly as if I would sink without her. "The rest of my life happened."

"It's okay, George, it'll be all right," she held me and stroked my hair. She kissed my greasy locks and whispered assurances in my ear. "I came the second I heard about Randy. I've been looking for you."

I absorbed her sentence, but didn't pay attention. Just as long as she was there, in the flesh, and not some hallucination; that was all I needed. She stared at me with a pressing look that made me realize I was crying in a heap in the middle of a crowded park. I nodded and she hoisted me up.

"Lets get you home, George."

The hallucination stayed in my mind. I felt like an assassin of all life. All it took was one invidious touch and I would rob anything of its life. A killer paid in full with the curse of near immortality. The thought of God entered my mind. I wanted to rationalize how I could be what I am under His eyes, but every idea I discovered felt hollow and lacked the fear of His wrath. And lacked the warmth of love. I was cut off, freezing, and alone.

It all seemed so entirely terrestrial now. Everything holy and unholy felt thrust down to Earth and on my shoulders. In that moment, life was so clear through the eyes of Death.

A snort of a laugh blew out my nose.

"What's so funny?" Jessica asked.

"Life," I muttered as my laugh veered into a convulsion.

Jessica held me tight with one arm while the other hailed a cab.

Chapter 50

We returned to our old roots and renewed our friendship while we talked at my apartment. For the life of me I couldn't remember a thing we spoke about, though. All I could do was live in her eyes and never break away. It was difficult to maintain an extended conversation with her that day; I'd often break into a quick and uncontrollable convulsion. I hadn't the control over them initially - that I had gained with time, and that passed like it always does. In two months we renewed our love. More time passed and she didn't renew her lease in Chicago. She transferred to Boston and we began anew.

The next years I spent with Jessica were the happiest and the quickest I would ever have, no matter how dark times got. Strange though, that in recalling the most enamored time of my life, only bits and pieces come to mind. The five years we spent together had the most joyful climate, but no individual instances cried out to be noticed. I was just plain happy, immersed in a feeling that couldn't be wrapped up into a neat little ball.

We began where we let college leave off. Trying to start our lives together, we settled down and I secured a job. A sort of normal life. Jessica, in all her soothing insight, instilled constant reminders in me that there was a life for me, out in the real world. She reinforced me with steel supports of hope with her caring, even though my constant Death trips were as common as breathing. I convinced myself, based off her help, that the gift was just a job and I couldn't stress over it. If it did I would be consumed and become the convict. But that only dulled the pain enough to go to work.

My daily commute brought me to a high-rise, where I played the droning number cruncher in an office prison. The strangest aspect of it all was that if I didn't have the gift, I would have gone mad with the boring monotony of my career.

My office was my outlet of retreat, my enclosed space away from prying eyes, yet over the time I worked, coworkers often steered clear from me. I tried to pass off my tremors as a minor medical condition, yet they knew there was something else they couldn't put their finger on.

I enjoyed the solitude in any case. Out my window I could watch a vast rippling sea of glass and swimming cars press through the constant flow of traffic. The ocean of windows was as inviting as a cool dip in still waters. I watched people walking on rooftops and cleaning windows. I could see tiny figurines walk the sidewalks and then do lunch. I often stared at the top of the shorter building across the street, wondering if I could make the leap, busting through my window, dozens of stories up, to splash into the glass of the buildings across the street. It was so oddly enticing that I found myself standing on my desk, after closing my door and kicking my stapler aside, ready to leap into the gray abyss of a rainy afternoon.

"It doesn't look too far, and hell, I can't die. I'm Death."

I gazed over the leaden clouds and bleak city with tears welled in my eyes and was stopped by a convulsion. Visions of fires and debris spanned my sight. I watched droves of rescue workers rush futilely to the bodies that I had already visited. I watched a young girl cry, hugging a blanket, as she looked for her mommy. A tear streaked down my face and stopped in the gutter of my mouth. It sat there and waited for me to react but I couldn't. At that moment I realized that I had nothing left in me. I didn't harbor pity in my heart and soul any longer. I realized I had become a spectator to my own life, no more than a shell of a man. Everyone I loved was so far from my heart.

But I had to keep them at a distance so I could survive the trauma when it came time to take their life. I would stay aloof and just deal with it or risk becoming something much worse.

Chapter 51

What I wouldn't have given to have those days with Jessica drag on forever. A moment in her arms was Heaven on Earth. But still, time flew by like a movie montage. Not all the times were happy though, nothing was worse than a slow day when all I could feel were the tight grips on my throat and heart. My time with Jessica was all highs and lows with no in-betweens.

Within the first six months, her patience could no longer stand idly by and watch my condition. On a cool and breezy night over dinner, she finally managed to ask the question that had been disturbing her.

"George, what's the matter with you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"In college, Randy would disappear and twitch like you," she said dryly.

The time had come. It was only a matter of seconds until she would come out and ask me about my convulsions, which had dulled down over time into small tremors. It had been only a matter of time and I was amazed she was able to wait to ask me. I feared her reaction. Would she run?

But what do I have to fear any more? No longer did I have to obey the common rules of life for I had little fear of bodily harm as a result of my actions. But I still feared the unknown. Though I may know what it was like to leave this world, I was clueless to the paths afterward. Paths without her.

Having to explain my terrible condition would surely raise scores of more questions. She was too curious and intelligent to let things lie.

"Well, what is it?" She continued with genuine concern that, for some reason, peaked shame within me.

I contemplated and chewed my food. My degradation, as I understood it at that instant, started after the hospital and slowly filled me with the thought that I had something godly inside me. I figured gods are a tortured lot, always having to make grandiose decisions with far-reaching consequences. Most gods, in the midst of being so hard on the general public, had a soft spot for someone or something that allowed them to flounder in judgment. Whether the soft spot was for man or woman, peace or war, love or hate, the fact is, that moment weakened the chain. I, on the other hand, do my job without that weakness because the gift made its decisions on its own, never involving human emotions. And those emotions were what I had to be concerned of when I answered Jessica.

I continued to chew. I began to believe that there were no deities in existence and never had been. They were just guys like me that had found some piece of mysterious knowledge and had to keep it. These figureheads discovered some part of the great scheme that should not have been allowed to them. Let's face it; people want to know it all.

Jessica stared at me from across the table, loving the old me she knew in college and struggling with the new me that had grown like a tumor. If I could've thought of a better method of leading a somewhat normal life, I would have implemented it.

"I think you've gained an invincibility complex by surviving the attack," she said, irritated by my silence.

"I've done no such thing."

"Yeah, you have," she yelled and stood with her palms flat on the table.

Curbing her anger, she settled and sat back down, "Look, I'm just worried about you."

The grips around my heart and throat grew unbearably tight. The gift knew I wanted to expose it, so it tried to hold me in check.

"I'm fine," I choked and the grips within me softened.

So many times have I wanted to tell her about it, but the timing was never right. Plus she'd only worry once I told her. So often I wanted to sit her down and calm her fears so she wouldn't leave me. But a convulsion would always impede and delay me, making Jessica more frustrated. I loved her and wanted to tell her everything, but I was scared.

"Goddammit, George."

"I don't know how ..." the grips clamped down again and my breath wheezed out.

"Just tell me."

"I'm ..." I gurgled and choked. "I'm ..." Air deserted my lungs. "...I'm Death."

Torrents of freezing motions roared beneath my skin yet no convulsion came on. Goosebumps speckled my flesh and my hair stood on end as my fork plummeted to my plate. The frozen gust ran through my entire body, whirling about in a barrage of sharp stabs to my chest. I was breathless and my heart pounded harder and harder, pitching my torso forwards with every beat. Icy pain seethed into every joint in my body, cutting through all the spaces between my bones. In the last second before I was almost overcome by vertigo, all the painful sensations ceased.

"You're what?"

"Death," I repeated.

I had never seen anyone looked so stunned. Not even the people whose souls I've taken had ever looked as surprised as she did. Her face cringed like I had punched her. Her shoulders scrunched up so high that they melded with her earlobes and her eyes lit up like she heard the biggest lie ever told. Jessica glared at me in distrust for being the one to tell it to her.

"Did I miss something? Was that supposed to be a joke?" She finally retorted.

"No."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"I'm telling the truth."

"Hey, if you wanted to break up again, at least tell me the truth instead of making up some bullshit story that you know I would never believe," she said, shaking with tears.

"No, no, no. I wouldn't do that. I will tell you the whole story."

So I did. Anything about everything she wanted to know, about Randy and the convict. She was skeptical, but she knew I was telling the truth, as I perceived it. Or thought I was nuts. She didn't know which was better.

"If you stay awhile longer I'll probably be able to prove it to you, it has been awhile since I last used the gift," I said, trying to keep her near.

"The gift?" Her anger peaked. "Oh that's just great, what the Hell? Ya know I've seen this already, I saw Randy do it ...and I'm not sure why you're mimicking him like this, but it's no good George. He's dead, get over it!"

She stormed into the living room.

"It's not like that Jessica," I said following her with both our wineglasses clanking in my hands. I turned out the lights and sat next to Jessica. I watched her intently, remembering Randy's blood flowing out onto the street, remembering that Randy gave his life to give me the gift and safeguard it. I wanted to show her somehow but had to wonder if another person knowing would only create more peril.

Was she in any more danger knowing the truth, than not knowing? No. The only person in danger was me.

I told her about the theory I had, about how the gift freezes and preserves me. Knowing the touch of my skin, she nodded silently in agreement. I was so frigid at times that she wouldn't snuggle too close. After a half an hour, I began explaining to her without using words.

"George, are you all right," she checked as I clutched the chair's arms so tightly my knuckles turned white.

"This is it," I muttered.

She watched me convulse and gasped when she saw the blue light stealthily shoot from my face. Then, within a moment, I was back again and awoke to an astonished Jessica as she fumbled with her words.

"I almost had a heart attack," she stuttered, "Your skin went pale, almost blue ...I thought you died."

Stunned and worried, a thousand thoughts must have run through her head. She raised an eyebrow with a contemplative look like she was reviewing medical conditions that she knew that could explain what I did.

"You know ...I," she said, "I've gotta go."

"Jessica wait," I stood and followed her towards the door.

"No I can't, just, just lemme go."

"So much has already gone. I can't bear the thought that you are yet another."

We stood in the dark, with the wan light of the moon mixing among the shadows. We gazed into each other's eyes. Mine trembled watching the effects of my condition on the woman I love. My legs lost their strength and turned to rubber as my neck swiveled, no longer capable of carrying my head and the anguish within. The rest of my body was bogged down with an impalpable pressure that rested on my back, pulsing tediously against my lungs.

"I need time," she said and closed the door.

And she was gone. The door blew a rush of air in my face that smelled like her. The bulk on my back grew heavier. A throbbing emanated from it that I recognized. All my failures incessantly pounded against my heart.

The fresh night air, crisp as it was, was hard to breathe. The gift had sloppily eviscerated everything decent out from me and replaced it with an empty sorrow. My forearm crashed against the door and my head followed as I cried in the blue moonlight.

Chapter 52

Two awkward weeks passed in which we didn't speak, time I spent staring at my hands and convulsing. I sat nervously impious, cross-legged in the middle of my living room, only moving to eat. Each flash of a life I had to take flogged me. The souls I stole were on a constant march across my mind and I did nothing to divert my attention away from it. I spent that week watching and dwelling on death. I let myself be overexposed to it so I could desensitize myself. I had to keep away from my own race to retain reverence for it. But I yearned for some kind of tribute to life to remind me that it all isn't bad. I found I hadn't the will or ability to ostracize myself from humanity. The answer to all my dilemmas was

Jessica.

God, I wish I could believe in something again.

The week passed and Sunday night rolled in without me knowing or caring, until there was a knock at the door. Then two. Then dozens it seemed, echoing around my head. My feet were asleep as I hobbled to the door in the blue shadows.

"Hold on, hold on dammit," I grumbled and opened the door.

She stood in the hallway with her sleek body nestled against the door. She stared at her fidgeting feet, unable to speak. My hand reached out and cupped her chin. Both my hand and her face flinched from the contact. Time seemed dead as we embraced and the world melted away. Jessica held me tightly then pulled away. Her blue eyes flinched and she looked at me cockeyed. Almost like she could see the killer inside. I could see it augment in her face. She loved me but something held her back and kept her reserved. And it was fear.

Chapter 53

All had been forgiven for the moment, or at least, understood. As time passed, Jessica grew used to me with the gift. Over time I had molded a routine and the gift had become so idle in appearance that she scarcely noticed it. Understanding and comforting me within the secure bounds she erected, was the only way she had to understand me. She truly tried to comprehend my duties and the distance I kept from her.

She painfully watched as I wallowed myself to sleep some nights, but never did I entertain the idea of accepting the gift as a part of me. I accepted her as a part of me.

The convict and Randy both took that ball of light in, not knowing it was Death, and assumed it as their duty. But in every moment of every day, I knew the gift wasn't me in the slightest. The life I had forged was me.

Many people died a day so the trips were frequent, but not as much as I thought they would be. I figured I would be taking peoples lives left and right, but the trips occurred at amazing speeds in which my ethereal body shot across space and even time. Very few laws applied to me when the gift stole souls, but one thing did apply and that was the visions.

Some days I'd just sit on the couch and stare off into my memory, vividly watching blood splatter or the sobbing of loved ones. The gift killed them with a cruel stroke and let the doctor's figure out what happened. Once the soul was out, I just let go of it for it to travel on its own path as I stayed with the living.

Days like that were hard as hell. The only thing that got me through it was Jessica.

"What happens to you on your trips?" She'd often ask.

"I die a little," I'd often respond.

So many trips were too much for me to revisit and she would hear nothing of them. These were the ones that kept me up all night.

We lived our lives like that. Day in and day out. Just being together was enough for me and that's when I realized that there was only one thing left to do.

I proposed to her at the end of that year. Beautiful days were carved out and my heart filled with love and warmth. Years passed in our marriage and we tried having children. On some nights I wondered if I was actually a dead man with a pulse, that I could never produce children. Also, the death trips would tend to kill the mood.

It took so long for me to warm up.

Even though we tried harder each day, she couldn't get pregnant and we were getting frustrated. Every attempt seemed futile and I began to feel worthless again. My Dad's voice rained down on me in his heavy and dismal tone. Nothing could get me far enough away from the words he left; no matter how hard I disassociated myself from him. Those eyes of his stared at me from wherever the dead go, calling from the grave saying, "You're totally unfit for any challenge, boy."

But all I had was hope and belief. I wished I could solidify those qualities and look at them. I prayed my efforts would congeal so I could hold them in my arms. Solid proof to show my Dad, to convince him I became a better man than he could ever be.

Chapter 54

Our fifth year of marriage came and things were on an upswing. I was promoted at work; it seemed my convulsions were something people could get used to. But the real news was Jessica got pregnant shortly after our anniversary. We were so intensely happy that we never stopped smiling. I'd touch her belly and we'd giggle. She was almost two months along.

"I can't wait to feel it kick," I said running my fingers gently along her exposed stomach.

"We can play music to her and talk," Jessica said wiggling around on the bed, nestling closer to me.

"Her? And what if it's a boy?"

"Then that's your fault," she winked, triggering a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, "That means you didn't give me what I want."

"Getting picky, eh?"

"Oh! You just wait until my mood swings come."

"Ah. You think they haven't come yet?" I rolled over on my side laughing.

"You can't escape me that easily!" She accused and tickled me. See rolled over into my arms and I held her close. We relaxed together until her face grimaced. She shrugged the pain off only for it to come back.

"Oh, sweetie I'll be right back," she said, getting up quickly and jogging to the bathroom.

"What's the matter, honey?" I asked, but she rushed into the bathroom without answering.

The door closed and I looked around our room. I checked out the random pictures of us that spotted the walls. Her curling iron on the dresser caught my attention and I followed its cord to the outlet.

"We're gonna need outlet covers," I muttered and tried to think of more baby preparations.

This is the room of parents now, a place we'll rarely see as we run back and forth from the crib. It'll be a haven from nightmares and a place to hide the Christmas presents.

"Hey, honey," I asked the silence behind the bathroom door, "You fall in?"

I knocked and waited. I imagined I'd catch her staring in the mirror at her stomach, poking at her belly. A minute passed and I knocked again without an answer. I turned the knob and walked in on her. There she stood, staring in the mirror like I had thought, with her shirt up exposing her midsection. Slipping behind her, I slid a hand across her soft, flat stomach and watched her in the mirror with a smile, but she stared blankly.

"Jessica, honey?"

She stared into the mirror and held her stomach.

"It's alright, honey," I said, "I know it's quite a responsibility."

A deep frown etched in her face and her bottom lip sucked into her mouth. She trembled uncontrollably. At first I thought it was me shaking. I watched her in the reflection as her eyes glistened in terror. She slowly turned to me and placed both her shaky palms on my chest. Maybe it was me? Her knees caved and she slid down and crashed to the tile floor. I crouched down to comfort her.

"It's all right, sweetie," I said, caressing her cheek.

Pulling her knees close to her breast, tears streamed down her cheeks and between my fingers. The fur of her sweater tickled my wrist and brushed against my cheek as I hugged her.

"It's alright, Jess," I coaxed her, trembling.

Trying to talk was the toughest part for her. Her eyes strained as she looked away from me. I caught something in my peripheral vision that shattered all our hopes with blood.

"Why did this happen?" she cried as I followed my sight.

Life was tough enough and she was strong, but nothing could prepare her for this. I crawled on all fours across the stinging brightness of the bathroom floor, my eyes squinting as I approached the toilet and saw a tiny red spot inside the side of the bowl. I leaned in closer and saw more blood.

Fear circled within my chest and head, as did guilt and remorse. I trembled and shook as a frigidity gust through me. I wanted to crawl away but I was glued to the porcelain, staring at my child.

"Oh God," I coughed.

"Oh my God ...she's gone," cried Jessica, as she watched me shake. She leaned towards me and yelled, "No! God no! Why? Oh God, why?"

I couldn't move until the shock drained from my head. I attempted to gain my bearings but I was too disoriented. I turned around, pressed my back against the toilet and looked at her.

"Because that's how it's supposed to be," I rubbed my hands up and down my face.

I couldn't believe I had just said that. With all the information I thought I knew, that's the crappy infinite wisdom I could utter.

"No, that's not how it's supposed to be George. We were supposed to have a baby!"

I sat in silence as something crowded the back of my mind. A distant and heavy feeling dampened a section of my consciousness. I couldn't identify it, but it was terribly familiar.

"What am I supposed to do now? It's so small ..."

"Jessica ...," I had to pause, my teeth were chattering. "I know."

"No, you don't!" She barked, "She didn't grow inside you."

"I know! It was my baby, too." I said staring at the shower curtain, "I just don't want you to turn into me. That's all. This is what I see all the time! This is what you wanted to know about me! I know what this does to you if you let it. All I'm trying to say is that our baby..."

I didn't know where I was going with that sentence. I sat in silence to stop from saying anything worse.

"And is that supposed to make me feel better?" she screamed.

An inner feeling churned hard and deep, grinding within her. I could see it in her eyes. I often saw it in my own eyes. It's the fear of yourself, knowing you'll never be able to forgive your own actions.

"Oh God George, our baby," she reached for me and cried, burying her head deeper into my chest as she hoped she could take it all back, "Dead...I killed ..."

"No," I said sternly. "No, you didn't."

She shook terrible and cursed herself. Then it hit her. She looked up at me appalled. Her eyes were wide and recoiled from me and scurried to the sink, holding onto it to pull herself up. Jessica rose into a slouch and faced the wall, took a deep breath, and turned to look into the mirror. Her own face greeted her differently. Age cut in around her mouth and eyes, as her whole face grew discernibly different.

"I can't even look at myself," Jessica moaned woefully as she crashed back to the floor and into my arms.

With a sniffle, she pulled from my chest with an odd and curious look. Her eyes probed my face for answers before she even spoke.

"You ..." she stuttered, "You were here the whole time right?"

"Um yeah, right here by you."

"No, no, I mean here," she widened her eyes and rubbed her belly, "Did you do this? I saw you shuddering but I couldn't tell. Did you take her?"

"I ...I don't know. I was in shock. I don't remember."

The only thing I was worried about was if I could be the strong one this time, to pull her through this hardship. She cried on the linoleum as rain pattered against the small window. The downpour hit hard and the bathroom closed in on us from all sides. I was lost in our loss. We floated in a sea of agony atop of a soft throw rug. I held her close as I felt the ground begin to undulate. I held her to comfort her and to stay afloat. I needed an anchor. But I submerged nevertheless. I capsized into the blood and water in the toilet. I screamed into the liquid. Bubbles surrounded my face and rolled across my eyes, stinging as they fled upwards. Water rushed down my throat and filled my stomach. I gurgled and tried to cough it all out, but it was too much. My mind choked and gasped trying to stay buoyant as the fluid dumped into me. Torrents rushed in and then abruptly stopped. My mind sloshed about in the fluid, slowly listing from side to side and making me seasick. Vertigo threatened to overrun me until I grabbed a hold of myself and drained my remorse. I tried to wring all the guilt out, but no matter how hard I pressed, a bit lingered behind and soaked a corner of my mind. And that guilt weighed tons.

I held my wife tighter and rocked her back and forth.

Chapter 55

We each hesitated every time we came near the bathroom door. Thirteen weeks passed before Jessica was able to walk into the bathroom and not dwell on the miscarriage. I watched her gently tiptoe around as she readied for work. She had overcome but, on this particular day, I was overcome.

The day was bad from the start. I sat in a chair under the small shards of light that stole into the room. The apartment and I were unkempt and all I could do was sit and stare at the wall with my hands poised near my mouth.

"Lemme call you in, sweetie," she said, leaning out of the bathroom.

"Yeah," I said, "Not doing well."

She got off the phone and landed a gentle hand on my shoulder, calming me with the physical contact as the rest of my body convulsed. Rearing my head to look at her, I placed a hand on top of hers and tried to smile.

A dimple appeared in her cheek as she leaned in and kissed my forehead,

"Please George, take it easy today."

"Thanks ...love you."

"Love ya, too," Jessica smiled and kissed me. She pulled back with a sour look then quickly smirked to cover it up. I wonder if I'm getting that bitter?

She turned and left for work.

Time passed as it always does, neither feeling slow or fast, it just passed. I hadn't noticed a convulsion since she left. All I could think about was Jessica.

"My hands are shaking. Was that the door? No. I did hear a noise?"

Focusing on any one thing proved difficult as my eyes felt like they went cross. The only thing I could see was the light floating in my apartment. The beams came towards me and I laughed. They almost tickled.

"Another noise - it sounds closer. From the window?"

My curiosity climaxed as drowsiness rushed over me and I fought sleep. Sitting limply in the chair, sorrow settled on me. Sunlight warmed my skin and my blood felt tainted with the thin heat. My head pounded and my heart ached and I knew something was coming.

I braced for an exorbitant amount of trips as Death, ready for whatever was threatening, but nothing came. Bags loosely drooped from my eyes.

I rubbed my hands over the arms of the chair and gathered momentum to stand. I rose and swooshed along the wood floor, creaking towards the window. I bunched the curtains in my hand and yanked the cloth away. A barrage of light from the rising sun attacked me. My old knife wound throbbed.

I sulked away from the bright sun. My shadow spanned across the floor behind me and I watched it scurry and cower away. I slowly spread my fingers along the windowpane and the brilliant rays spilled between them and around my body, encompassing my dark figure in pure light. I looked over the skyline.

I stood a vigil over my city from far above. Feelings rose from the streets in waves, rippling from the cement, and into my head as a sensation of satisfaction. The streets were crowded as people bustled along without a care. Every one of those bodies that scrambled around could be next.

I'm after them, Oh God, after them all.

Tears welled in my eyes and I was cast aside from my own race. I was a stain, a blemish on the record of humanity. Even my shadow backed away.

But that was old news, nothing but unless thought. I reached towards my trench coat that was draped over the couch. I walked over and grabbed it and opened the window. A smile stretched across my face. This was the only recognizable time that I felt happy with myself. This was the time I realized I had to find a way out. If I just left the race then there would be harmony and everyone would be safe. No more me, no more death. I could stop it all. No more sadness, no more loss.

With a screech, the window opened and I stepped out into the open air.

I sent a stride into the open sky many stories up and it landed with a clank on the heavy metal fire escape. I sat keeping a careful watch over the doomed.

"But that's alright," I mumbled, "Because I'll save you. I save you all from me."

Chapter 56

Jessica came home and treaded softly into the living room, chilled by the breeze rushing in. A plate of my food scraps sat on the floor near the window. I could hear her keys drop against the end table. She looked out the window to see me sitting there, watching the sunset.

"Oh God ...you scared the hell of out me. What are you doing?" She sighed trying to calm down, "How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Better. Much better," I turned to her.

"Whacha looking at?" She smiled as relief rushed all over her face.

"The light."

Spanning the dim horizon, twilight engulfed the world as the beams of the late day hours began to disappear. It was the most amazing sight and I shared it with my love. I was joined with the atmosphere and mixed in the purple and orange haze of clouds, living with the light and making peace with it.

A mass of dark clouds loomed nearby though. My brain nagged for me to stay, but it was time to fight again. All the clouds merged and muscled the sunset away as storm clouds rumbled into the city.

"How long have you been out here, George?"

"Since you left for work."

"Come on in," she said, softly landing her hand on my shoulder.

I turned and looked over the city one last time, trying to imprint this moment into my mind.

"You know, I've spent all day out here and have seen every beautiful ordinary thing," I spoke out into the open air, "But the most beautiful was the light. At all times of the day and even at night, it held the most magnificence.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't wonder what it held for me. It's so peaceful."

But it wasn't just peaceful it was illuminating. I discovered, over the city that day, that if I were to give up this mantle, things would be much worse. The original goal was to keep the gift to shield it from the wrong hands; if I was even the right hands. But if I rid myself of this gift, or die with it, the city below would suffer the same fate as I. Instead of each of them perishing one by one, I would go and they would linger on. I wouldn't do that to them. I wouldn't do that to Jessica.

Thunder rumbled from the distance and Jessica helped me back inside. I closed the window and kissed her all the way to the bedroom. Lightning flashed outside.

Chapter 57

If I had known the finality of it all, I would have held her longer. She was extra sweet that night. Every touch she left on me felt like she struck a piano key, leaving a resonance of music. Beethoven's Ninth played on the CD player, which I had forgotten to turn off earlier in the afternoon. To this day, it's still hard to listen to. Every one of her kisses left an indent on my skin that never faded. She held extra beauty and I saw it right away as she smiled the entire time. We laughed like children under the covers. I held my contentment as close as she held my head to her naked breast. Her heart pounded hard.

Afterward I sprawled out on the bed, listening closely to the music and enjoying my comfort. Sound danced on my chest and I smiled while the sweat dried. A cool breeze blew over and tightened the perspiration on my face. Minutes later I rose and washed my face in the bathroom, catching memories in the mirror of over three months ago when she rubbed our child within her stomach. The image of what happened in that room never left me. It plagued me.

After a few minutes I looked out the small window in our bathroom that looked over the street. The rain began to steadily pound against the window and I was ready to sleep. Storms always relaxed me. I came out of the bathroom and stared at her from the doorway. She looked so peaceful lying in our bed. She was flipping through Metamorphosis by Kafka. I gazed in awe at her, feeling lucky to even be near her. With every step towards the bed, I realized more that she complimented me perfectly in so many ways. I slid under the covers and tickled her stomach. She smiled and kissed me.

She went right back to reading as I bundled up, attempting to warm up and retire. I closed my eyes and nested in my niche with my normal bounce around to find my comfortable spot.

Then began the convulsions. My stab wound began to throb. I tried to remain as still as I could. Nonetheless, I felt another trip coming on and Jessica looked over to see. She thought nothing more of it and continued with her reading. This was routine to her. I surrendered to the gift so I could sleep.

Drifting out of my body like usual, I prepared to leave and return quickly to get back to bed. Except this time, I went nowhere. When all the motions were done, I saw Jessica lying next to me.

"What are you doing? Go back to bed, sweetie," she muttered into her book, figuring I was already done with the trip and up and wandering about.

When she received no answer, she repeated herself. She looked over to find me standing above her. She looked over to my side of the bed and saw my body lying there. She looked back at the ethereal me again and her mouth hung open, starring at me in shock. The surprise froze her for a moment, where she, no doubt, got to thinking of the horrible stories she inferred about the gift. That was the only time I ever saw her ever expect the worst.

"No, no, no," she spat as she scurried backwards onto my body on the bed. My whole ethereal being was confused and heart-broken. My mind flooded with frigid betrayal. That all the years spent and all the hard work we accumulated to this moment would fizzle out into a crippling pain that drove me to the brink of sanity.

All I could ponder was that I wouldn't survive this. That my sanity would be lost in the sea of souls I steal. I would crumble into nothing but a shell, to experience only crippling emotions to the mind numbing fullest.

"There's nothing wrong with me honey, no - do, do, do something - fight it," she pleaded.

A scowl cut into my face, forever etching worry lines into the body I wasn't in. My mind was all chaos and fear. I struggled to pull away from her with all my might again, commanding with all the rage that lingered within my limbs, but the foreign force pushing me forward was enormous. The effort to offset my hands from closing in on Jessica quickly compounded, as my ethereal body stretched. I had to fight and believe I could beat this. The struggle ripped me apart. I had never felt pain in that spectral state before; I never thought it possible. The agony was immense but I fought it to the end.

"No please," she pleaded, "George...no."

The fibers of my ethereal body stretched beyond their limits and pulled apart. Working loose from each other, the strands of me ripped apart like the tearing cloth. Agony resonated around my disemboweled ghost and nausea swam about my head. Each strand of me snapped apart like breaking fingers. Growing incredibly weak, I limply floated, still fighting with what strength I had left. I had to keep it together literally and hold on for that extra minute beyond the breaking point.

"Oh God no," she uttered.

But the opposing force was tireless. The final filament ripped and I was left helpless. I tried to muster any and all energy within me and found none. I was depleted into a feeble whimpering puppet. At the moment I was useless, I reassembled back into my spectral form. I was completely at the mercy of the manipulating force. And so was Jessica.

All I could do was watch her terror-riddled face, as I was forced to close her nostrils and reach into her mouth. My hands helplessly pulled and pulled on the string of her soul. Grayish-black bags formed around the whites of her eyes. Her face went pale against her dark eyes. Her flesh clung to whatever bones it could find as if dangling from a cliff.

My fingers just kept on pulling. I begged, prayed, pleaded for mercy.

"You can't go. I can't do this." I meant to yell, but instead whispered.

"Help me," she garbled.

Her words echoed in my head and shook my skull. Then all my thoughts and anything that resembled wits vacated me. I felt nothing whatsoever.

Blank and drained, I fought without effect, as my cloudy blue hands finished off the process. The severity of it didn't hit until I saw her little blue soul creep through the air and disappear into the darkness of eternity. I tried not to look into her eyes and risk seeing the betrayal in her face, but I had no control over the matter. Whatever forced drove the gift pivoted my head to stare. I tried to force misery onto my face to show her I lost the struggle and I couldn't save her, but I couldn't even do that. I wasn't able to conquer the gift in the slightest.

"Oh God, no more," I cried in my head.

The controlling force dispersed and I snapped back into my body. My eyes instantly locked onto her. I saw the last look her eyes ever made. She was pale, with her deep blue eyes dulled so much that they blended in with the white. Her lips were pursed together with nostrils flared. Sweat soaked my hair. My right hand trembled as my fingers gently patted her cheek, pressing divots into her skin without the sensation of touch residing in my fingertips.

Shock wouldn't let me believe I killed my own wife.

Chapter 58

Disorientation attacked me in violent strokes as I leaned over her. A tear rolled off my eye and landed on her sweet face. More tears followed, uncontrollably seeping and gathering on her cheek. I jerked my hand awkwardly over her face to dry the tears. Her skin was still warm. She still felt alive. That's the moment I hated hope and all its false pretenses.

She just laid there, her skin gaining a yellow tint as I held her wrist to check for a pulse. I could find none of course. Frantically, I started to think of ways to right this terrible wrong. I stopped with my lips on hers and realized that there was no way to revive her. Her soul was gone and if I huffed into her, trying some weak attempt at CPR, I could accidentally pass the gift on to her.

"I could give her my life like Randy did for me," I thought, "But he didn't take my soul...and even if it worked, then she'd suffer under the gift. She'd wake with my dead body next to her and the miserable gift inside her. God, that would be worse."

I was torn to shreds. I could revive her by passing the gift onto her, but she'd be cursed. "God!

I can't just let her die!"

I finally understood, with the terrible thud of my heartbeat in my ears while Jessica had none, that there was nothing I could do. My hands reached for her and then retracted several times.

"God give me something!"

He gave nothing.

I looked at her face and leaned in for a kiss on those sweet lips one more time. A goodbye kiss. I closed her eyes as tears streamed out of mine. Behind those eyes was everything I knew, everything we worked for. I had no reason to live. To Hell with everyone! I'll be selfish. Everyone else could suffer my fate, there was no way I could let her roam the spans of eternity without her hand in mine.

I had to know where she was. Where did all the souls go after I stole them? What destiny did I force on these poor souls? I had to find out for myself and guide them. Guide her.

"Fuck this curse," I stated aloud to my empty bedroom. "It's just a light."

Maybe it was that simple, even though it never felt that way. The light could be nothing more than a stoplight on a road. Could I run this light and go speeding into the mass of souls taken over the years? Could I disrupt the traffic? I imagined the demon waiting to arrest me if I did.

I attempted to remember every detail of her body and burn it into my memory. I never noticed before, as I studied her, how perfect her face was. Nothing was too large or too small and I realized how much I had never seen on her face. I've missed out on a lot of things in my life, but this was one I was not going to forgive myself for. If only she could tell me I was forgiven.

Something needed to be done before I completely lost my mind to grief. I looked about the bedroom, desperate to find something I could grab to relieve my pain and send me on my to her, but a sensation scraped into my head. The bedroom blurred and my mind went blank. The foreign feeling slithered around my brain and I grew anxious, waiting for an assault. My skull tensed into a headache. I curled into the fetal position on the bed.

No more pain!

I saw her long hair had spread like roots across the pillow. My head fought a stretching claw of mania that ripped its way out from the headache. My eyes or the room shuttered. All of reality vibrated and it felt like my brains would pour out my ears. I clamped my hands on my ears to steady my head, or the room, or everything when my eyes fell upon the only object not jittering. It was small and yellow. A pad of paper resting on the nightstand.

I scooped up the ruled pad with a pen clipped to the spiral binding. The only shaking now came from my fingers. My emotions, my all poured into the pen once I held it and struggled to understand the words flowing out from it. My hand and head pleaded to mourn her, but I was too stubborn. Dealing with her death would eat me alive with sharp teeth; I had to bury my feelings. I had to run. I wrote the only thing that could stop me from caving to the pressure. My sentence dribbled down as the scribbles of a madman.

"This is my soul," I read out loud.

My soul can't be in jeopardy if it's outside the light's reach. Outside of me.

"Oh God what bullshit!" I scolded myself aloud but at the same time, as if to spite my doubt, I came to believe in it.

Why not? If I can be Death...well, why not? The more I pondered it, the more I actually believed that my soul was on or is the yellow scrap of paper. I needed to keep the only decent thing left of me away from the war zone that was my body. All the violence that constantly seethed within me couldn't be contained any longer and if I kept my spirit away from the war, maybe I would survive.

Or at least, I hoped so. Just long enough to save Jessica.

Carefully I ripped out the page, folded it up neatly and held it. Never had paper seemed so fragile. I straightened my back and shuffled to the window. The carpet swooshed beneath my feet until I reached the windowsill and I placed my hand on the metal frame. An electrical shock bit back. I shook my wrist and cursed my luck. Placing my hand back carefully to avoid another shock, I looked out onto the city.

Red taillights and white headlights sped along the streets. I looked up from them to the dark skyline and the twinkling windows. I followed the outline of the skyscrapers with my finger.

"Gravestones," I mumbled.

The depressing grays and the coldness of their designs told me I was living in a high-rise graveyard. Every building was a marker that told another horrible story. What a plague. The macabre and morbid, marked by those skyscrapers, told me about all the death I had caused. No, not me, the demon and the damned gift. The demon brought all of this down on my head, collapsing the bridge within me that helped me straddle life and death. And...it killed her.

I began longing for the death I dispense. I had to join my wife and help her in death as she helped me in life. I couldn't breathe this air any longer, there was too much of her floating in it to ever bear.

I turned away and ran to the kitchen in search of a weapon. I spotted a carving knife and grabbed it. I raised it above my head and held it above my chest. Staring at the blade in my hands, hovering and threatening from above, I saw a flash of the convict. All his colossal mass stood around me in impenetrable shadows. I could see his hand guiding my arm, begging it to plummet.

'Yes, yes!"

Simultaneously, my memory and his desires brought the blade down as second thoughts poured in. The knife plummeted with a thud into my chest. Blood sprayed into my eyes. The blade cracked past ribs until only the handle stuck out of my chest.

I gurgled out a bubble of blood and it streaked down my chin in a thin vein. My hands violently quaked around the handle of the knife. I gawked at my chest for what felt like hours and waited for a reprieve. Weakness filled me. I prayed for a swift end. I couldn't stand hearing the convict's laughter ringing in my ears for much longer.

Chapter 59

My heartbeat lingered. My eyes scanned the room and my fingers fidgeted; I should be dead by now, but my vicious self-inflicted stab wound left my heartbeat unchanged. Maroon blood pumped out onto the white tile as I leaned forward and wailed, resting my forehead against the linoleum.

"I can't see her!" I screamed realizing I wasn't going to die.

I pounded my fist on the floor and it slipped on the blood. It was everywhere.

My mind raced in panic as I looked at my chest. My head became woozy. I had lost a lot of blood. I had to do something. I couldn't just leave the blade in my chest like I was some brainless zombie. I curled my fingers around the handle of the blade. My hands where covered in blood and I slipped off the hilt. I took a deep breath, wiped my hands off on my pants then brought them back to the handle again in a strong grip. This was going to really hurt; I had to get it out with in one try.

Gritting my teeth and closing my eyes, I yanked.

I yelped and more tears flowed down my cheeks. It barely budged. I let it go and took more deep breaths. A strange giggle popped out of me. It quickly turned into laughter.

God, am I nuts?

The laughter turned into sobbing. Better luck this time. In a pained and frustrated groan I gripped the handle again. I jiggled the knife around in my chest to loosen it out of its niche. Shocks of blasting pain responded. I gnashed my teeth and drew strength from deep within. My flesh stretched as the knife rose. The kitchen was a bloody prism through my soaked eyes. My stomach heaved. The blade slid upwards and I knew I had to get it out with this tug.

Heaving with the last of my energy, as my elbows shook, the blade came free and I tossed it away. The knife landed against the wood cabinets and splashed an array of blood that streaked like a red web across the kitchen walls.

I fell to my hands and coughed and spat, trying to bear the pain. Blood ran down my body and onto the ground in a network of streams. A vacuum gripped my throat as the gift clenched down on my esophagus. I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself. When they opened my kitchen was a bright blue, everything flipped to cobalt except for the deep red blood on my hands. The hands that have killed so many. I prayed for an answer. A cold gust of wind rushed through me.

"Oh God, no," I whispered, "Not now."

The frozen rush of death ran beneath my skin, warning me of another convulsion. Unable to think of anything else, I poised my hands above my chest in protest. I will not go. Enough. I'll reach into the hole in my chest and pull out my heart if I have to. This whole damned lineage had to end.

The cold rushed faster within me. My fingers perched above my chest cavity, ready to make good on my threat when my eyes landed on the yellow note. Wet blood spots soaked the corners. I dragged the paper closer, pinched between two fingers one of those very corners, and slowly unfolded it.

"This is my...my soul," I read aloud again.

It sounded ridiculous, even more so than when I wrote it down, but, with a glance to down to the bloody slit in my chest, I knew it was genuine. My soul, myself, was safe on that stained paper. And had to stay that way. My body and soul must stay divided.

The convulsion felt savage as it roared inside me. I almost forgot about it.

"You cannot just scribble on parchment and call it your soul," I heard a voice in my head say,

"You are mad to believe so."

"No," I answered.

"You are mine, puppet," the voice in my head was familiar. The demon's voice boomed through my head.

I pulled myself to my knees as my brain banged against my skull. My every limb was sluggish and my pectorals grew tight. I looked down to my chest and my chin nearly fell to it. The narrow length of fissure, seeping with blood, well, began to pull everything back. A do-over. Control Z. I watched the cavernous wound slowly close itself from the top down. My skin, taught around the wound, reached across for the other side of the bloody wound and slowly stitched itself together. The blood, my blood, spread across the kitchen in dripping web patterns, began its march. Peeling itself from my cabinets, my own lifeblood, which had seep into the woodwork mere seconds earlier, pulled free of its normal and useless duties outside the vein and marched back home. My body began to pull itself together.

"I won't take any more souls for you," I bellowed.

"You already have," the demon hissed in the back of my head, "You will see soon enough."

"This isn't me, this isn't me. Just take it back." I pleaded.

"Do not worry, he is looking for you," it hissed louder, "And he will take it back. Just rest your weary bones here and it will be all over soon."

"No," I coughed, "The convict can't have it back."

This vicious cycle would go on forever if the convict had the gift again. More poor souls would be lost, to the convict who would repay the world for the loss of his wife.

"Just let him have her back."

"Ah begging, I like that puppet," the demon chuckled, "You know he begged too. Yes, on the electric chair. He begged for another chance to be with his wife, to save her, but the light doesn't get a choice. Just like you. It is as pathetic as you. I make the decisions."

So few feelings touched me. I went nearly numb.

My chest wound continued to call back more blood. From every direction my blood came in shimmering crimson streams along the floorboards and marched like fire ants meandering towards their hill.

I held the yellow paper tightly in my hand. It was the only vestige of me left. My body had become the cage to keep the unnatural gift away from the murdering convict.

"I will be the last to hold the light," I whispered as I felt the gift spread out and settle into the spot where my soul once dwelled.

"Be prepared puppet, for it matters not to me who has the gift. But it matters to the world," the demon's voice laughed and faded away.

Clenching the note harder in my hand, the blood that stained the yellow paper unsoaked the note and squeezed out from between my fingers, pausing for a moment on my thumb's knuckle as if to catch its breath from the exertion, and crawled up my arm, to my shoulder, until it settled back into my chest. The other little beads and even the large puddles of my blood scurried back and up my forearm, leaving a faint tickle behind.

All the flesh hanging loosely around the breach mended as the last of my blood slid in, itching as it sealed itself shut. I barely resisted the urge to scratch.

Strength returned as I shifted my weight to sit up. I lifted a curious finger and felt my chest. The only evidence left of the stab wound was my torn shirt, cut the shape of the blade, and a wrinkled scar, smooth enough to appear as if it had lived there for years.

The cold of the gift slowly stopped blowing around my chest and emanated a feeling of satisfaction, as if it was proud of the work it did on me, proud of making me impervious to the death I induced.

Slithering to my feet, I remembered the reason I was on the floor in the first place and stumbled towards Jessica. With each careful step I took, a notion, no, a presence in the back of my brain vibrated.

I could see my wife's hand dangle off the bed. Tangled tufts of her hair spread out across the sheets. From the back of my mind a fusillade of sensations reigned, foreboding me from entering my bedroom. It began feel like a crime scene. I forced myself to look at Jessica and attempted to go to her. I reached out and the air felt hot in the room. My fingers trembled and I was confused. Hot? The further I pushed my hand into the bedroom the hotter it got. I could smell burning flesh and hair. I gazed in on Jessica and longed to be with her. But the heat, the burning...my hair began to singe. With every step towards her more of my skin began to bubble. Oh god, the pain was immense.

I turned and ran. I couldn't stand the heat. I ran into the cold hallway, my breath puffing out before me in gray billows.

Dark blue shadows crept with spider legs, encircling and closing in on me along the corridor. Fear gripped me completely. Was there someone there? A breeze rushed over my skin and my hair stood on end. Shivers shot down my spine and arms, cooling the burned skin, though it didn't look singed in the slightest.

My feet and legs turned to lead. I crashed against the walls, desperately trying to avoid the creeping shadow's grasp. They were everywhere, haunting with guilt. With sharp blue tendrils, obscurity searched and closed in on me, tunneling in from the ceilings. The hallway extended for miles. Screeches of teeth gnashing on metal permeated my ears and ran more shivers down my spine. The floorboards laughed beneath me. My knees caved and I tripped. My open hand caught the coat rack by the door and it crashed on top of me. I lay sprawled across the floor floating in and out of consciousness slapping my hands at the air.

Chapter 60

I pushed the coat rack off me and grabbed my trench coat. It pulled it and an old pair of sneakers on. I slammed the door open and left my apartment. Shooting down the stairs, I ran out into the night and sloshed down the wet steps into the street.

"All alone," I muttered, as I looked up at my apartment.

Our bedroom window glowed bright; from out here, all looked happy and...and alive. I half expected to see Jessica peering out and waving. Fighting tears, I walked down the sidewalk without aim. I turned a corner and passed a mother with her child in hand. I curled my hands into fists out of jealousy. God, I will never see that in my house.

I turned down an alley. I ran from them, kicking over trashcans before stopping after a few blocks. I leaned against a building, peered down at my shirt and realized, really noticing for the first time that my sweat pants and my old white university shirt were unstained, lacking even the slightest sign of blood stains. The world began to spin. The garbage cans began to double and the brick alley blurred. I rested atop one of the two trash bins, thankfully picking the real one and my head hung low, breathing in all I could.

My fingertips ran found there way under my sweatshirt and then up and down the wound.

I shook my head in disbelief; this had to be a dream.

I continued into the night air fog and mist, as it swallowed the city crowds. I was stiff and unbending. My mind stewed over my hatred for the demon and the convict. As I toured the streets, I bumped into people in my daze, knocking some down. Their obscenities were mere mumbles in my teeming brain.

After awhile, I ducked into a store and emerged with a pack of cigarettes, lighting one after my first step. "I might as well smoke, the cancer won't have an effect on me."

I blew a puff upwards and fixed my eyes on the heavens, on whatever's up there. I took another drag and pushed the smoke up harder, trying to send the haze up to the moon. I hoped they would choke on it up there. I trotted on, lost in shock, as convulsions came and went.

"You're the moon and I'm the tides, eh?" I rationalized, talking to the sky. I didn't care if I was addressing God or the demon, I knew my destiny was dreamed up by one of them and it seemed that no matter how much I attempted to influence my life for the better, it turned out how it was preordained.

"You stay up there," I lectured upwards from the middle of the sidewalk, "I don't know who you are but you better stay away. You've caused enough harm. Whatever else you have planned, just keep it to your damned self!"

A lump in my mind began to tickle and my head began to unhinge.

"Who do you have up there?" I continued, "Jessica? Randy? My parents? Well you better not. With the way you're treating me down here, I don't want any of them near someone like you. Well, you can have my dad."

I thought of the heaven that I was taught about in Sunday school and grappled with the theology. Does the gift even apply to religion? Why is it even here?

Red taillights blinked through the thinning fog and caught my attention. I took another drag.

"Why are you still looking to the heavens for answers?" I asked myself. "You've never got a single answer all the times you've asked. Every answer came from down here. And nowhere else."

And it hit me like that. Without a celestial target to blame things on, I didn't feel hopelessly damned. I just felt, well, unfortunate. The fact that I might not be cursed by a higher power melted some fears. Without an eternal punishment, I felt free, almost lawless. Maybe I wasn't under constant scrutiny? Maybe I had no-one to answer to. I turned my head up and gave thanks for the help.

My stomach churned along with my head. I had a sick feeling that I was being followed. An acrid breeze ran through me and I was rigidly aware its familiarity. Emerging from the mist, I checked the time on a digital sign and said aloud, "ten after ten."

I walked on and passed a few more clocks. They said the same time. It didn't seem right. These clocks were never the same. I ran back to the first clock I saw and it was frozen on ten after ten. I ran into a shop and the same time was on their clock.

"They've all stopped."

I ran into the street and stared at an analog clock on a sign. The second hand was dead still. I tensed. The back of my mind twitched. I was ready to run; convinced I smelled the convict.

Quickening my pace, checking over my shoulder every so often for his putrid existence, I prayed he wouldn't appear through the fog. The carrion smell was terribly pungent but the further I ran, the more the smell died. I jumped into a sprint; I couldn't meet him now. Dear God not now.

My shoulder clipped something and I crashed to the cement. Scrambling away from what I prayed wouldn't be the convict before I even hit the ground, my feet landed on lumpy paper bags. My feet rolled atop of oranges and other scattered groceries that littered the sidewalk. Regaining my balance and senses, I saw an elderly woman sprawled on the cement, grimacing as she rose. A warm rush of pity washed over my heart.

"I'm, so very sorry ...here let me help," I offered quickly gathering her items.

"Oh," she said in a gentle, but disoriented voice, "...just be careful and watch the fruits. You're lucky I'm not hurt. Are you? All seems alright but you should watch where you're going, young man."

I gathered all the items and gently placed them in her crinkled bag, like a doctor giving a child to the mother after birth.

"Again, I'm sorry," I uttered in shame.

Her face was stern but she was satisfied. Nodding her head, she grumbled, "Humph, you could have really hurt me," she repeated and walked away.

I watched her leave to make sure she was all right. Turning to continue on my aimless trek, I remained motionless. She had a familiarity that plagued me. Why would I know this old lady?

Why does she look familiar?

Then it hit me, she looked like Betsy. Was it her? No, just looked like her. I wondered what ever happened to that wonderful woman? Did she even know about her brother? Does she know I have the gift? In any case she'd be a huge help. Betsy has dealt with this indirectly for just as long as Randy. She'll help me!

I ran back towards my house. I kept the scrap with her address somewhere. I looked up at our bedroom window. At the bright light bursting out. I stopped dead at the doorstop. The sun began to peak from the cradle of the east horizon as my madness melted. Fatigue overpowered me. Leaning on the railing of the stairs for balance, my weary body sunk low as the sun rose. I thought of Jessica lying on our bed. Both my knife wounds ached.

I walked up the stairs and into the apartment, hating myself for leaving in the first place. Sunlight warmed me through the bedroom window and held her for the last time.

I left the room and stared at her as I dialed 911.

Chapter 61

"Heart failure?"

"Yes, sir. Apparently it just gave out. Did she act strange last night?"

"Not really, she said she was really tired," I answered as my eyes watered, "I couldn't sleep much so I took a walk and when I came back she was ...she was ..."

More people asked me many questions but I never even looked at them, they were just voices. I remained mute and no-one bothered me much after they realized they weren't getting any answers from me. They thought I was in shock and I probably was. Eventually people stopped talking to me.

Of course the autopsy proved a natural death, but I never cared. I knew what had happened. Just the thought of it made me colder than the gift ever did. My skin felt like ice to my own touch. Jessica had complained when my feet would touch her under the covers, even in the summer and after she died, it made me uncomfortable when I touched my flesh.

Sometimes she would draw a warm bath for me to melt in, but I couldn't do that for myself. It reminded me of her. There was no reason to talk or listen to anyone; everyone worth confiding in was dead.

Her family did all the burial rituals and put her in the earth, in a plot near the city limits, where she couldn't be touched by anything hovering over me. Every relative came to offer their condolences, but I was still trapped in my mind, replaying memories of our past. I was usually tugged around to the different places I needed to be, never knowing where I was and where I was going. Occasionally I would wake from my stupor, but I never woke for long. The only things that grabbed my attention were the tombstones in the green graveyard. The only thing I could comprehend was the dead; they were easy, the living was a foreign species speaking mute dialects.

I awoke the most at her funeral. My stab wounds ached repeatedly, pulsing with my heartbeat, harassing me the entire time, until it was over as I took another trip as Death. I was so close to catatonic that I barely moved for the convulsions. I shivered a bit. Many speculated and worried if I was drugged after they tried to speak with me. I was as lifeless as my wife. The pains pounding from my stab wounds were the only indicator that I was still alive. Strangely enough, even in death, Jessica still made my life go by quickly.

"Hey," a voice spoke.

A raindrop patted the tip of my nose and slapped me awake. The sky was gray, dim and heavy, and it began to drizzle. Nowhere seemed worth my attention but nevertheless, the grassy wet hills of the cemetery came into view.

"Hey George, wake up," my sister called.

Attempting to find my bearings, I slipped on the slick grass, kicking up mud and green blades. She was waving in front of my face and caught my arm, helping me stand.

"Thanks sis," I muttered, regaining my balance.

Looking about, I wandered away from Jessica's burial plot to a small, graceful hill sporting a limp and ancient tree. People in dark clothes and coats plagued the area. It made me wary, each of them looked too somber, maneuvering their grief for my lost loved one. And anyone of them could be the convict. They were all too short, though.

I knew he was out there somewhere, stalking me. The window of opportunity was wide open for him to attack me in this state and he was bound to capitalize on my vulnerabilities. I was in a waking dream more times than not and the more I tried to pay attention, the more I drifted away. But the convict and the demon remained in the foreground of my thoughts.

Rain matted my hair and left a misty layer on my head. The hill I stood on was covered with the same coating of dampness. I could hear the harbors in the distance and all the bustle of the ships. The ships looked ancient, over two hundred years old. This foreign place felt familiar though. Deja vu through the gift from the convict. The ships came slow to my eyes, barely making it through the gray drizzle, then disappeared.

"Whatcha doing way over here?" My sister asked from behind me.

"I don't know," I replied. "Just felt like coming here."

"How are you?"

"Terrible."

"I am sorry, I really am. What can I do?" she asked, showing unprovoked kindness for the first time.

She caught me off balance. I was waiting for her to insult me in some way, even if it was accidental. Or just act like a bitch. But it seemed something inside her had changed. I saw it right away. She was different, in her eyes, she was more grown. Maybe she stopped idolizing our father or she just pitied me after losing my wife.

"You know Amber, I don't know what I'm going to do," I let the floodgates open to her.

"When Dad died I ran away, when Mom and Randy died I just did the same. The only thing I know is when someone close to me dies, I have to keep on going no matter what the direction. To stay resilient and stubborn so I don't suffer. Survival instincts, I guess."

"I guess I did the same, in a way, when Mom died. I don't know ...I ...just don't want to lose you, too, George," Amber said. The scar on her lip caught my attention.

"You won't," I said, starting to actually believe that I could manage to keep that promise.

"Stay with me awhile. I don't want you going back to your apartment alone. Probably not at all. You need your family and I need to make up for lost time." God she sounded like an adult. God I hoped she changed. Could it be?

She put her arm around me and we walked down the hill. Men in black coats and grave demeanors slithered about the grounds, aggravating my paranoia again. The convict had to be out there somewhere, but my eyes, any of my senses couldn't focus enough to find him. Everyone was merely a black blob of misery. Every person in that dreary rain, that was visiting a grave, was there because of me. And I pitied all but one. All but that solitary man out there I couldn't see. Out there somewhere, pretending to mourn but watching me instead, watching for the right time to strike.

"Stay with me as long as you want," Amber said. I tried to pay attention to her, but I was feeling worse and my eyes grew intolerably heavy.

"Alright," I muttered.

"We're almost to the car now, George," Amber said, leading me by the arm.

My neck lost all strength and my head swiveled, all my weight rested on Amber. Everything below my chin was heavy. Then came a poke, a snagging at my shoulder. It was gentle at first, like someone getting my attention, but it hooked onto my coat and pulled. The tug was so hard that I leaned with it, falling to the side, arms flailing in the air as dead weight.

I slipped right out of Amber's hold. I instantly thought that the convict was attacking. My fist whizzed through the rain. I was in no condition to take on a hulk like the convict, but I had to try. Had to stun him to find time to run. My sister was there and he would destroy the only members of my family. She was all that was left.

My blind swing through the air hit nothing but raindrops. Amber's hand reached behind me and she unhooked me from a tree branch that had snagged my coat. The jagged limb bounced in its freedom and I turned to face the threat I thought was the convict. I spun too fast and splashed into a wet mess of grass and mud. I still squirmed, ready to fight off the tree that slowly stopped appearing like the convict.

"George, George! Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I grumbled, slowly rising to my feet with her help. "I just wanna leave."

We hurried to her car and she drove off to her apartment. Reaching in my inside coat pocket, I pulled out the piece of crumpled yellow paper and rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. It was safe. I wrapped up tightly in Randy's old coat and slept the entire drive.

Chapter 62

Amber woke me and brought me into her place where I fell asleep again, mildly shivering and convulsing. Eventually I fully woke, yearning for food that she already had waiting wrapped in the fridge. Night had fallen and fragments of dreams haunted my mood in blue hues. Images of anguished souls lingered as I woke.

Her apartment was bright and blinded my sleepy eyes. Fresh and immaculate, everything was neatly placed in its spot around her home. The walls were a brilliant white and the carpet a clean cream. The pictures of her were still on the wall but were fewer. My eyes were still adjusting as Amber sat with me and I ate.

"Could you turn up the heat, sis?" I asked, looking for where she put my coat.

"I guess," she walked to the thermostat near the kitchen.

The rain persisted. It came down hard, straight and bleak from outside the window behind her.

"Thanks, Amber."

"Sure, I just wish I could do more."

"Well, we could talk," I offered.

She sat at the table with me for an hour and we chatted as lightning and thunder rattled the window. A couple of convulsions kicked in but I had them under control, it looked like I was just shivering. I flirted with the idea of telling her about the gift, but never found a good enough reason or spot in the conversation.

She had done well for herself. And had become kinder than I'd ever thought she was capable of. Amber had saved money, though that was never a surprise to me because Dad was such a tightwad. All aspects of her life seemed to be set and proper, everything but her family life.

The night passed and the death trips slowed. I grew colder, so she got my trench coat for me. I dug around for more information about her.

"Dating hasn't been too good," she confessed, "Work's too important."

"Whatever works," I replied.

"I also wanted to apologize for neglecting your wedding," she added.

"It was small to begin with," I stated as I wrapped the coat around me, closing any area that could let in a breeze.

"She was great, I imagine," Amber asked.

"Yeah, Jessica was," I lamented with shivers running underneath my skin. My trench coat must have been letting in some cold air in because I had never been this cold. I hoped the branch that caught me in the cemetery hadn't torn a hole in my coat.

"You're still cold? Lemme turn up the heat," she said, walking towards the thermostat, "You must have gotten sick standing in the rain."

The storm continued to wail outside. A bright flash lit up the rain and I watched the city. Bright windows, billboards and streetlights several blocks away caught my attention with thin piercing light that pushed between the downpour. Amber turned the dial up and wiped her forehead. Shivers still shot through me, raising my hair on end. Never once has Randy's jacket failed to warm me. Something was wrong.

"Some like it hot," she giggled.

Her smile made me comfortable. I didn't thaw but something deep within me did melt a bit.

Lightning flashed again. The few lights left awake in the city below blinked out, blocked by something. Thunder followed. My heart skipped a beat. She turned around to look out the window, turned back to me, and then peered out the window again, trying to figure out what I was intently focusing on. I stood up, curious as to why all the lights below went out. Did the power go out? The lights are still on in here... My feet began to itch. I needed to run. But why?

Was I a child scared when a few lights go out? No, but there was still light from coming through the windowpane, it just seemed labored and tired as if it had to sprint around some massive obstruction.

Lightning blazed once more and a face appeared. Leering eyes shot out a vengeful stare. They gleamed with lust. Amber jumped back in fright and let loose a shrill yelp. I ran to her, crashing over the table and chairs.

The decrepit face at the pane smiled wide.

The window erupted. Glass showered over he the carpet and Amber as the convict reached out for her through the shadowy rain. A flood powdered in with his arm and soaked her. His hand landed on her head, matting her hair down over her face. As dark as it was, I could see him clearly. Even more rotten than before, his skin hung off his skull and his sulfurous reek immediately permeated the room. His right hand held her fast as she struggled. He stepped through the window into the apartment, turning sideways to fit. Setting both massive feet onto her clean carpet, mud seeped out from beneath his boots. He stood with Amber's head in one hand and crooked a finger at me with the other. The convict towered over my struggling sister, a black shadowed hulk, dripping mud and blood over the pristine white carpet and walls. He was a sick void surrounded by pure brightness.

He quickly shifted his grip to the back of her neck, expelling little effort holding her still as she kicked and screamed. Calm and malevolent, the convict squared up and his head nearly touched the ceiling. Both his hands tightly wrapped around Amber's neck. Solid as a tank and just as broad, he held her up below the ceiling, at eye level and laughed, ready to exact his revenge.

"Trade," he uttered in a strained yet commanding voice. It was deep and boomed around the apartment. The grainy sound of death pounded my ears. He stared from behind his finger aimed in my direction.

I was strewn across the chairs, struggling to get to my feet. I groggily reached for my bewildered sister with one hand and helped myself up with the other. He towered miles above me and I was sprawled in his creeping shadow, cast as square and tall as a building. He seemed even bigger than the last time.

"George, help," Amber begged and spat through her long hair, covering her face.

"Put her down," I ordered sternly with more authority than ever I knew I had.

"Trade," the convict forcefully repeated.

Randy's battered and broken face flashed in my mind and I saw his blood spilling onto the street again. The wound in my side, the one this bulky bastard gave me, pulsed in raging pain. I had to come up with something. Now.

"He's playing you, convict," I spat, allowing my gut to lead.

"What?"

"The demon. He is playing you."

"TRADE!" he snarled. "Or she dies."

"Why, dammit?" I wondered if I was going to get anywhere with this. "You want the demon to give you your wife back? You think it will once you get the gift back? What will you do then?"

"See her again," he said as rage filled his eyes and voice. "Do not stand between us. Give it to me!"

"George, just give it to him, what ever he's asking for...give it," Amber pleaded, managing to push her lips through her tangled mess of hair.

"I know what you went through, you know that?" I continued. "We can work together. Just let her go and we can fight the demon together."

"No - need it back. Veronica's waiting."

"How do you know?"

The convict's face detonated with fury. I had to get my sister out of his hands. He squished across the carpet, mud imprinting behind him as he dangled her out before me. His tattered coat swished about his knees.

"The demon is using us," I continued. "We're just its pawns, forced to play this sick game."

"Does not matter, I need her back." His grip tightened around Amber's neck, turning his putrid fingers white. She gurgled out incompressible sputters, kicking wildly while prying at his grip around her neck.

"It'll deceive you yet again. You've spent centuries working for it and what do you have to show for it? Nothing! It's probably laughing at you right now."

"No. We made a deal. Now give it to me!"

"Ha! You've spent so long looking for this blue ball of light that's inside of me now, that you've lost all sight. Did you ever wonder why the demon just didn't take it from one of us and give it back to you?"

"I had to earn it," the convict sulked, "and I have."

His left hand swung at me. I never saw it leave Amber's neck. I tumbled to the floor in enough time to see it miss by millimeters.

Tumbling forwards in my awkward parry, with his arm fully extended after his miss, I bashed into his gut with a jab filled with all my puny force.

He laughed so loud the neighbors pounded on the walls. Their complaints rapidly halted when he answered them with a ferocious roar that rattled the windows.

Amber was shaking, her face turning blue from his stranglehold. If I didn't save her soon, she'd suffocate.

"I need a goddamn wrecking ball to knock him off his feet," I thought.

The convict's left arm recoiled and dove into the back of his pants.

Dammit, he's reaching for the butcher knife.

With his hand on the knife behind him I barreled into his torso. I caught him off-balance and we rammed into the wall near the broken window. The whole apartment shook and his massive fingers loosened from Amber's neck. She crashed to the ground. Bouncing off the rock that was his chest, I landed next to her. The convict shrieked out again, but this time in agony. He clawed behind him, reaching for the knife that had carved into his lower back. His eyes, peaking ominously just past his sunken brow, bore down solely on me as he wildly searched for a grip on the handle, struggling to tug it out of himself. I was stunned, his eyes never left mine.

Rolling away from the wall, he revealed a bloody mark that smeared along the drywall.

"Aaagh, you...bastard! You are dead," the convict gurgled.

Coughing and hacking, the convict leaned against the white wall, printing more red splotches. I dragged Amber to the furthest side of the room. We had to regroup.

"Do you have anything in the house I could use against him?" I asked Amber.

"Um, no, I don't think," she answered.

"Think Amber!"

The convict writhed, blindly swiping behind him, still maintaining eye contact, and almost pulled the knife out. More blood smeared along the wall along with small chunks of rotted flaps of flesh that slowly slid down the drywall. The abrasions and gashes from when he hit the truck stained his face like a brutal birthmark. As he hobbled he still favored his crotch from the glass shard I rammed into it. I know I can hurt him, but how do I stop him?

Sulfur pervaded my nose and Amber choked on the fetor. We both sat and watched his black mass struggle against the white wall.

"The sword," Amber cried and ran off.

"Come back," I yelled as the convict wrestled most of the blade out, ready to come at me.

"Fool, you should have died the first time," he threatened, freeing the blade from his back.

"Now I will have to get really nasty."

"I did die, you sonovabitch!"

Amber came from her bedroom carrying the sword I had attacked my father with years ago. The very same etched sheath came flying at me. The convict held his butcher knife out in his hand, stained a gleaming red. His blood dripped off as he motioned at me. Then he lunged.

But I was distracted. My head persuaded me that I was in my living room and a teenager again, ready to attack my father. The scene popped up clearly and I was submerged in the reverie. I unsheathed the sword with my left hand as the convict crashed on top of me. His black long coat draped around us as a shroud. He drove the butcher knife down as I raised my hand up to block. It sunk right through my right hand, slicing between my fingers, tearing through the flesh and bone. I screamed. Blood drained down my forearm and splattered onto my face. I toppled over as my other hand held my blood soaked wrist. I stared at the butcher knife wedged into my hand.

Amber bellowed in protest as the convict stepped away triumphantly. A hint of some devious plan boiled in his eyes as he watched me.

The sword clanked to the floor and Amber scooped it up immediately. I knew she was ready to strike, but I flashed my left hand behind me and signaled her to halt.

"Wait," I ordered to her.

"Now you're mine," the convict uttered. He wrapped his fingers around my neck and wrenched me up to his decayed face. "Back to the beginning."

The convict sighed and pinched my nose shut. His chest caved in with a huge exhale, his breath was like decades old garbage, and he slammed his lips over mine. I quickly waved Amber on to attack, pointing at my back as a target with my thumb. The convict inhaled massively, pilfering the gift by hastily sucking all the air from my lungs and out my mouth. The grips around my throat and chest began to loose their hold. His gnarly lips moved greedily over mine with an ancient hunger. God, Amber, stab him now!

I waved her on with a hand behind my back. She had to run him through.

"No! I might hit you," Amber pleaded.

I raised my middle finger and then waved with a violent flick for her to strike.

"Now!" I screamed into the carrion hovel of the convict's sucking mouth. It sounded out as a negative grunt. I was amazed it didn't puke but with my nose pinched shut I smelled nothing. I could, however, hear Amber's terrible reluctance as she ran at us, feeble and jittery with the sword at her side as if she were jousting. Her shaky reflection appeared in the jagged upper part of the window. I watched her thrust, trying to only hit the convict, but she had her eyes closed. The sword nibbled into my side, between two of my ribs, and continued on into him with all her awkward momentum.

All three of us screamed. From the corner of my eye I could see the edge of the sword biting into my left side while the rest of the blade rested in the convict's gut.

It only slowed him. He only briefly winced.

I sulked in dismay. I imagined what carnage he would reap and how many more people would die if he took the gift back.

He is taking it back! Do something!

But I was left too weak to react and my window of opportunity was almost closed. The gift had one last tight grip latched onto my throat. It was holding on so tightly, desperately trying to avoid returning to the convict, crying out so loud I could hear its protests. The light screamed like a child being dragged away from its mother, tears gurgling in throat, holding onto me with one last bit of strength.

That's when I reacted. I don't know how, but my bloodied right arm moved.

My twitching fingers cupped a loose grip around the butcher knife's handle that was still nestled in my palm. I jerked the back of my hand at the convict's neck and jabbed the blade awkwardly in. It sank easily into his soft rotten flesh. He wailed into my mouth and lost his breath. Turning his head to continue the shriek, he stopped extracting the gift and let my nose loose. The reek of everything unholy flooded into my nostrils. I instinctively grabbed his coat with my other hand, frightened to fall all the way to the ground, and I hung off him, grinding the back of my hand and his whole blade into his neck. The convict arched back, clasping both his hands around his own knife sunk deep into my hand. He reeled me around in sharp jerks and I went with. Blood gushed out from my hand while he pried at the knife, thrashing all about to yank it out. But I wouldn't budge. Some energy helped me keep my hand pressed at his neck while I flopped around like a fish out of water.

The sword found its way out of my side with his thrashing, but stayed firmly lodged in his belly. My strength vacated and I couldn't hold on any longer. The cleaver slid out of his neck and I crashed to the floor with it still dug deep into my palm, my blood draining quicker than it could march back.

My heart was racing. The clamp of the gift grew tight around my throat and chest; quickly reclaiming its territory. Energy flowed back into me as I rose to my feet and ripped the knife out from my right hand. No pain responded. Must be in shock.

The convict held his neck with his right hand; blood oozing from between his fingers, while his other hand was on the handle of the sword still lodged in his side.

"Come on, you bastard," I sneered.

The convict tugged at the sword. Amber gasped from behind me.

Sirens wailed from just outside the broken window, stories below at street level. The police were coming and he would run again.

"Nowhere to run now," I yelled.

The convict grimaced; knowing this was another failed attempt to regain what he believed was his life. But a strange smirk dug into the corner of his mouth as the cops banged on the door.

"Open up, open up," they barked. Amber ran to unlock the door.

Two officers burst in, guns drawn on the two of us as the convict and I stood glaring at each other with palpable hate.

"Freeze!" the police yelled in unison, one pushing Amber aside.

"What's that smell?" a cop asked.

The convict turned to them and took a step.

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

The convict leapt at them.

"I said freeze you fucker!" the other officer yelled.

Their guns blasted off round after round into the convict, blasting more holes in his dead body and tearing away black rank cloth from his back as the bullets exited. I dove to the floor. Amber fell to her knees screaming in dread.

With his right hand still clutching his neck, the convict ripped the sword free from his flesh with his left hand, and wielded it through the air. The two cops continued to fire, bewildered at the amount of bullets the convict absorbed without stopping.

The convict landed before them with a smile. He raised the sword and chopped into the neck of one, beheading him, spun, and sliced into the other, cleaving into his shoulder and through his spine. Both uniformed men fell to the floor on top of each other.

Almost immediately, I went into convulsions and stammered into ethereal form to take their souls. The convict slashed his way down the hallway and into the street, killing anyone that got in his way to delay me with a multitude of souls to tend to. I was too occupied to follow him.

After retrieving nearly a dozen souls in not even thirty seconds of work, the convict was long gone. I looked over at Amber and she ran over and scooped me into a hug.

"What the hell was that?" she cried and pulled back from me, "you had a seizure and I swear I saw a blue light shoot out of your mouth. And what's with the big guy?"

"Are you alright, Amber?"

"No, dammit! What the hell was that? Who the hell was that guy?"

All my strength drained again and I crashed into her arms. All of my limbs ached with tenderness. She backed away with her hand to her mouth and I fell to my knees, out of her embrace. My skin tingled as my blood beaded up and rolled towards me. It soaked up from the carpet, poured down my face and jumped into a march to come back into my wounds. Amber watched as the gash in my hand assimilated my blood back and slowly began to heal itself. She watched in awe.

"Come on Amber, I have a lot to tell you, but we have to leave. Now."

Chapter 63

We did the only thing I knew to do. We ran. We spent as much time as possible away from both our places. I completely forgot about work and Amber had enough money for us to live off of. I already had time off for Jessica's funeral, but I never gave my job another thought.

Staying at different motels each night, we hopped about the city, trying to keep from staying anywhere for long. I had to keep moving, it seemed the convict could find me easier than before - but he didn't need to find me when he was always close behind.

My paranoia ran rampant and always lead my eyes over my shoulder. I thought I saw him everywhere. I paid for our expenses when I could, but Amber paid most of the time in cash, after we hit an ATM. We knew the police would be after us since we left were two dead officers in her apartment so we kept our credit cards in our wallets. We'd sign a different name at each hotel, keeping away from security cameras as best we could. At each place we stayed, I'd make sure to tighten every lock and barricade as much as I could, leaving only one window open a crack to keep a constant lookout.

Most of my time was spent spying through the dusty curtains. My sister would fiddle with the ancient television and I'd join her occasionally, but I never let down my guard. The convict always attacked when I wasn't prepared so I would just have to be constant. But a week was all it took to grow intolerably weary of living in unremitting fear. My endless vigils at the windowpane were turning me into an untrusting mess. I obsessed over the substantial advantage the convict had over me, imagining dozens of scenarios in which I always had the high ground, and in the end, he would win every time. Or escape and we would have to be on the move again. Not a single set of circumstances left me with the slightest idea about what to do but sit and be frightened of him lurking around every corner.

Amber would often sit and watch me convulse, studying what I had become. It took some time, but she grew accustomed to the gift and its hold over me. She'd fidget with her long chocolate hair as she listened to all the stories I spilled to pass the time. I told her all about Randy's and Jessica's life and death. I opened up about the fears and feelings I had harbored for so long about our family. But I could still see my father in her. They both had a hard and unbending stubbornness.

"Why couldn't we have just surrendered to the cops?" Amber asked. "They would have figured out the convict killed everyone and that we are innocent. And we'd be in their protection."

"How would I describe him? A huge dead guy? No way. And I wouldn't be free. We'd be forced by everyone involved to be where they told us to be. They'd all ask too many questions that I didn't have answers to. And, the second we were separated, the convict would pounce on one of us. No, we're sticking together. It's safer."

"Well maybe they'd be able to catch and detain him. Then he'd be locked away."

"I thought about that, and it might work. Except that we can sense each other and he'd always know where I am. I know he'd find a way to me as long as I have the gift. He escaped death; he could escape prison. This has to end with me."

"Then let's end it. We have to find a way to beat him George."

"Well, I'm all ears," I spat, staring out the front window into the parking lot. At each crumbling old motel, we managed to avoid him. And we'd continue until I concocted a plan that would end him. I'd sit in every hotel room in every state, from sun up to sun down, until I found an idea if I had to.

This room was dark and dusty. Dust particles floated in the illuminated air and twinkled down to the bed.

"We have to stop this. We have to go to the cops."

"What don't you understand? He is waiting, I know it."

"I can't watch this any longer," her hair flopped about her face as she stood up and turned off the television.

I hadn't notice how grown up my sister had become. Her auburn eyes and hair shone with a wonderful radiance that must've mimicked our mother, but I couldn't remember anything about her that was radiant. Something else caught my attention about Amber though, something extra that was familiar that I couldn't place. Maybe she reminded me of the sister I could've had instead of this woman who was cold and tired of running for her life.

"What can we do?" she asked.

"I don't know. Every time I face him, I lose,"

"Well, he doesn't seem to be healing much from all the wounds you've given him," Amber said.

"That's because he's dead," I quipped, "but you're right. He's not healing at all."

"What can we do to trick him? Or even trap him?" she probed.

"He wants the gift so he can get his wife back. The hatred he feels for me is based on that. He thinks I am holding him back, pushing him further away from her. I don't think we can change his mind."

"Come on," Amber said as she got her coat, "we need food and fresh air to think. This place stinks."

We walked out into the glowing afternoon and down the street to the convenient store. I pondered the whole time about what we could do. Carrying food back in our arms with eyes over our shoulders, we crashed on our beds, tearing into the plastic packaging of our sandwiches. After charging into half her meal, Amber looked at me.

"Hey, try this one for size. If you know his memories maybe you could use them?"

"How?"

"I don't know, dive into them," she said, "explore the convict's memories that you have and find something that we can use against him."

"I don't know how to," I answered, "I only know what Randy told me and what the gift lets me know. The memories from his life come to me at strange and random times. They come..."

"Ah shit George, you said you've gotten impressions from it before. Maybe it can't tell you, maybe it doesn't want to, but it still lets you know things. It's trying to tell you something, dammit - just listen or ask more forcefully. Delve into the memories and go further."

"I don't know how."

"Meditate or something, figure it out," she pushed. "Randy must have done it, from what you said. It sounds like he knew more about the convict than he should have from only sharing a cell with him for a few days."

"True." I whispered. "It seems the memories from Randy's and the convict's lives came to me when I'm experiencing something similar to what they went through. If they were scared, I received a memory related to when they were scared."

The catch was whose memories would I get the convict's or Randy's? And what could I think of now that would reveal a weakness of the convict from the past? Even though it was a pedestrian plan, it was the best we had. It was time to find out the gift's potential and use it for my benefit.

I had to get a grip on life for once and not death.

Chapter 64

I sat on my bed and attempted to clear my mind. All that happened was I was whisked off to take more souls. I grew frustrated and went into more convulsions. I began to count the ceiling tiles. Amber rustled about on the neat bed and the sound caught and held me in a methodical pattern. The faucet in the bathroom dripped loudly and provided another sound pattern.

My body began to feel weightless and tingly as the light inside me stirred and hummed.

"Is it working?" Amber asked.

I didn't respond. I was thinking of when I attacked my father. That time, over any other in my life, had to jog the gift into action and reveal something. Nothing.

My concentration faded. I thought of when the convict killed Randy and I caught a small glimpse of the convict slicing the neck of a woman and fire all around. But that quickly disappeared. I took a deep breath and struggled to think of the worst thing to happen to me. Jessica came to mind instantly but released vague impressions of a blurry dark hair woman Then nothing more. My thoughts spun like a roulette wheel. I aimed to land my bouncing concentration on wherever drew me. On something that destroyed me. My mind spun, hitting a multitude of incidents, and then abruptly stopped on betrayal. The room and everything in it melted away in an instant. The sound of the dripping faucet was the only remaining element of reality.

A blue haze veiled my eyes. Drip. Slipping away into a memory, the world swirled and immersed itself into another time but the same place. The city felt the same, the bustle and the noise was recognizable but was stale with two hundred years of dust. There were cobblestone streets and stocky brick buildings that weren't lit by electricity. Horse dung scented the air faintly and the salty tang of the sea breathed out over everything.

As blue as the world was to my eyes, I could see yellow torch flames dance brightly along the sidewalks as the nightlife bustled about in this living memory from the convict.

A light delicate touch brushed my arm and clung to it.

Drip, drip. She was his wife. She played with long brown hair and gazed at me with deep loving eyes. She wore a white collared dress that flowed all around her in a breeze as gentle as she moved. The cloth brushed up and tickled my forearm. She looked up and smiled. I felt the warmth of love. Every sensation was mine; I was living his memory. The world was so blue, the night sky, the buildings, the people - only certain lights shone their true colors and her, oh her, she glowed a blinding white and her eyes a capturing hazel. She could easily be chased over centuries.

We entered a hall, some assembly hall, with dozens of mulling people all draped in fancy dress, no different than themselves. We sat in the second row after greeting friends. Crosses hung all around, candlelight draped the high walls and lit every red bow and green wreath littering the walls.

An organ sang. This was a church. I was confused, but everyone seemed to be in place. The wooden pew creaked as I situated myself during the Father's speech; his robe was as blue as the deep sea.

He preached about Christmas. We must have been at a midnight mass of sorts. Not a single word spoken calmed me as something plagued the convict's mind. That something stole my attention as well. It was a nagging sense of insecurity that originated from a lanky, older, blonde man that gazed enviously at the woman at my side. He was swathed a glowing violent navy flame.

The congregation stood and the huge body of the convict walked up to the front of the church, knelt, and took communion. His wife Veronica followed gracefully, capturing all my attention, smiling at me with all her love.

Yellow hair covered the face of the fiery sapphire-tinted man. He peered through it and coveted the raven-haired beauty at my side. A supple anger bent around my head as the massive muscles inside the convict's black long coat strained against the fabric. Drip, drip, drip.

Walking back to our seats, I towered over everyone and sat with a moan of the pew. Church ended and we filed out into a Christmas morning, dark and new with fat snowflakes waddling down onto our faces and feet. She hugged my arm, enjoying the magical snowfall with a puerile smirk across her face. Her feet jittered as she wanted to run and play. Drip, drip, drip, drip. All the parishioners spilled onto the old street and spoke of all that touched their minds, needing to be out and enjoy the gorgeous Christmas morn. The tall blonde man was peaking over his shoulder, still coveting his wife. Catching my glance, he turned away to avoid my anger.

"I love Christmas," she said up at me.

"I love you, Veronica," his voice rumbled.

"I love you, Mural."

She leaned her head against my arm and sighed. It was strange to hear a human voice come from the convict. Strange to hear his name. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.

People strolled merrily along the streets, their cares abandoned in the soft snow. They smiled and hoped for the first time in ages in appeared, but that calm was quickly quelled with the distant clamor of violence.

Veronica's merriment vanished and her nails dug into my arm.

"To the stock-house," one man yelled and ran away. I followed, looking over my shoulder at the women gathering in fright. A firefight just outside the city raged. I ran through the blue world of the convict's past to a large shed guarded by four men.

"Come on brother, get a musket and powder. We are off," a voice said.

Those words originated from a very light blue, almost white body. Everyone in the party, all dressed in their best clothes for Christmas day, ran across blue grassy fields towards a patch of forest where the skirmish seethed.

"Nathaniel," the convict's voice sang from my lips. "To me brother."

We ran, muskets clanking until we crashed behind a small hill not more than fifty yards from the intensifying fight. Glaring at me with a face that I can only imagine resembled the convict's, Mura's, so long ago, Nathaniel raised his musket over the top of the hill, panting heavily, not listening to what was said.

"Listen," the convict said. "Look at me."

"What?" Nathaniel asked hastily.

"Be careful. I am sick of losing family in this war."

"Do not worry about me big brother," he said, packing his musket with a smirk.

My hands loaded my musket, gaining speed as to not be beaten by my younger brother. I finished seconds before Nathaniel and he grimaced when he realized it. But the childishness was quickly traded for somber contemplation.

"All right, you remember the chicken round-ups right?" Mural's lips blurted, "you stay low and flank them."

"See you in the middle, brother," Nathaniel said and ran off.

The convict grunted in displeasure as his feet carried me towards the front of the battle. His brother swooped in from behind the invaders with his small group. The convict's body swiftly scanned the battlefield and halted on one man. This man stood out like a beacon as he followed behind Nathaniel. Blonde hair, skinny frame; it was the man that was eyeing Veronica. Benjamin. The convict despised the idea of that blonde bastard backing up his brother, but there was little time to protest; time was of the essence. Our small band had to save the militia from the redcoats.

The group behind me sat patiently for my order, itching to thicken the dwindling ranks of the dying militia. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. With a flick of my wrist, the convict's group charged the fight, screaming and with muskets blaring. Nathaniel's unit stormed the blue battlefield. A shot blasted from my musket as I rushed into the night, bayonet gleaming before me. I sunk the sharp point into one redcoat after another.

Running at them crazed, my stained blade rammed into a neck, a ribcage, a shoulder, a gut, another gut, until I met Nathaniel's group. Redcoats fell all around me, baying their woeful death cries to God above. They brought a smile to my face as I knelt to pack my musket.

The dark night and the battle flashed a bright blue. British troops struggled to regroup, but found Nathaniel's pack instead. Nathaniel slashed through them and toward me, cutting the squad to ribbons, his group closing in from all sides. He turned the tide.

Mural hurriedly packed down the last of the powder, not about to be shown up by his little brother. He was nearly reloaded when Nathaniel came up next to him reloading his as well. Both brothers stood, taking their sights on separate targets as the remaining redcoats fled.

"Oh no," Nathaniel taunted and gave chase. "Not going to ruin Christmas and get away with it."

"Wait!" Mural shouted and followed.

With the youngest Smithe brother hot on their heels and the oldest brother right behind, a group of a half dozen redcoats ran east, covering the distance to Boston in short order. Supplies and powder horns fell in their wake as they cried their surrender in concordance. They were mere boys, Mural thought, none of them over twenty by their voices. They cared less for dishonor and more for their hides, but Nathaniel didn't care for either as he ran them down, his short legs cutting up twice the distance Mural's long ones managed. Nathaniel's bayonet sunk between the slowest boys shoulder blades. His body fell forward immediately and Nathaniel barely pulled the blade free before the force wrenched the musket out of his hands.

Mural slowed his approach and watched the crimson blur. Between the redcoats and the blood there was no other color apparent. It was everywhere. I watched as Nathaniel turned, brandished a knife and managed to pierce the chests of two more boys with each hand. Mere seconds had passed and already half of their party was slain.

God, this whole family is packed with killers.

The three remaining child-soldiers stumbled onto cobblestone streets, confused from the abrupt change in ground and twirling with the desperate need for any place, dear God any where in the world to hide. The wild eyed trio scattered apart, finally making it tougher for Nathaniel to carve them up. But not too tough. He fell to one knee, steadied himself on the cobblestones and leveled his musket it one swoop. The barrel exploded in orange fire and the fastest fleeing boy sprawled in the air with a cry and landed face first in the street. Blood spread out in the gathering snow. Nathaniel reared and chased after the second soldier sprinting in the opposite direction.

Not to be outdone, Mural kneeled and squeezed the trigger on his musket. Fire burst out from the barrel and the boy in my sights, who had a ten yard lead on Nathaniel, was rocketed far off the near straight line he fled in. A brief look of pure hatred flared in the youngest brother's face and he turned it to Mural, changing his features as he did, letting it subside into a competitive smirk.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.

"One left older brother," Nathaniel called out. "Can you drag your weary bones up to catch the tie breaker? Or can you even hear me at this great distance?"

"Oh brother," Mural said, already finished reloading his musket and rising to his feet to cover the thirty yards between them. "You forget..."

Feminine shouts rang out. Mural's feet gained speed. Nathaniel turned and dropped his jovial mood. The two brothers raced to the shrieks, pushing through the scattering crowd, Mural behind Nathaniel. As people frantically tried to escape, the brothers fought the tide, swimming upstream through the panicking civilians. The street hastily cleared and the brothers halted, both seeing at the same time, the final redcoat babe with just his bayonet in one trembling hand pressed against the wan throat of a beautiful lady.

"Let me go and..." the poor redcoat lad got nothing more past his throat.

"Veronica!" Mural roared and lowered his musket. Fear and protection curled around his finger and it yanked back on the trigger. By the time thought was allowed back into Mural's head, it was too late for everything except for one final appeal. Well, it was more like a prayer. And it made all the difference.

Seemingly triggered into motion by his musket, so many things happened at once that Mural found it impossible to track. Yet through his eyes, I managed to see what shock blinded him from.

Nathaniel leapt forward with a crimson edged knife in his right hand. The boy soldier recoiled from the shot blast and swept out with his bayonet and missed Nathaniel. And Veronica ducked forward, directly into the path of her husband's musket ball.

Mural's appeal was swift and purely reactionary, "Oh God, anyone but her!"

And with that one simple protective cry, a line that could blurt from any mouth, Veronica did fall, but into safety. Many falls began this Christmas morn.

Mural didn't and couldn't see anything of her for the splatter of flesh and blood was too great, but I saw her fall, in more ways than one, into another's arms. I didn't see a face from the man, her hero, who pulled her from harm, but with the protrusion of a snipe nose from greasy long blonde hair, I found the needed evidence telling me how the blonde bastard Benjamin managed to steal her away.

But there was still more to see. Still more that Mural unwittingly wrought yet never saw.

I saw free will override fate and the price paid for it. I saw the gift's true pernicious nature working in Mural's simple covenant of, "Oh God, anyone but her!"

As twists of fate often call for, if a doomed soul is spared, then another must bear the burden of the death misplaced. Another light, a greater light, must suffer that vacancy left behind to remind all, especially the bargainer, that to hold the light is perdition.

In Mural's case, as he held the light of his wife aloft, his brother's was extinguished in turn. Mural's shot was true yet its target was blocked. The musket ball ripped into the base of the back of Nathaniel's neck and exited below his Adams apple, finally hitting its original target of the redcoat's eyes, with the added explosion of Nathaniel's flesh and blood.

Drip.

Chapter 65

Amber walked towards me from the bathroom as my eyes fluttered open. The gift, its presence far more terrible than before, sat heavily in my throat as if it were ready to snatch my shout, one similar to Mural's damning cry, and keep those words as a binding contract. Its other tendril sat heavily in my heart as if to confirm the truth of such words and what they will beget, ready to fulfill such prayers.

I shot up in the bed shivering, stringently mindful not to make any such promises, trying to get a bearing on where I was. The world still looked blue as the water dripping from the faucet resonated in my ears.

"I saw him. I was him. I was in the Revolutionary War, here, in Boston," I said carefully, unwilling to divulge anything about the gift's nature as it haunted his thoughts.

"You saw that? Really? Did it help? Was this a good idea? Tell me it all."

"Alright," I said dully and recounted all I could recall. Which was a surprisingly large amount.

As Amber processed the tale, her eyes often widened with what almost looked like cunning, resembling our father far too well.

"Did you think of something?" I asked with more timidity than I liked.

"Shush," she demanded. "I'm thinking."

A little peeved but mostly drained, I got up with the lingering vision of Veronica in my mind and the meaning of holding the light slung across my shoulders. I carried it like a millstone into the bathroom. I twisted the faucet to a squeaky close and leaned on the sink hoping to splash myself refreshed. I gazed into the mirror first though, to make sure I was me again. Turning the faucet on, I splashed my face with warm water and thought about the damned light inside me again. I stared into the mirror, water dripping from my face, until I met my own eyes. The brown eyes stared at each other without a blink.

A flash came and went.

I blinked and stared harder at the mirror. My eyes locked with their mirror images and the flash came again. I saw Veronica's face flicker over mine. Brown eyes, black hair, and her soft face settled over my features then blinked away just as quick. I gawked at the mirror until my face appeared again.

"Are you alright, George?" Amber asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just thinking," I choked out.

"Was I seeing Amber's reflection? No, she was too far to the side, wasn't she?" I thought. "But why the hell did I see that?"

I turned and violently wiped my face on a fuzzy brown towel, hoping to see only my features when I looked back in the mirror.

After toweling off my eye caught a glimpse out the window. Moonlight shone through the branches of a tree. I rubbed up my scalp to dry my sweat-soaked hair. The moonlight shifted and shone on the corner of the old window, illuminating something. Curiosity dragged me closer and I let the towel go. The faucet spoke again. Drip, drip, drip. Moving closer, I saw a dirty smudge on the window. It was a handprint that smeared off the side of the window. My heart was pounding, my breath was short and choppy, and my hands shook. More light shone down onto the window as I put my hand up to the print. The smeared print eclipsed my hand with fingers that shot up like skyscrapers. It was enormous.

"The convict," I whispered and shot backwards, stumbling off the shower door and bouncing into the bedroom.

"What's wrong?" Amber asked as I staggered over to her.

"We have to go."

My eyes were trembling worse than my hands. I was waiting for the convict to burst through the door or through the wall. She ran and got both our coats. I ran to the window and peaked out.

"What's happening, George?"

"The convict ...he's here. We have to leave. Now! We have to hit the ground running the second we open that door."

Amber nodded and handed me my coat. She looked through the spy hole and saw nothing. She nodded and ripped open the door. We ran into the cold bare parking lot, scanning in every direction. I studied the horizon and all the city's skyscrapers. To where all the death lives. I ran away from them and into the night.

Chapter 66

We ran without direction until we collapsed panting, several miles from the motel. Clamoring to a stop with heavy breath and feet, we slowed into a walk along the cracked side of the road, onwards to anywhere away from the city. Amber attempted to help me walk as I convulsed on our trek, but I needed little assistance.

The city's size disappeared quickly. The buildings and streets shrank replaced by more grass and shining stars. Cars became sparse as we continued down the nighttime roads. Darkness was absolute. Feeling that we had outrun him, I pointed to a bridge ahead.

"Let's head over there, over the bridge."

"Fine with me; let's just find somewhere to go quick," Amber said quivering. "This is creepy."

We hustled towards the old metal support bridge. Everything around us had quickly turned from an artificial bleak gray to a perfect and natural deep green. The dense surrounding woods dipped down to a steep gravel slope that stopped at the river. The suspended iron hovered silently above the crashing dark waterway. White crests of sharp waves scuttled across the surface until they exploded against jagged rocks.

The roar of an engine jostled out from behind, accompanied by hard headlights, screaming down on us. Stepping off to the side of the road, I slipped on some loose gravel, barely catching my balance. I looked down to the river and the plunge I nearly took. Amber safely stepped to the side as the car blazed by and over the bridge, speeding by with a honk.

"Screw you, too, buddy," Amber barked, sliding behind me to comment. "What an asshole."

She turned back to the road and as soon as the blur of the car passed, a noise crunched in the road. Followed by a moan. Amber slowly turned to see what my gaze fixed on. We were scared stiff.

Emerging from the wake of the car, the convict strode towards Amber, hulking against the night sky, blocking out stars. His breath puffed heavily out into the air. His face seemed different. I glared at him intently; trying to understand the look perched on his face. He almost looked happy.

The convict shifted his head to the side, cocked like a curious animal, as he studied my sister from over my head. Slipping on gravel, I bumped her backwards and the convict moved to within inches of my eyes. His face was still nearly stripped of skin. Red muscle fibers and hints of bone and crusted blood protruded from his yellowing skin. Greasy hair dangled over his misshapen eyes and they glared at Amber.

"Don't even think about it!" I hollered.

I shot an uppercut into his neck, hoping to reopen the wound I had given him at my sister's apartment.

"Gugh, uh ...I found ...ugh... you," he coughed and swiped at me.

"You always do, you sonvabitch," I barked.

He reached right past me, over my shoulder, ignoring the gift and me completely.

Amber's grip tightened on my shoulders and we shifted backwards and away from his reach, inching towards the plummeting slope to the riverbed. The gravel crunched beneath our feet. The convict tried one more attempt to grab Amber, blasting his arm past my ear. She dodged him and buried her face between my shoulder blades. I felt her nose dig into my back as she cowered behind me. We rushed backwards to avoid another assault. After a couple steps, the pressure of her grip disappeared, and was replaced by a clamor of rocks and yelps. I turned and watched her plummet down the slopes into the rushing river below.

Side to side, his elbow even with my shoulder, the convict and I leaned over the ledge to reach for her as she splashed into the water below.

"Amber!" I yelled.

"Veronica!" the Convict bellowed.

I jerked back confused. I looked up at him with an eyebrow raised.

"What? Veronica? How the hell?" I questioned.

He turned to me and glared down at my bemused eyes. His hands rose to strangle me for letting her fall. I had to react, to save my sister and myself. I rammed my elbow up into his chin and chattered his teeth. I turned and stood before the river valley below. Amber bobbed in the water with a frantic hand in the air as she floated away. The convict stuttered backwards onto the road.

Feet cutting into the loose soil, I shuffled down the slope. Blunt branches smacked my face as I reacted too late to brush them aside. Momentum carried me onto the short, jagged shoreline and I splashed into the current. Before I realized it, I was breathing water. I spun and broke into the open air and spied around for the convict. Gone. Not for long though. The current caught my feet and tripped me up, tossing me face first into the cold murky river. Water engulfed me again, but the bed was only six feet shallow so I picked myself up and looked for Amber.

Down in the wet gutter of the river, the darkness was total. Where I was, no moonlight glistened. Hardly anything was visible from water level. I waded to the shoreline. I blindly pawed about the land but got nowhere. I had to disrupt the calm air by yelling for her. The convict would know right where I am, if he didn't know or have her already.

"Amber, where are you?" I called several times into the night, walking along the gravel and garbage in my soaked trench coat.

I called out and walked along, but found nothing. I pressed on until a faint sound came to my ears. Halting and hushing, I listened yet heard nothing. I took a step forward and a shooting pain in the back of my head shifted. It moved like a knife, down the middle of my skull. Holding my head and wincing, I moved on with my search. I wouldn't let a damned headache stop me. But it was so dark. I would never find her.

"Amber," I called out, as my head pounded and my hair stood on end.

"Over here, George," she finally replied.

"Where are you?" I whispered.

"Right here," she waved her hand.

I squinted, looking along the shoreline, and finally found her slopped over a log. I ran over to her, trying not to make any more noise. My hands were frozen and shaking in fear and chill.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

She glanced at me through the bruises and scrapes on her face.

"No, my leg ...I think it's broken or something, it hurts."

"It's alright, sis, I've gotcha."

"Where is he?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I know he's around. He's got a new idea in his head."

"What did he call me?"

"Veronica." I looked down at Amber, staring at the scar over her upper lip. The image of Veronica looking up at the convict popped into my mind.

I studied her a moment and realized there were a lot similarities between the two. Same eyes, same hair, similar face, and scar on their lip. "He called you Veronica. He thinks you're his long lost wife."

"What? Oh shit. Why the hell did he do that?"

"You look a lot like her," I droned, thinking while I talked. What could this mean? I could see why the convict thought Amber was Veronica. Their similarities were striking. And she had changed so much from the Amber I've known that she seemed a whole new person.

"Don't look at me like that, dammit. I'm obviously not her ...and I don't want to be around to tell him. Let's go!"

We hobbled along the shore and headed towards the city lights in the distance. I knew he'd be somewhere stalking us, watching us from the tree line or waiting at the next bridge for the best time to strike.

Chapter 67

I couldn't help but dwell on the convict's reaction as I lugged Amber downstream. Her scar, her looks, and the fact I hadn't seen her until recently. Was there a connection? I shook my head, no way. I was getting paranoid again.

"Let's pick up the pace," I said, focusing on the task at hand.

No crickets, no animals, no people or anonymous sounds chattered around us. The river slowed its tumultuous shouts into a tender babble and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I went into a few convulsions along the trip but made sure to keep Amber aloft in my arms. Her leg was broken.

But the quiet took me thoughts to every corner of my suspicions, splitting my head down the middle. The pain was harsh and drove deep into my skull. I felt like I was ripping apart.

I drew my focus away from everything crammed in my head and followed Amber's direction away from the river. Looking up the cliff towards the woods above, the incline appeared even steeper than the way we took down. But roots punched out of the dirt and served as rungs and thick branches hung low enough for us to climb with.

"Go first, I'll be right behind you," I said too loud, nearly shouting over the shrill stabs in my head.

She pressed a single finger to her lips in a shooshing mime. I nodded as she hopped upwards, relying solely on her left foot and arm strength to climb while I tried to pushed her from behind the best I could without loosing my footing. We hiked up the roots to ground level and slipped over the edge into a bed of pine needles. A thin line of planted trees ran along a backyard with toys scattered about.

"We need to get out of here, George."

"We need to get you to a hospital, Amber," I said, nodding at her right leg.

"That can wait. I don't want that asshole coming after us with children nearby," she said pointing to the various toys.

"He's after us. After you, it seems," I said. The seed of suspicion grew bigger in my head.

"They're asleep in the house, Amber," I said looking around the yard. "Wait, follow me. I've got an idea."

With her arms slapped around my neck from behind, Amber hobbled on me to a big tree with a tire swing dangling from the largest branch. It rocked in a slight breeze. She winced in pain. As she leaned up against the bark, I quickly climbed the branch and untied the rope. The tire swing crashed to the trim lawn. I followed it down and untied the rope.

"What're you gonna do with the rope?" she asked.

"Well," I started to answer as I walked over to pick up a wooden baseball bat nestled in the lawn, "you need a splint."

I propped the wooden bat up against her leg and tied the rope around as tight as I could without having her scream out in pain. She didn't make a peep. I saw the distress and weariness in her eyes. She sure was one hell of a trooper.

"There," I said, half proud of myself.

She looked up from her leg, wrapped with a bat, and stared at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Let's just get going," she said, shaking her head.

Chapter 68

Winding through the houses, we emerged at a train depot. I sighed in frustration. We'd have nowhere to hide out here in the open, but there was little choice. I recognized the area and remembered there was a hospital beyond the train tracks.

We hobbled out into the open. The orange streetlights tinted the pavement and we steered away from them the best we could. Nothing stirred. No cars, no people, no trains. We passed the platform and limped on towards more lights.

"There's the hospital," Amber cried, pointing just beyond the curve of the tracks at a ten-story building.

"Let's go." I helped her along, believing that we might actually make it.

"Hold on a second," Amber said, as she crouched down and shifted around the baseball bat. I stopped and held her up while she adjusted the loose splint.

A deafening bang vibrated through the air. I quickly turned my head as a sharp pain bit into my left shoulder. Blood spat from me and over her head. I twirled down into a heap. She sprung to her feet and looked behind us, found nothing, and then came to me. I was sprawled out a few feet from the tracks, in the middle of the intersection, bleeding.

"Oh God, George," she panicked. "You've been shot! Are you alright?"

She touched a trembling hand to my cheek, pulled back red stained fingers and began to cry.

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God," she shuddered. "Tell me you're okay. Where are you hit? Where did that come from?"

My head was swimming and I was seeing spots. Objects danced about in balls of light in front of me. I couldn't tell if I was sitting or standing, where I was or what had happened; all I could feel were the clamps of the gift tighten around my throat and chest. I coughed and realized I was on the ground. I slowly sat up.

"Oh thank God, you're alright," she said, hugging and helping me.

"Jeez, what happened?" I said.

"I think you were shot," Amber responded, and then looked about for the source of the gunshot again. She finally found it.

"Oh God George, he's coming. I see him. What do we do? He's got a shotgun."

"A shotgun? How the hell?" I looked up at her and put my hand down into a puddle of my own blood. I pictured the convict breaking into some house or shop and stealing a shotgun and ammo. Wouldn't be too tough for him to manage.

"He's coming!" she shrieked.

I watched the convict appear from the darkness, a large leaden block chiseled from the shadows and walking into the stark cold orange light. He had a double-barreled shotgun hanging by his side.

"Amber run, dammit, run," I spat.

"No, he'll kill you, I have to stay."

"I can't die. I'll be safe. Look," I said, pointing to her hand.

She stared at her hand; it was nearly spotless. My blood, the final drips falling from the side of her palm to the ground, had already begun its march back to me.

I couldn't be put in the situation Randy was in when he passed me this curse. Kill your friends to survive or press the worse curse onto them.

"He's after you," I barked, but followed up with a whisper, "Just get to the hospital. I'll distract him. He can seem to sense me but he can't sense you. If we're together now, I'll die and he'll take you. If you run, we have a chance."

She reluctantly turned and waddled across the tracks as fast as her leg would let her. I watched her go and noticed her makeshift splint wasn't on. The rope and bat were lying next to my head.

The convict changed his course to follow her. I grabbed the bat and used it as a cane.

"Hey! Hey, goddammit, over here!" I shakily yelled, hunching my weight on my right arm.

"I've got the gift, remember?"

The convict turned back to me with a grimace and squeezed off another shot. It pierced straight through my left side, flapping up my black long coat with another explosion of blood. Stammering backwards with the shot, I yelped in pain. I nearly toppled to my knees, but managed to keep myself propped up with the bat. Pain throbbed from the gunshot wound and spread though my body. I pushed past it. I could be a target for him. I would survive it. I turned up to look at him again and quivered as I rose to my feet. Blood seeped into my eyes and dripped into my mouth. I wasn't sure if it was falling from me or returning to my wounds.

"Not quite enough, convict," I shouted as I picked up speed and walked towards him.

He was wrestling with reloading the barrels, pulling out a pile of shells from his pocket. I stuffed the rope Amber left into my coat pocket and ambled into a jog. I charged at him with the wooden bat waving. The orange light drenched us and revealed his face. His neck was patched up with old rags that were duct-taped in place. He was in disarray; every inch of his body appeared aggrieved, but those injuries didn't hinder him as he loaded the shotgun.

The butt of the gun was nestled into his armpit. I could see patchwork stitching in the shoulder of his coat were it had been torn open. My little body rammed into his huge frame as he cocked the butt of the gun into place. The force rattled me more than him. He merely shifted his feet, but that was all I needed. The convict raised the shotgun up to my head and fired. The explosion ripped through the atmosphere. My head rocked to the side as the bullet whizzed by, barely missing. I wasn't sure if a shot to the head would heal and I wasn't going to find out. The smoke cleared and I was a foot away from him. I leapt and swung the bat with all my might.

It connected firmly with his face and sent him spiraling down from the platform to the tracks. I stood, mouth agape in amazement that I had hit him that hard. Rolling and crunching over the rocks and rails, his colossal body entangled in the barbed wire fence that divided the tracks. I scanned around for Amber but couldn't see her. God, I hoped she had made it to the hospital.

Leaping down to the tracks, I pulled out the rope. The convict, in his struggle, managed to bind his arms behind him in the razor wire. I propped the bat underneath his chin and jumped behind him. Tying the rope around his hands, I worked the rest of it along his chest and looped it around both ends of the bat, and then led it back to his hands. I wanted to leave no room for error. I stood back and analyzed my handiwork, frowned, then leaned in to tighten the slack around his neck.

I stepped back again and smiled. A quick convulsion hit me, but I barely felt it. The pain that had been splitting through my head returned and planted itself squarely in my forehead.

Leaning over and picking up the shotgun, I could feel my wounds stirring and pulling my spilt blood back into me. It was more painful than ever before, stinging with frigidity as the wounds closed themselves. I felt a little woozy. I wondered if all my blood had come back.

The convict was tightly wound in rope and barbed wire with a baseball ball lodged against his throat. I stepped up to the platform, turned and pointed the gun down at him. He continued to struggle free but to no avail. His efforts slowed once his eyes finally fluttered open, recovering from his blind fury, to see the end of a double barrel.

"Be careful," I warned condescendingly. "I think I'm getting the hang of beating you now. And I don't think you'll be able to find me with a slug in your head."

"Give her back," he gurgled.

"She's not your wife," I barked, leaning in and bringing the shotgun close to his face. The gun grew heavy.

"You cannot win. I will get her back. Once I do, I will reach into your chest and pull the gift from your ribcage."

"What's the point anymore, convict? You're dead and I keep on healing. No-one can win here,"

I pleaded. "This it futile. We'll be locked in a never-ending battle."

"The point is Veronica and I will kill you to get to her back," the convict stated, not willing to give an inch if it meant any harm to his wife.

"You know what, I'm fucking done with you, you're impossible." I rammed the barrel into his eyes and pulled the trigger. One last pain split down the middle of my head right when I fired. My arms jerked under the agony and threw me off target. The blast rang out near his head but not into it.

I cursed. Then I pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked. Nothing happened. I realized the gun needed reloading and the rest of the shells were in his pocket.

My misfired shot apparently hadn't missed completely; it had opened a hole in his left shoulder and cheek. I hadn't the slightest idea how to finish him. I searched around for any kind of weapon and found none. All I discovered was a nearby sewer. I sighed, tossed the shotgun to the ground and tugged off the heavy manhole cover.

While straining with the weight of the cover, I looked up to see a train coming from the distance. I slid the cover to the cement as the train laid on the horn. With the speed it was traveling, it wasn't stopping at this station.

It was an express by my guess. I left the manhole cover and stood before him with a smile. The last of my blood streamed back into me as my wounds mended while I crouched on the platform, gazing at the convict's tangled body. This could be it; this could be the end of him. Blinding me with the head light, I could see that it was a freight train.

"You ready to die?" I asked him.

The convict choked as he struggled with the rope and the barbed wire. He didn't even look at the train as it blared at him. His face turned blue as the bat across his throat crushed his esophagus. I wondered if this maniacal joy I felt was how he felt when he thought he had me dead to rights.

The train blared its horn one more time and then barreled down on him. The train cars clunked methodically by, breaking the still of the night. I tried to watch between the speeding wheels, as I tossed the shotgun down the sewer, to see if he was still in one piece. Time and the train gusted past and left nothing but a bloody stain. The rope and the bat remained but he was gone, leaving no shreds of clothing or limbs as evidence to his end.

"Christ!" I sighed in frustration. "This will go on forever."

Standing like a statue on the platform my wounds finished calling all my blood back home and healing my wounds, when the painful rift in my head pounded and squealed loudly in my ears. The gift joined it and climbed up my throat. They were either working in unison or the gift was reeling in pain from it. I couldn't tell.

Then it hit me, harder than the stab wound, harder than any blow the convict landed on me. The shredding headache manifested into an agonizing realization. The gift had been trying to tell me something, trying to tell all of us who lived with it, about a dark secret.

"Oh great," I sighed. "Something more terrible than holding the light? Or the similarities between Amber and Veronica? God, what else?!"

I strained but just couldn't understand it. It was garbled in my head. It felt like a complicated puzzle that I might never decipher. Shaking my head at yet another damned mystery to unravel, I ran. I tried to outrun the riddles and the convict, all the way down the tracks towards home. Wanting to sprint to the hospital to see if Amber was all right, I realized that the convict, if still alive, would follow me right to her.

I followed the rails to Boston and reached my house just before dawn. I steered clear of my bathroom and crashed asleep in my bed.

Chapter 69

I called Amber's cell phone when I woke after a couple hours, knowing she'd smuggle it in or convince someone to give it to her. She answered and I heard no background noise. None of the bustle of a hospital relayed through the phone and my suspicions grew again.

"I think he's still out there," I told her.

"Well, just stay low," Amber ordered. "I told the police when they came by a half hour ago, that someone tried to rob me but I fought him off. I told them he was following me and I was hiding out to avoid the mugger. But I didn't mention you; so don't go to my place. Stay at yours."

My house? She wanted me to stay in one spot the cops would find me. I was amazed they weren't here already. This was a set-up.

"George?"

"Yes?"

"The media has the story," she explained. "Be very careful."

I'll be careful. Conspire against me and I'll be careful all right. I thought about the scar on her lip again and it bothered me. I stewed in paranoid anger. She's betrayed me. The urge to punch my hand through my bedroom wall engrossed me. It quickly subsided as I thought back to when I would do that when I was young. Hey Jude popped into my head.

The switch conspiracy, the scar - the demon could have switched them? Amber, Veronica, they both look so much alike; it's a perfect ruse. Or just paranoia? Dammit all to...

"George?" Amber asked. "You still there?"

"No worries sis, I'll watch my back," I mumbled into the receiver.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet, but I have to do something."

"Well, if I can't persuade you differently," Amber's voice began to soften. "Just be careful and lay low for a little bit. And catch some rest."

"I will, I promise."

"Shit," she said, "Could you hold on, I have another call?"

"No, I'm done."

"Alright then, bye. Be careful."

Feeling betrayed and miserable, I crashed the portable phone onto the cradle, knocking the antenna loose. I should have realized long ago that the people around me would either suffer or turn against me. And that was probably just how the demon wanted it too. It probably had crafted this plan for ages.

I had to think of something quick. I sat on my bed and waited, pondering all the things I didn't want. No holding the light. No allowing the convict the damned gift. No staring at a white sheen that emanated out of the bathroom. But that one, that last despair was something I did want. I needed to leave it behind. Needed to leave the house, but I couldn't bring myself to it.

Everyone had abandoned me in my wayward state and I'm the only one to blame. All I ever wanted was to be better than my father, but my fears always stopped me. Or made me run.

"Well, not any more," I said, determined to make a change.

My coat was strewn across the bed and I reached into the inner pocket. The crinkled, yellow piece of paper was safe and I sighed in relief. Flinging the coat on, I hopped off the bed walked out. I came to the bathroom and took a deep breath.

"You'll be fine," I told myself.

I took a hesitant step forward and the instant my boot touched the white light coming from the bathroom, I grew cold. A gust of wind shot below my skin and I prepared for another convulsion. I attempted to continue my stride down the hallway, but my feet wouldn't respond. My soles stuck to the floorboards as the white glow shifted to pulsing neon blue flashes. The light beckoned me to come inside, to come and look into the mirror again. See yourself and realize what you are.

"No," I said. "You've taken almost everything from me, but you can't have me. You can't have a trade or bargain and I sure as hell won't give you any prayer to twist against me."

A warm draft covered my face and shattered the cold that paralyzed me. The light released me and my chest settled down. It retreated and cowered in my torso, almost whimpering. I took the opportunity to beat the light as far down as I thought to be possible.

Chapter 70

I ventured outside and smelled life with renewed faith. The warmth of fall's colors shone on me as the wind rustled through my hair. All of my surroundings were bustling with life, even as nature perished. And it all made me satisfied but there was one thing left.

In my heart I knew there was one last errand to run, one last nagging thing to be done, but I hadn't the slightest idea what it was. There was no one left and all my options were exhausted. I was running solo and the solitude wasn't frightening anymore. But I knew I needed help to end this. I was blind to the fork in the road before me and I prayed there was someone left to show me the way. I had a feeling it would be the road less traveled, though.

A convulsion took me and it felt different. The ball of the gift within burst and I left to take another soul. I saw a face for a split second then it vanished. I had the soul of a woman and then I didn't. The soul defiantly ran from the gift. The convulsion was over almost as soon as it began.

I could only guess this lucky woman must have had a near-death experience. Catching only a glimpse of the face, I pondered on its familiarity. I blinked and shook my head, amazed at how quick my prayers were answered. I knew there was a reason I mindlessly revisited my apartment even though I risked being captured. I hoped and prayed that her soul had truly managed to defy the gift.

"Betsy," I said with elation, her sweet face brightening my memories.

I hopped into my car and instinctively drove. The route to her house effortlessly came to me. I hoped she was still alive. Maybe the gift's new feeling induced a new method of taking lives?

Or maybe she was still alive.

I drove with the enthusiasm that only hope can provide. I felt I had risen from my own ashes to be born again. Yet I couldn't help but wonder what help could we give each other?

I pulled up and parked in the same spot as my first visit. I stared at the house I thought to be hers, but it was different. All the shades were shut tight. The house was unkempt and almost dilapidated. The vigor of home was gone, apparently sucked dry over time. The brown paint chipped and peeled, revealing white underneath. Clumps of dead leaves crowded the bottom of the waterspouts and the wild bushes leaned over from their own weight and attacked the dim porch. The grass was checkered brown as weeds loitered about, strangling out the remaining green of the yard. Even in the sunlight, her house was dim.

"When this is done," I said to the despondent house. "I'll fix you up."

Maybe she had moved out. Or she was still there and couldn't keep up with it anymore. Perhaps the loss of her brother was too much for her to handle and she slumped into seclusion like I did, only venturing out for food when living another day felt bearable.

Walking up the cracked path, weeds nipping at my ankles, I pictured her sitting in her living room covered in dust, with an empty wine glass sitting on the table just out of reach. I shook the image out of my head and trusted to hope. Carefully, my foot creaked on the wooden step leading to the porch. I stood staring at the warped door that had long splinters of wood bowing from it. The porch light was on and it flickered and buzzed. I noticed black dots of dead bugs inside the cloudy plastic casing. My hand rose to the glass portal in the door and I hesitated.

"Please be alive, Betsy."

I knocked. With each pound on the door, it opened wider and wider. I peered into the house and looked for signs of life. There was nothing but darkness as I shut the door behind me. I entered her hallway blind; the interior was surprisingly dark for the daytime. She had managed to shut out all the sunlight. I walked slowly through the void with my arms out and felt for obstacles. My hand found the wall and it lead me along her endless hallway. It felt like I'd never reach the end until I saw a light shine from the distance. There was a sliver of sharp glow that pierced through a crack in the curtains directly ahead. Slowly making my way to the window, I reached my hand to where I last remembered the couch to be, and walked to the light. I whisked the curtains aside and the sun shone directly down on me. After opening a few more dusty curtains, the living room shone in a different light than I remembered.

The same colors painted the walls so did the same pictures, but one was missing, leaving a clean rectangle on the wall. Was it Randy's picture?

I scanned the living room and watched the dust twinkle in the sunlight. The vapors of emptiness hovered all about. If she was alive in here, she was satisfied with her sorrow.

All the other rooms of her house were attached to the living room and the doors to those rooms were all shut. All but one. I cocked my head curiously and walked through the sunlight to the room. I peaked through the space between the door and the frame. I could see a window within the room that was slightly open. The thin gossamer drapes were flapping in the cool evening air like chained ghosts, reaching for the bed.

I pushed the door open further and saw Betsy on the bed, arms atop her chest with the missing picture clutched beneath them. From what I could tell through the eerie light, she looked older than the years that had passed. Her innocent elderly face had sunk deep with guilt and her eyes dented in like potholes. A delicate frown rested on her wrinkled lips that must have been put there by a broken heart. She looked dead.

"Dead." I whispered, "Dammit, I didn't think I had taken her. Why couldn't she have survived?!"

I was so close. If she just would have held on like I thought she did, maybe we could have shared in the warmth of a long overdue conversation. We could have discovered what to do next. She must have died peaceful, but lonely, probably holding onto the chance that I would come visit her. I disappointed yet another person and now she was visiting Randy. She had passed on with her brother's picture in her hands and on her mind. Sorrow must've overflowed her soul and spilled into her blood stream and poisoned her. The warmth she was looking to fill her vacant arms unfortunately could only be fulfilled by death.

I leaned over to kiss her cheek. She didn't deserve any of this, but at least she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. With my lips puckered over her cheek, her eyes fluttered open. Quickly realizing she was staring at a strange man in her bedroom, her eyes opened fully, and so did her mouth.

Her wail pierced my ears. Stumbling backwards, I bumped into the wall.

"What on God's earth .... get out!" she yelled.

A switch jabbed into my back and the lights came on. Scrambling to pull her sheets to her chin, ready to defend herself with Randy's picture, she panted and shook in fright. I bounced off the wall, straightened up, and looked at her. Her frozen fists relaxed and she curiously peered at me as her heart settled.

"Remember me?" I asked, while she regained her wits and breath.

"You look familiar," she replied sweetly, to my surprise.

My heart began to slow down. I was glad that the scare alone didn't kill her. Thank God she's alive.

"I'm George, I was here ..." I started.

"...with Randy all those years ago!" She smiled; something that she probably hadn't done for a long time.

Her eyes lit up, her face flushed with a lively pink, almost like she was embarrassed, as she leapt from the bed and wrapped me into a tight rocking hug.

"My God, how long does it take for people to visit me?" she said, patting me on the back with Randy's picture.

"You were so still ...I'm sorry as hell about the scare."

"Well, times have been rough without anyone and ..."

Her delicate mouth dropped its corners into a deep frown and tears crawled down her cheeks. With trembling hands folded on top of each other at the base of her neck. I leaned in and wrapped her into a hug.

"I miss him terribly," She cried into my chest.

"Me, too."

"Oh, he didn't deserve this, George. He deserved so much better. He was so tortured for so long."

"I know. That's why I've come."

I sat her down and told her all that had occurred. Betsy held Randy's picture the entire time, rubbing her fingertips along the glass and the wooden frame. We bantered back and forth, trying to keep a sense of humor, but she cried a couple more times and I went into a few convulsions.

We fed off each other's energy and took great comfort in remembering the past.

"I am sick and tired of the gift and want to finish my tour of duty," I told her. "I want to put it back where it belongs."

"Where would that be?"

"That is about the best question I've heard in my lifetime. Where does the ender of all life go?

No matter where it goes, Betsy, it has to remain safe and working, no matter what."

"You know, my dear," she slowly shifted her head as she spoke. "We're here for death, it's not here for us, you know. I mean, what would it do without us?"

"I dunno?"

"We all have to wait for God to call," she continued, "No matter how He works."

I thought it amazing that after all the evidence she had seen over the years that she still kept her faith.

Betsy shook her head while caressing the glass over Randy's image. She flipped the picture over to stop herself from crying again. Placing her hands on the black backside, she probed an edge with a curious expression. Her fingers picked at something.

"Wait a minute, I'm so forgetful!" She exclaimed and heaved Randy's picture against the wall.

I jumped once it hit, caught completely off guard. It cracked and sprayed glass all around. I wondered what the hell made her snap and break such a prized picture.

"I forgot all about this," she said as she walked over to the pile of glass and wood, sifting through the rubble. I leaped up and crouched next to her, ready to clean up the mess when she flung a folded piece of paper into my face. Tiny glass shards flew past me.

"Randy said if you ever came back - which I had given up on, you slow poke - to look behind his picture."

I took the folded piece of paper and looked it over, weighing it with my eyes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I don't know. Look at it."

As I unfolded it, she moved next to me and peered over my shoulder to see what was written. I reached in my coat to feel the tattered paper nestled at the bottom of the pocket.

I was caught in a whirlwind of suspense. I unwrinkled it into a flat white page. It read:

'You are the lantern that holds the light. Come to me and let it go.'

Below was a scribbled street name and directions.

"When the hell did he get a chance to do this?" I asked in bewilderment.

Did he know how to beat death?

"He called me on his cell phone while you were sleeping in the car, shortly after you two left the last time. He knew there were things he couldn't plan for and that something could go wrong. Which was, unfortunately, right. He didn't want the convict to get the gift above all, so he planned to give it to you if he failed."

"Sneaky," I said, wondering how tough the decision had been for Randy to hand over such an abomination to his best friend. "But what's this address?"

"Cemetery. Family plot. He knew I'd put him there."

"What does it mean Betsy?"

"Beyond ending it? I don't know. I hoped you'd know that, but it looks like you'll have to figure it out."

"Well, I've got a guess but there's just no way he could've..."

"You should go, George. We've been talking for hours and it will be evening soon. I don't know anymore than you do, but I've kept you long enough from the rest of your life. Go and do what's right," she said firmly.

She quickly stiffened her bottom lip and shut off her tears. I could see the hope in her eyes.

"Thank you for everything," I said, hugging her.

"And thank you, my dear," she whispered in my ear. "Now go and set everything right."

I nodded and marched out the door. Once the door closed, I stopped and took a deep breath to collect myself. Fear welled within and I had to suppress it.

I stepped off the porch and looked over my shoulder at the house as I walked to my car. The sputtering porch light dimmed with each of my steps. I stopped and turned around and saw her waving. She stood out from her bleak house like a solitary star on an overcast night. I returned the gesture. She smiled and the flickering porch light winked out. She disappeared into the shadows of the house. I gazed back at the creased directions in my hand and prayed it was hope and not disappointment. If this piece of paper meant the end of all this torture, or perhaps even a new beginning, then so be it. No matter the outcome, this will end if it kills me.

The paper's simple instructions were perplexing in ways. I wondered what could possibly come from these words. But I knew how powerful words can be as I felt the piece of yellow paper inside of my coat pocket one more time.

Chapter 71

I jumped into my car with a spring of hope. The possibility of seeing this all the way through to the end caused my heart to pounce into my throat.

"Even if I die trying," I thought, "No - if I live trying. There's been enough death."

Every fiber within me stirred with anticipation as I drove. I traveled until the onset of dusk beamed down at gentle angles. I came upon the road the cemetery was on. I had about a quarter mile to go. Following the last wooded winding path, butterflies swarmed in my stomach.

But regret mixed in. I should have been here long ago. I had never been able to see this place before. I never got to say my final farewell to my friend. All because of the...

"...convict!" I screamed and swerved hard right.

I rumbled off the road to avoid the black slouching figure planted in the middle. Chunks of dirt spit from my tires as I sunk into the dirt lining the road. My heart was in my throat. I couldn't get control. I skidded along the grass and down the side of the road into a steep ditch. A tree emerged from the shadows in a blink of an eye. Instinct took over. I spun the steering wheel left and right.

Nothing. My limbs tightened as the tree came at me. I slammed on the brakes as the car slid into the tree. My arms loosened and I shot through the windshield. Sliding across the hood with a squeal of flesh on metal, I rolled off the car, and barely past the tree. I landed on my shoulder and rolled and rolled until another tree stopped me. My shoulder pulsed with pain and what other parts weren't injured, felt broken. The old knife wound in my side throbbed.

The soil was damp on my face and I had dirt and grass in my teeth. The bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants felt soaked. Slowly turning my head I saw gashes notched into my hands and scatter red marks lining my arms.

I rolled over to look at the road. A towering figure stammered towards me slowly, walking with a crooked head that observed me. He wobbled with a limp on the right side and was hunched over as he studied me curled up in the fetal position.

My creaking and snapping joints attempted to lift me to my feet. My eyes tried to focus through the swirling and hazy atmosphere. I felt faint. I closed and rubbed my eyes. I wished I had just rammed him instead of swerving, but the reaction was automatic. When I opened my eyes, the sight of the convict was so grotesque that my stomach lurched, but had nothing to heave.

"Jesus! Do you just appear anywhere I am?!"

The convict was more putrid than ever, decaying so badly that his limbs appeared to be poorly sewn on. He was tripping over his feet the closer he came. He grew visibly angry, grunting with each fumbling step.

"Give her back," he shakily said.

"We've been over this," I said, still trying to stand.

"Where is she? Bring her. Now!"

"She's not your wife." I attempted to reason with him one last time. "Look, I know about your wife, and Nathaniel, and Benjamin and leaving with your wife."

The convict shut his mouth. He was stupefied. He looked lost but angry. His big rotting hand came up to his forehead and wiped away sweat.

"I just want her back," the convict growled.

"Then let me help you."

"No! Can't trust you. You will do anything to keep the gift ...my gift."

"I don't want it any longer, dammit," I yelled and crashed back down to my shaky knees. "It has been nothing but Hell for me, and so have you. But you won't get it! You're a murderer and the gift will stay outta the hands of someone like you."

"I'm its rightful owner. It is time for it to come home." The convict frowned and closed in on me.

He reached for me with stiff zombie-like arms. He misjudged his balance as he leaned forward and his weight toppled him over. I shot my legs up and they landed squarely on his chest. I caved my knees into a slight bend to support his massive weight and gathered my strength. He rested on my feet for a confused second until I used his momentum to launch him over my head and into a tree. They connected with a loud crack. I rolled backwards and watched his skull split against the tree bark. I shuddered. Bouncing off the tree, he left a splatter of blood and toppled into a bundle of decayed flesh at the base.

With one knee on the ground, I shakily rose to my feet. Biding the time I bought for myself, I had to find a way to finish him once and for all. Every one of my bones moaned and threatened to crumble as I looked about for a weapon.

The convict slowly stirred and moaned. His skin was split down the middle of his brow, blood seeping into his eyes, pooling in the crevasses of his face. He looked around for me, blindly feeling the air around him with one hand and wiping the blood from his eyes with the other.

I frantically scanned the ground and came across a thick broken-off tree branch. Bending over slowly to get it, bracing myself with my hand on my knee, spots danced in my vision. I held the branch tight and hobbled over to him using it as a cane.

Standing just out of reach of his pathetic groping, I watched him squirm and call out in rage. Satisfaction welled within me. A smirk perched on my lips. Raising the branch over my head and ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I froze. Another convulsion gripped me.

The convict used that time to reach behind him and brandish my father's sword from his belt. He wildly swung it, cutting up the air between us. I hopped back and stared at him in amazement. He still wouldn't give up.

The steel swooped past my face and barely missed. The convict overextended himself with the ferocious swing and lurched forward. I saw my opportunity. I heaved the branch down at his head. The convict leaned back and swung at me again. The sword sunk into the branch I held. Even in his condition, the power he wielded the blade with shook my arms, but I held the branch tight.

Our angry and amazed eyes locked. We sneered at one another and struggled to break our weapons apart. Lunging from side to side weakly, we twisted and turned to unchain ourselves. My arms grew weary and he slunk in fatigue. Our struggle crawled to a halt. I smirked and shook my head at him.

"You're long overdue for this."

The convict pushed on our weapons one last time. My arms gave and I leapt backwards. The branch and sword plummeted to the ground. Our hands crashed against the soil still fastened to our weapons. I slipped my foot on top of the long gleaming blade and shifted my body weight on it.

I jerked the branch free like an axe from a stump. Standing on the blade like I was walking the plank, I raised all my might and reeled the branch back, and landed a baseball swing to his head that sent it into a tilt on his neck. The blow smashed his head into the tree trunk and he settled down at the roots.

I pulled the branch around for another vicious shot. I aimed to dig it into his head and bury it down into his neck. I yearned to hear all the sticky noises so I would know that he suffered as I have. It would be a fitting end for the harbinger of evil, but instead, my fingers relaxed. I dropped the blood stained branch. The sound echoed in the silent forest and my ears. It was the sound of my ineptitude and it stung. No mercy. I should kill him with the same sword I attacked my father with anyway. To fitting not to.

As soon as I leaned over to retrieve it, my head swam in vertigo. I ached to pick it up, but I was too weak to reach the ground. My head went light and a sickness saturated my gut. I quickly retreated from the blade and straightened up. I stumbled backwards as far away as I could, recovering my vigor with each receding step.

I recoiled until my backside hit what was left of my car. Confused and angry at my inability to finish him off, I fumbled with the door handle until it opened. I reached into my car and pulled the lever to pop the trunk.

Lingering morsels of queasiness bobbed about my stomach until I stood again. I swallowed heavily to keep from vomiting.

Chapter 72

I reached into the trunk and grabbed the old lantern, the lantern Randy knew I always left in my trunk and the one I guessed he called for in the note. I stared at it dumbfounded, wondering if he really meant the lantern and noticed another astonishment. Randy's old fedora was crumpled up behind it. That crafty bastard! He planted and planned this far in advance, even realizing, hell risking all, that I never clean out my trunk. Well, actually, the more I thought on it, the safer the bet seemed. I saw a few college text books in the far back.

God, I couldn't help but chuckle. He knew me, dammit. That man knew.

In homage to Randy's cunning and the good old times, I dusted off his old fedora, put it on and started down the thin lane leading to the cemetery.

I walked with my eyes over my shoulder, prepared for the convict to suddenly rise and come barreling after me. But nothing stirred. I could barely hear my own footsteps.

The staleness made it hard to breathe.

Distance and darkness took the convict from my sight. I couldn't help but think that everything had ended too easily. We were everlasting and so was my caution. There were no such things as good luck and helpful omens with him.

As soon as the wreck behind me disappeared into the twilight, I stopped. I felt eyes on me, like I was being followed. My feet froze and I was scared to turn. Behind me the night air blew hot puffs of breath down my neck. Fright gripped me but I leashed it. Over my shoulder my eyes crept, chin pointing the way, until I pivoted and looked back. I could see the wreck again. By my mangled car, not far from all the metal twisted into a hideous sculpture, a white glow hovered in the road. The dusk abated to this wispy haze of pure light that seemed to place the sunset on hold.

The radiance stood almost benevolently before the convict. A familiar laughter buzzed around my ears like a mosquito.

"The demon?" I whispered, feeling that it should be nearby.

Beneath my feet the cracked asphalt grew hot. Curiosity pulled me closer to get a better look. With each step, the light from my clanking lantern diminished and streamed outwards, hurdling into the strange glow. The radiance before the convict began to pulse and elongate. It thinned in the middle and evolved into a figure. A female figure. Long hair fell from a budding head and shone in the light. Pale white skin formed under a pallid dress that looked centuries old. Age cut forgivingly into her young face. Her features were youthful and soft, yet wrinkles stretched around her eyes, cheeks, and mouth. An old and noticeable scar was seared on her lip. It looked just like Amber's. Emitting a glow that draped over the convict's face, she benignly stepped over to him with her right arm outstretched. His head bobbed away a bit and his eyes squinted under the orb's radiance.

I hobbled close to them, but stopped dead in my tracks. The gift begged me to halt. It cried to avoid the two damned lovers at all costs. I stood motionless and watched intently. I could feel her radiance warm my face from my considerable distance.

"Wake up," she whispered, softer than the glow she emanated.

The convict's eyes fluttered and strained to adjust, perking up to her presence. He slowly rose with his back to the tree, chipping off bark, until he stood: a seedy, dark, and broken man across from a flowing, bright, and elegant woman. He stood out before her as if he was her shadow.

"Hunh?" the convict snorted.

"I am here," she sighed, "you can rest."

"I am not done. I need to get Veronica back."

"Mural, I am Veronica."

The convict's face crunched together and anger ran over his face like a smoky veil.

"If you dare tell that lie again," he barked. "I will rip your tongue out."

Her light flickered in shock and sunk some. She said, "How can you not recognize me?"

"Because I have found her already," he looked over to his right and glared at me accusingly.

"The man with my gift shelters her."

I wasn't sure if the woman before the convict was Veronica or a sick joke from the demon. She sure looked like the woman I saw from the convict's memory, but my trust wasn't going to be placed with anyone other than Betsy.

"I am Veronica. You are just confused," she pleaded. "My heart still beats for you. We have waited so long. You have found that little piece of you that has been missing. We can be whole again."

"Your lies grow tiresome. Look at your hair, your face, you are older than Veronica."

He could only see his wife, in his mind, the way she had looked when he lost her; he couldn't fathom her any other way. Her hair was hoary in the light, aged by centuries of weariness, but she appeared no older than what I saw of her in my memory. But the centuries had eroded her face and showed all the change in the world to the convict.

"Did you think I wouldn't age? Look at you. Do you think you look the same?" she said. "You look worse than ever."

The convict's face was barely human, crushed into an obscenely disfigured block of flesh and bone. She brought her serene palm to what was left of his cheek. I was waiting for him to shy away, but she was utterly captivating. She must be able to see and love what he had been centuries ago. Her light brightened and I could see his old face illuminate with a trick of her light. The supple brilliance from her palm gently caressed his cheek and he was under her spell. Mural's face appeared over the convict's for only a split second, but in that brief time, all his love flared within his eyes. It shone with a brightness that matched the sun. Blinding flares arched about and danced between them. They were linked and drew closer.

But then doubt flickered. It created a vacuum that collapsed their bond and greedily devoured their light until the darkness snatched him back. His ardor for the hunt consumed him.

"No," he said, pushed her hand away and reached down. He bent down and clutched my father's sword. He hobbled towards her with vengeance.

"Yet another obstacle I have to weather. Step aside. I hear whispers from you..."

"It is me, I swear!" Veronica pleaded with open arms as the glow surrounding her hands began to dim and sink further.

"Test me, if you dare," he brought the sword to her neck. With a piercing gaze of rage, the blades edge nipped into her neck. "I know she is out there, I have seen her. She has slipped away too enough. If you delay me from her with another one of your deceptive words, I will continue cutting."

Her lips trembled and she began to cry. The sword's tip slid limply away from her neck and clanked against the pavement as he used it for support.

Broken and rotting, determined to find his way, the convict turned from the glowing light of his beloved wife, and into the darkness of the woods.

She dropped her face into her cupped hands and wept, her shoulders heaved with each laborious tear. The bleak clouds of rage obscured her glow and she fell to the road. Sprawled across the pavement, she wailed for absolution and wept herself into nothingness.

I shook my head and turned back to my travels. Shivers permeated me and I grew weaker. My pants and shirt still felt soaked and my old stab wound ached. Exasperated, I moved on, trying to place the mystery of Amber and Veronica's real identities, but gave in to fatigue.

God, I was so tired.

Chapter 73

My shaded walk was consumed by memories. I was relentlessly assaulted by different moments from my life. I never realized how much I hated my past and how good it felt to want to change. Even my time with Jessica was hampered by the confines of my fears, but I would remedy that once and for all.

The crumbling asphalt road receded into gravel as I came upon the cemetery. The trees rustled their branches in the half-light as I crunched along. The plot of land before me was copious and I imagined that wasn't anywhere near the actual size of the cemetery. Dark sad trees lined the property, serried together as a living wall, and wept their leaves down onto my head. I strolled up to a lone light, hanging from the arched gates ahead, as it flickered on as the sun slowly descended.

I tried to peep between the dying branches and into the cemetery. The trees were staunch in their defense and I couldn't see much beyond a few nearby tombstones in the misty grass. From the entryway several dirt roads weaved around the headstones, scampering off in several directions beyond the horizon. I stood below the old sentinel lamp fixture as it gazed down on me disapprovingly. A supple wind moaned by and gave me a push under the entryway and into the cemetery. I paused half way through the entrance, half trying to recall and catalog detail, half wary of something happening as I entered, but all I was offered was a feeling off deja vu.

The slowly dying light hindered my sight and I realized I had little time until nightfall. I stepped past the threshold and cringed in anticipation of the worst.

I've walked down this path before. Even with the instructions, I never knew it was here. The coincidence of it all. I wondered if I had done this all without my wits about me, completely oblivious to my actions.

And I had.

Chapter 74

The night crept close and it became hard to read Randy's note. I tripped on the road and my hat sailed away, rolling like a coin down the path. I looked up from the dirt and watched it bounce off a grave in the distance. Dusting myself off, I felt in my pocket for my yellow piece of paper. Sighing in relief, I stood and retrieved my hat.

Gazing at the inscription on the grave, I fixed on the words that spoke to me, that told me why I was there; the reason this place looked familiar. I couldn't place it before. I wasn't paying attention the first time. I was lost in the pain of her funeral.

While reading the gravestone of my wife, I felt stupid that I never was able to connect that Jessica and Randy were both buried in this cemetery.

I bent over and read the description on her grave. My fingers caressed the engraving that spelled her name. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes but I wiped them away before they did so. This was redemption, not despondency. I smiled at her and glanced at the directions in my hand. I had to get going before the light left completely. Thankfully, leaving her then was easier than when she left me.

Knees cracking as I stood, nausea encircled my stomach and head, forcing me to brace on her gravestone. I shook it off and grabbed my lantern, but before leaving, I placed a kiss on my hand and pressed my palm atop her stone, hoping she felt it.

My stomach erupted with more pain. I brushed that aside and shuffled off towards a sagging oak tree perched on a hill that overlooked a distant harbor. Once under the branches, I sat before Randy's gravestone and felt relief for the first time in what felt like ages.

The sun was in its final retreat, taking all the lingering light from the graveyard, and yanking it over the horizon in a swift pull, stealing all the security I had left. I have been waiting for this moment for quite some time, whether I knew it or not. The thought weakened me. My vision blurred as my mind wouldn't stop wandering. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as the most exact touch of deja vu hit me.

I had to calm myself because this was the hard part. Hard because I wasn't sure what was going to happen but no longer frightening was the unknown. On top of the hill, overlooking a dark and shadowy graveyard with the languid city lights in the distance, I placed the lantern down and thought back on my life. The details eluded me but from somewhere in the forgotten depths of what I hoped was my youth, a surprise phrase surged to my lips so hard that I blurted it out.

"I am the lantern and you are the light."

The blues and blacks of the night were banished and I sat patiently waiting for the light.

Basking in the new light of that desolate night, I found I was not young again, and not back in college, but I did find the lantern had lit somehow.

Chapter 75

The wind picked up and dried my eyes. I blinked and my lids were intolerably heavy. The lantern lit a small radius, a strangely blue radius instead of yellow like it should, reminding all too much of the light inside me. The light I no longer held. The inscriptions on the surrounding gravestones stood out as if they were being shouted out in an eerie sapphire shade.

I reached out for the words on Randy's grave and saw my trembling hand was stained a dark maroon. I looked at my hand curiously, wondering what was on it, when my fingers connected with a wall of cold. A shiver weaved down my spine and limbs. My outstretched fingers halted and the chill encompassed me before I had even touched the gravestone.

I was rendered immobile as an internal patch of ice proliferated over every inch of me. I felt thwarted. Stopped so close. No, I wouldn't be stopped.

The only part of me that was thawed was my eyes and they darted about, surveying the area for threats. I was defenseless and obvious, marked by the only light around.

A scratching sensation filled my eyes and a bulging pressure mounted behind them. Tears waited to flow, but froze on my lashes. My heart beat heavily and tears fell. I watched them plummet into the emptiness of an ominous before me. I blinked furiously to clear my eyes.

"Why? How?"

My brain ferried wasted words to my tongue. I gazed up into the night sky, no longer able to bear the bane of the familiar silhouette that crouched before me. My chaotic mind struggled to grasp reality and I instinctively yearned to flee. The impulses shot instructions to my feet to run, but they were firm and stubborn. I was trapped. My fear ran rampant but I slowly managed to subdue it, knowing my struggles were futile. I had to remain lucid to discover a way out of this rout.

I watched the fastidious stars in the navy sky stretch backwards in tenuous bright streaks. Serenity took me. My body wouldn't run away so my mind did instead; it barreled right into unconsciousness.

Chapter 76

I awoke to almost familiar sensation of nausea. Freezing and so tired, I craved to sleep away suffering. My joints and sockets strained as I slowly stirred. I raised my head. The light from my lantern flickered on the gravestone and illuminated the outline of a hand holding on to mine. My heart skipped a beat and my mind froze in panic. My jaw swung back and forth, as I was blessed with more movement, while I wasted that gift with incoherent babbles, managing only one real word.

"Amber?"

Her hand clasped mine so tightly that I thought she was the marble tombstone. I whimpered under the force and gazed up at her. Her black hair disappeared into the drapery of night and all I could see was her bright face. Her eyes were sunken dark pools and her features almost glowed in the lamplight.

Nothing felt right; my heart sank deep in my ribcage the more I saw her smile at me. Those lips spoke without uttering a word. She helped me up by the hand. As I slowly rose, shedding the immobility of fear had held me, I heard scraping sounds of metal on stone. Shivers shot down my spine as Amber slid our father's sword along the tombstone. It was a hideous sound. I squinted to look at her; the lantern was barely lighting her face. It shone past her, ignoring her like it was ashamed to go near.

"Yup, I'm here" she answered. "You don't look so hot."

She let go my hand and I crashed backwards onto the grass and tumbled away with the momentum. I rolled down the wet hill, watching the sky appear and disappear, as I somersaulted until my head slammed hard against the ground. I slumped against the bottom of the hill.

Shrill and intense pain pulsed in my waist. I hadn't the energy to ignore the pain so I finally decided to inspect the wound I had been ignoring since the car crash. I gently brushed my hand along my shirt and pulled back a thick viscous liquid that seeped between my fingers. Confused, I raised my hand to my face and saw blood.

More blood than I had ever seen.

I looked down and gawked surprise. My shirt and pants were completely saturated. I tried to stand but must have misplaced the energy and instead resigned to kneel.

My consciousness flowed out with my blood. I watched the maroon droplets play out an almost comedic repetition that would have been funny if it wasn't my blood. They repeatedly, like diligent little morons, rose from my clothes to scurry back to the wound, eager to reenter, to only be slapped away, repelled from the overpowering outward flow of their siblings.

I sent my finger back to the wound to investigate further, eager to stop this futile battle and felt a sharp prick. I lifted my shirt and saw a gleaming, almost smiling metal shard peeking out from deep within. I probed my fingers deeper into my flesh, cringing as I felt my innards, but I couldn't judge the size of the shrapnel or grab it. My efforts opened the gash further as I tried to find a small grip on the piece. My fingers slid across the blood-soaked metal thwarting every attempt. I couldn't remove it.

My head swirled and my energy drained further. I found a grave nearby to focus on and crawled towards it. As I inched along on all fours, I watched my blood fall in a thin yet steady stream down to the dark cool grass and cheered on the smaller, though stout stream of returning blood running against gravity and back to me. But I couldn't watch long. Didn't want to, my eyes were so heavy. With each movement, with each breath, I longed to stop and sleep.

But I pressed on, strangely inspired by my own blood as it relentlessly tried to return. I pushed onwards, gritting my teeth until I crashed against the gravestone. I smiled as I read Jessica's name on the stone.

"Keep it up," I heard a female voice say.

Head drooping with sting of sweaty hair in my eyes, I looked up to Amber. She was smirking from above; hand on the sword hilt with its tip in the dirt. Crouching down, keeping the sword still, she spoke into my face.

"Almost dead brother?"

"Help, help me Amber"

"No. I think I'll watch you bleed to death," she said, and looked right into my eyes. "And take what's inside you."

"No, oh God, no. Amber, don't do it."

"Sorry, George, it's too powerful to pass up."

My head drooped. I had to fight to stay awake. All I wanted was sleep. My eyelids were so heavy. My blinks were slow and drawn out. I saw images of Jessica when my eyes were shut. My limbs grew too heavy to move. Oh God, how could Amber do this to me?

Sleep invaded like a bitter enemy and pushed fiercely against my eyelids. I struggled to retaliate until warmth tickled my face. I cracked a faint smile as my eyes slid open.

I had no idea what to expect to see, but to find a strange weaving fire was surely at the bottom of the list. Small sparks shot from the blaze and rocketed into the air like shooting stars. I watched in childlike wonderment as the sparks exploded. Curiosity made me search for the source. My eyes followed a trail that lead to the lantern atop the hill. I blinked in confusion.

The fire before me burned with more power and illumination than that little old lantern could ever possess.

I was hallucinating. Yes, had to be. Seeing things in the throes of death.

But no matter how I tried to convince myself, the flames burned in a chaotic yet gentle manner. Its warmth permeated my pores and melted the ice within me. As the cold beneath my skin receded, the grips on my throat and chest grew weaker and the gift's feel became distant, feebly echoing from the depths of my mind. For the first time in years I was warm.

Yet, at the same time, I began to loose feeling. My limbs tingled and began to go numb. Amber drew in closer.

My bottom lip peeled away from the top and cracked a small opening between my lips. The back of my jaw stung. A chill so cold it burned swelled on the back of my tongue and projected a thin blue radiance from my mouth. It shone directly into Amber's eyes.

"Yes," she greedily beckoned. "Come on now, come to me..."

Her laughter rang out loud and malevolent. I wanted to scream as I watched her slowly assimilate the gift, but serenity engulfed my worries. What I wanted didn't seem to be of much consequence any longer.

The cold of the gift gripped my heart one last time, in an earnest and pathetic scream, but as of then, tranquility coursed through my brain. I couldn't have cared less. Then, I felt the gift no more. It seeped from my lips in slow viscous dribbles, drooling all the way to the damp grass. The gift, slobbering from my mouth, gathered in a dull neon blue pool at my knees and shimmered in the moonlight. I stared in a stupor at the mighty gift, the ruin of so many lives, as it puddle together looking no greater than a glob of toothpaste.

As the last bit of slaver suspended from my lips fell, the puddle began to congeal. A black crust formed along the fringes, rapidly dulling the azure luster. The shell expanded beyond the edges and grew like a scab until it swallowed the blue sheen. The brilliant blue gift sat before us, after spewing from my mouth as weak vomit, in the dark slick grass like a navy blue lump of coal.

Last bits of motion manifested in my fingers as they pathetically twitched toward the granite looking gift. They didn't come near and I collapsed onto the headstone and rolled off it onto my back.

The last of my blood trickled from my wound. Not a single globule tried to reenter. Blood was everywhere. It was as if my eyes were tinted red. My hand timidly scuttled across my chest and fumbled around the inside of my coat until my fingers found my yellow piece of paper.

"Amber don't," I gasped. "It'll turn you ..."

"Of course it will," she interrupted. "I'll be powerful and use this the way you should've."

The gift sat quietly on the ground, as innocent as a fallen apple. Amber poked at it with the point of the sword. She pulled a thick glove from her back pocket and put it on. I stared into her eyes. Her betrayal sat heavily on the air between us.

"Please Amber, just let it go."

"No way. Besides, that's my plan for you. Dad always said, 'Never waste an opportunity.'"

"You'll regret this," I wheezed.

"Power buys forgiveness," she said and pinched the gift between her gloved fingers.

Amber gazed at it with awe and wonder as it rested comfortably on her palm. I could see her pondering how she could manipulate it to her will. She seemed prepared to handle the gift and her victory filled her eyes, but hadn't clue where to begin.

Leaning in close to the rock of a gift, her lips so near she looked to be kissing it, Amber whispered one short phrase to the chunk through a wide toothy grin.

Then it twitched. She gazed at the gift inquisitively. It shuddered again.

A strange utterance emanated from her gloved hand that cut through the autumn air. I almost missed the sound as it landed softly on my ears. It was meant for Amber, but I heard it.

"Centuries of sorrow, all for you."

Her eyes widened to saucers. The gift's dullness peeled away and it began to pulse. A blast of blue light shot directly at her. Weak and dying, I watched as she received all the gift had absorbed from its three hosts. Amber's face contorted in shudders of anguish. All the loss and suffering of our worlds hit her in a moment. She gnashed her teeth then screamed into the night air. Her breath puffed out and spiraled up to the treetops. She reeled under the weight of the gift's tortures. Under the weight of holding the light. All the carnage of the last two centuries ran through her.

She crashed to her knees and begged for mercy. Her pleas fell on the deaf. The gift tumbled from her fingers and fell to the ground beside her. I wanted to feel sorry for her. I wanted to help, but my sympathies were dying with me.

My fingers closed over the crumpled piece of yellow paper and I slowly unfolded it. I bore my soul to the open air. I tried to read the note but couldn't. All strength left my fingers and the note quietly slipped away. It swayed back and forth in the breeze until it hit the ground. I rolled to my side and let my arms collapse around Jessica's grave and squeezed it with every ounce of strength I had left. Every ounce I had left to her.

Chapter 77

And then I felt it again. It wasn't truly sensual, but more of a knowledge of my organs peacefully deciding to stop.

Trying to stay focused on something, I looked past Amber quivering in the dirt and spied the legs a figure walking towards us. I figured nothing could keep me on this God-forsaken Earth any longer, so I looked away, not caring who it was. I averted my gaze up to the moon. It stared at me again, but this time I knew it couldn't hurt me anymore. No more pain; a tune that I haven't heard in years.

"No," a low booming voice uttered in anger.

My eyes darted to the voice's origin and landed on the dark figure I knew to be the demon. It strolled up next to Amber, shaking its head in disgust.

"You see that, puppet?" it said to me. "You see that? And you trusted her!" A billowing laugh screamed from its mouth. "You have been most interesting to watch. More entertaining than any other puppet before you. But nevertheless, I've had my fill."

The wind blew but the demon's cloak didn't budge. Its black and ragged robes slithered with the shadows and against the wind. They snaked through the grass towards my feet. Its red eyes peaked from beneath its hood and stabbed at me.

Amber raged in a fit in the background and the demon's voice boomed before me. Dark shadows entangled my legs. The demon's cracked and blackened hands slid free from its robes and reached out to open air. The gift lifted from the grass and floated to its hand. His tattered robes tightened and dragged me forwards. I hadn't the energy to struggle against the cloth restraints. They pulled me before him and stood me upright. Lacking the will to breathe, I stood suspended before the demon, completely at its mercy.

"Now you will experience pain, puppet. Now you will feel death as I intend it."

The blood that flowed from me stopped. My weakness began to diminish. Strangely enough, I began to revive. The demon's eyes were burning coals of anger, piercing through the night, and right at me. More strength built within me.

"You haven't felt pain until you've felt what I've been through," it whispered into my ear.

My skin burned and the smell sizzled into the air. My hair singed and the fetor stung my nose. I hung like a limp sack, jittering in shocks of torture, as the demon laughed in my face. His breath was rank. I gritted my teeth not wanting to show weakness, but tears welled in my eyes. The pain was unbearable. Heat ate my skin. My organs felt like they were decomposing.

My energy built with the agony, nearly proportional to one another, except that the pain always exceeded the vigor by just enough to quell it. It was a sick joke, to give hope but burn it out before it could be used, just perfect for a demon's taste. Precisely when I felt the might to overpower it, its torture, burning from vengeful embers for eyes, rose up hotter and faster, to quickly quell the notion.

My eyes shot open and I glared at it. My features contorted with the suffering, but I wanted, no I needed to show it my contempt. Needed to burn it into the demon if I could. If I couldn't inflict it I would show it. My hands balled up into fists. I was dying to pummel it to a bloody pulp with my bare fists. My brain conveyed that very idea to my hands but before I could act, and before another wave of agony hit, a massive jolt hit the demon from behind. I fell from its grip. I landed before Jessica's grave and nearly on top of the sword.

The convict rose up from behind the stumbling demon. His hands were balled into tight fists like boulders as he readied to take another swing.

"Give it to me!" the convict screamed at the demon. "It is mine!"

Bracing under the powerful attack from behind, the demon's cloak planted its strands into the ground and braced. Strips of cloth shot from behind it and wrapped around the convict's throat and lifted him into the air. The old black oily rags struggled to keep a solid hold, slipping through and along his rotten flesh. The demon's cloak slashed at the convict, peeling dead skin away to reveal the bone and muscle below.

"It is for whomever I choose," the demon growled.

"I will kill you for it," the convict choked.

"Ha! That is your answer to everything. Amidst all that brawn, one would think some brains existed somewhere."

My scorched and bloody hand wrapped around the embroidered handle I knew too well. I held the sword firmly. The fuel that was pumped into me, artificial or not, was ready to combust.

Amber's thrashed across the grass, wailing at ear piercing volumes the woes of so many souls, as the demon whipped the convict to the ground. It stood above the decomposing convict, poised to tear him apart. Its arms spread wide and its robes opened further, revealing another corpse of a body. The skin that draped the demon was black and cracked like a scab. A red viscous liquid that was hard to call blood by the sight of it, squeezed up through the fissures that meandered around its entire desiccated body. As the demon motioned, more seeped free releasing a sharp sulfur reek onto the wind. I couldn't tell a single feature that would declare this creature a sex. The fires that burned away its body, and probably its soul, had taken those features.

The demon reached down with its scorched hands and dug into the convict's neck, cutting through veins and flesh. The convict shrieked and sent a retaliating blow to the demon's face that spun it around towards me.

Stunned momentarily, its claret eyes caught the sight of me holding the sword. The demon sneered at me as the convict kicked at its knees and forced it to the ground. It sprawled out flat on its back and the black hood flipped off its head.

A scarred face appeared. The convict towered above it and leaned over ready to tear his fingernails, teeth, anything into the demon and rip it to shreds, but as he bent over, the moonlight washed over the demon's face.

The naked white light revealed, past the scars and burns, a face that the convict knew when he was Mural. Below him was a scab of the man that had been with him since the beginning. Even after two hundred years, the convict could recognize the old eyes that lived behind the red embers. Mural had known them well, but they were always more timid than tumultuous. The air between him and his little brother held centuries of toil and tension.

"Nathaniel? Why? Why would you do this to me?" the convict asked as he hovered above his brother, frozen in shock, unable to continue his relentless charge.

I began to see Nathaniel's true face as the moonlight spread over him. The scabs and scars couldn't hide his features completely. It was strange to see the two siblings together, both of them practically battered beyond all recognition, reunited after countless deaths that they were both responsible for. I couldn't help but feel that all this carnage was nothing more than an ancient family feud.

"I had a feeling you would not know why. Never once did you wonder why you got this gift. Never once did you question it. No, because all you wanted to do was destroy." Nathaniel's voice cut through the rasp of the demon's sound. "The first time you held that sword,"

Nathaniel said, pointing at me and what I held, "you knew murder was your path. Do you even know how you started, brother? I bet you do not, you damned fool. You could not have, for all of this would not have happened if you did."

"The whispers. They told me..."

"It started with a whisper for me too, brother. Did you know that? A whisper from Mother as we sat at the bonfire on the night our family died. She told me. I didn't understand what she said for so long, until that one Christmas years later when I found what betrayal was, when you killed me. Do you remember shooting me Mural? Do you remember the gaping hole blown in my body? Do you still see the blood?"

Nathaniel raised a crooked blackened finger to the base of his neck. The convict's eyes fell on a crusty hole below his brother's Adams apple. Bits of thick dark fluid gurgled within and brimmed around the edges. The convict stood above Nathaniel, dumbfounded.

"Destiny has a funny way of turning the tides, brother," Nathaniel said, his eyes growing redder. "And it took years and my death to understand what Mother said to me in my sleep, but it was worth the wait. You were doomed the second you killed her, Mural."

"No, no, no!" The convict held his head in his hands, covering his ears from the horrible words screaming directly into his brain. "The redcoats did it."

"No. Oh dear brother, no! Are you going to blame them for killing me to?! Oh, the power of denial!"

The moonlight slid behind a cloud. Nathaniel's charred flesh began to crawl back over his face again and the sinister rasp crept back into his voice. "You stabbed her and then you burned her. She was the movement in the rubble of the house that you found that night Mural, you damned fool! She survived after saving us and then you murdered her. She told me."

Mural shook his head.

"No!" the demon hissed. "Do not dare! Do not deny it, murderer!"

"No, I did not ...no," the convict uttered.

I crept closer to them, clenching the sword ever tighter. Dark shadows moved unnaturally along the grass towards the convict.

"I held the light the moment before you shot me Mural, mere seconds after you did. I knew, just before my throat was splattered all over that redcoat lad - I felt that hot death coming for me. So I swore, with all my rage, to all that was holy and even to all that was not, that I would give all to find my murderer and the murderer of my family. I swore it!" the demon roared, his dark gooey spit flying from burnt and blistered lips. "But, as you know, as all should know, that to hold the light is tricky and deceptive. Oh yes, very tricky indeed. The band of imposter redcoats had all died in the war. Every last one of those bastards was dead. The gift had known this, knew it very well. So, in came the twist that is holding the light - the twist in capturing what cannot be kept. The only murderer left was you, you foolish bastard, only you. So I was held by my new distorted destiny and oath to obliterate you. But death, just simple old death was too merciful for you big brother. Oh no, you needed death alright, but you needed it so much that you became it."

"This is a trick, that is all, just a trick to stop me. You are a demon from Hell."

"Hell? Heaven? Do you understand these concepts? They only exist in our decisions. I am a demon by my own revenge. As is your wife is an angel created by repentance. And you are the object of our battle. You, who held the light first, were raised from the dead because of my intentions and her emotions. All by the gift in a way. Did you even care to think about why you were brought back? You were not resurrected to retrieve the gift, no, that was not yours to have any longer. Enough destiny had been twisted, but you were resurrected to save the lost bit of your soul."

"Veronica has it. She always has. That is why I need to find her."

"For your chance at penitence. You started this and you need to end it."

The black robes subtly crept through the grass, slipping past the convict's attention, but not past mine. The demon was stalling his brother with his lengthy explanations.

"Death is not here for us, we are here for it," the demon continued.

I crept with the sword clutched in both hands, blade stretching out behind me, hiding as much of it as I could. The demon's tattered cloak coiled around the convict's feet and pulled them out from beneath him. A droplet of energy combusted within me and I pounced on the demon as it was occupied with the convict. My actions lasted only a few seconds, but stretched on for an eternity.

Sword raised, I landed squarely on the demon's chest, ready to plunge it right into its heart if it had one. But below me, instead of the demon, it was my father. All my old rage returned in an instant. Every hopeless emotion I ever harbored clouded my head.

The autumn night dissipated and our breaths puffed into the air. The atmosphere thickened and shaped into walls around us. The ground bent up and formed the big picture window in my old living room. The moon's bright round glow boxed up into the shape of our old television and a row of gravestones stretched out to become the couch. Below me was my father, exactly how I remembered him, skinny, gangly, and pressed against the creaking hardwood floor. I smelled beer on his breath and hatred on his lips. Exhilaration and fear filled my arms. My fingers trembled on the hilt of the sword.

Static flickered across the television and caught my attention. It glimmered and showed the moon for a second, and then the TV the next. I focused my eyes and an image of my mother appeared on the screen. Her face was soft and solemn and youthful. She pleaded to me with teary eyes, but I hadn't the slightest idea what she wanted. She stretched out, begging for something from me, but was confined within the television, unable to make contact. She wailed only muted screams. I tensed my legs and was about to get up and run to her, but I hesitated. I couldn't go to her.

That moment of delay slapped grief across her face. Her eyes widened and her mouth hung agape. A blade surged through her chest and blood sprayed against the screen. I could hear the splatter. Amber appeared over her shoulder and drove the blade further into our mother, laughing as blood dripped from her face.

My face contorted in disgust and rage. I screamed with her, but the image hastily faded back to static. Beneath me I felt a jostling. The body below struggled. My father tried to wiggle free, but stopped once I turned my attention on him. He looked up sheepishly. The wrinkles that meandered about his face and all his hoary hair and stubble, came to me as evidence of his aged frailty. That frailty pleaded to me for compassion and I considered it.

Could I do this to him? His eyes were brown and patriarchal with a hint of ruby. They sternly sized me up and told me that I couldn't handle such a monumental decision. I was just a cowardly runaway. Always running, never standing true. My father knew I couldn't kill him. No matter what he did, I couldn't go that far.

But that was the old me.

My hands quivered at the chance to plummet the blade into his throat. He deserved it, he asked for it. This was long overdo. I should have killed my fears long ago. So much would have been different. Randy would have taken his soul and never met me and maybe this all wouldn't have happened. Maybe Amber wouldn't be writhing in pain nearby. Maybe Mother would have been happy. Maybe...

Pulsing within my father's eyes flashed a glint of red and a smirk twitched in the corner of his mouth. The illusion of my old living room shivered and began to blow away. It was time.

He struggled but I had him pinned. These tricks wouldn't work anymore.

"You don't know what you're doing," my father's voice boomed from below.

"I do now."

Chapter 78

I aimed at the necktie sprawled across the floor and plunged the sword down. Black cloth snaked around my hands and halted the blade in mid-air, a few feet from the demon's scarred neck.

My eyes widened and I sneered at it. The demon laughed and turned the blade away. I pushed my body weight atop the sword and flexed all my muscles to get that damned sword in this time. But it wouldn't budge. The demon continued to cackle as its fabric minions turned the blade away from it and towards me.

I immediately locked my elbows and strained to keep the sword at arms length. The blade was long and the point was dangerously close to my chest, even with my arms fully extended. Gritting my teeth and snarling, I roared into the night air, bellowing for more borrowed strength to overcome this.

"Just give me this, dammit!"

"Puppet, you get what I give you."

My elbows gave way and my wrists twisted. The sword came right at my chest. Under the pressure, I slipped forward onto the demon's chest. The edge of the blade ran along the top of my shoulder and sailed past my ear.

The hilt and my hands stopped abruptly at my ear as my forearms slammed into my torso. My fingers contorted and shifted on the hilt under the hold of the dark living fabric. I tried to switch my hold on the handle, but the robes held them steadfast. The demon choked out a terrible raspy laugh as I struggled in vain.

The blade's edge, resting on my shoulder, pressed down. I winced and the demon laughed and press it down harder. I had to do something before it sawed through my shoulder.

I slid further up the demon's chest as he pressed harder on the sword until my knees were at its head.

The sword sliced into me. I roared and my breath puffed out into the night's chill.

I pushed my right knee away then heaved it back and into the demons head. The force stunned him and carried my leg over his head. My body pivoted on the demon's torso and I spun around. I found myself staring at his feet not sure what exactly happened.

The sword dug deeper into my shoulder as it swung around with me. I leaned forward, heaved from my hips down to his waist, and rocketed backwards.

Completely blind and lurching backwards, aiming a sword dug into my own shoulder, I prayed for guidance. Dear God please don't let me miss!

The demon's grip on sword slunk away as I felt the blade sink into something soft. Then I jolted to a halt against something hard.

Black shadows writhed around me, fluttering in convulsing agony, slapping against my face and back. Its robes floundered, striking out blindly. I twisted the blade. The demon erupted in wild pain. Its chest heaved, lifting me off it as its hands frantically grabbed at the sword that pinned it to the ground. The demon jiggled the blade to loosen it, shaking the very night with its screams.

The sword slipped out of my shoulder as I fell to the demons side. I spun around to see the blade sunk right into the middle of the demon's throat. Squealing in the moonlight I saw Nathaniel's agonized face. He held the blade, its edge cutting deep into his palms as scrambled for a grip but couldn't maintain one as his blood seeped out and slicked the metal. With his precarious grip on the sword's edge, shaking the blade around, he widened the two hundred year old hole as well as the two minute old one in his throat. In his furious attempts to grip the sword and pull it free, he began to saw his own fingers off. I had to turn away.

But, being either a glutton for punishment or just needing to see it to believe it, I looked back and saw my father's face on the demon's again. Callously, almost casually I slapped my palm atop of the hilt and drove it in a bit deeper, just in case the damned demon was making headway in pulling it out. It writhed out in more wicked shrieks. The demon's living robes, every shred, thrashed about like violent ebony wings. The squirming black chaos also wrapped around the sword plunged through its neck, but couldn't budge it either.

I was amazed the demon could even utter anything with a sword buried deep in its neck, slicing up to the shelf of its chin, but the screams seemed to emanate from all around and not from its mouth.

Walls of fabric towered above me and curled over in dark waves. They grew so tall that they blocked out the stars and the moon. The fabric spun around my neck and limbs, quickly gaining a tight grip, and pulled me in all directions, trying to rip me apart. I tensed and fought against it, but cloth lifted me into the air. My straining joints creaked and snapped as they began to pull away from their connecting bones. I was drawn and quartered in mid air. My teeth grinded down hard. Veins popped in my neck and forehead.

God, I wasn't about to be ripped apart now.

And I was right. The strangling strips of living rags lost their grip slowly and let me slip. In a slow, almost deliberate manner, the dark robes fell limply to the grass. The black fabric spread out across the soil like oil, slowly creeping in every direction seeping in deep, as I plummeted back on top of its burnt and scarred chest again.

The cold autumn night and the moon tugged at me and I rolled with it. I fell away from the demon and bounced off Jessica's grave. The convict fell with me, finally released from the robes as well. The black tendrils slithered away.

And all at once, the night sky began to change. All the abysmal blacks and grays dissipated into a mass of purple and blues that spilled across the heavens. The demon still tugged adamantly at the sword though, unwilling to stop.

The new colors that filled the sky floated down to the ground and sat heavily on the earth. I was surrounded in blazing blue. Thin lines emerged and divided all the enveloping cool colors into hues and shades. Smooth fluid shapes flowed around me like how the sea holds a fish. The undulating air rippled and rolled about and took shape, forming into liquid silhouettes. The shapes coagulated further and assumed human forms. Faces appeared. Thousands swarmed around me. Every soul that all three of us had ever taken floated above the demon, furiously breathing down hot and heavy on its demented face.

Waves of torrential spirits hunted the demon and came closer and closer. The demon's red eyes shrunk into small slits of anger.

"Puppet ..." it gurgled, the sword shaking while it talked.

The demon stretched out for me, its pierced throat sliding up the blade toward the hilt, rising like a vampire from the coffin yet constrained by a stake through the neck. The slick sounds of its ascent were sickening. Its chin rose until it pressed against the handle and stopped, straining to either rip the sword free from the soil or pull the hilt through its neck. A jagged fingernail pointed at my chest as it toiled to tear into me, but the surrounding wall of souls captured him. The mass of souls congealed and concentrated into a sapphire sphere. With the demon's hungry fingers inches from my face, it was halted.

A slowly evolving blue casing slid over its body. Little twinges from the demon pushed against the azure barrier as the souls encircled it, coating the demon in a diaphanous shell. Its red eyes shrieked as a stringent blue swallowed them.

"Thank you," I heard.

The demon and its sullied black robes were encased in a thin plastic-like layer. Puffs of its breath fogged the encasing prison swarming around its face. Frantically clawing at the imprisoning blue souls, the demon bit and scratched fervently as it suffocated. Its eyes pleaded for mercy. Air vacated the demon's tiny tight cell and its movements slowed. Its nostrils stopped flaring and its breath no longer fogged against the blue coating. The demon's smothered body limply fell to the ground with the irrelevance of an acorn. But on impact, this ancient corpse fractured apart on the fault lines of its cracked skin. A cloud of dust puffed into the air and its body crumbled into the ash it should have been centuries ago.

Chapter 79

The convict simply nodded and smiled, brushed off his coat and turned away. He found Amber still writhing, though much less intensely, in the agony from the adopted memories thrust on her. Calmly he knelt by her side and stroked her long black hair, trying to comfort her, almost shooshing her like she was a baby.

My borrowed energy faded and my eyes grew heavy. I leaned against my wife's gravestone. I was happy to finally be able to sleep. But as my eyes fell, a white light rubbed them open. I squinted and saw the blurry and corpulent moon close in on me. Its radiance was tremendous. It approached and slowly became elliptical, spreading thin in the middle until it stretched tall and grew into a figure. Limbs broke away and it began to walk across the cosmos, gently gliding along to halt before me. Instinctively, I reached out for it and my hand was embraced in return. A face developed atop the figure and a smile followed. The brightness dimmed and features carved themselves out and revealed my mother's face. The face of tired perseverance. Her sweet and battered eyes gave her away.

"You're done now," she said. "You can rest."

She turned away and left me calm, pure blissful peace, but once she left, she was no longer my mother. The glowing figure walked towards the convict and Amber. Her long hair and gown, both too bright to be a color other than white, rippled in the breeze. Yet the luminosity faded, just as most things fade, and a pale bloody exit wound in her back became noticeable.

"Veronica," the convict moaned to Amber as her spasms became little more than tremors.

I couldn't help but think she knew one aspect of having the gift she so foolishly coveted.

The real Veronica approached them from behind, spilling her stark light all around. Her brilliance burned their shadows into pure black twins behind them.

"I am free now," the convict said continuing to stroke Amber ever so gently. "The demon is dead and we can live happily in eternity together. Finally together. I am here for you."

Veronica's soft hand landed on the convict's shoulder and she said, "You're a fool, Mural. My sins have been rectified, but yours persevere. It is time to confront your choices and your past, dear husband. So, for one last time, please, come with me."

The convict, once Mural, once innocent but mostly not, slowly craned his rotten head around to stare at her in awe, pausing only for a moment to peer through her light. He gazed at her flabbergasted that she would even think of posing such ludicrous notions before his newly found wife. Hadn't he found the only thing he'd ever card about and given so much to find?

Hadn't he found the truth to give his life for, hell, given his life for? And nothing, absolutely nothing, not even God, would come between him and his truth. He would never budge from his past or his instincts and would cling, with all his considerable might, to his every misgiving.

Veronica nodded ever so slightly and closed her eyes. That sad bob of such a graceful head spoke of everything wrong with trying something as impossible as holding the light. It spoke of every foolish human notion of knowing better than fate and the rare few who could actually do something about it. To try and fix it without the scope to see what such actions would do.

Then, as if the light Veronica held had reached the bottom of the wick, her glow flickered, amazingly, into a hot white flash that lit the night into day. But then, blew out. Her brilliance shed her like sand falling in an hourglass. The light repelled in thousands of crystal-like beads that gleamed in the moonlight. Every drop shattered when it hit the ground in tiny cool colored fireworks.

She stood there, before all and nothing and rained all her light down, until there were no more tears to shed. Once all the broken hopes of all her years had fallen, a breeze skimmed the ground and swirled the glowing dust together. Twisting in circles, the debris danced about and slowly turned from white to blue. The whirlwind climbed to incredible speeds, whipping loose grass into the air, until the gust rose up to her mouth. Her moans escaped in azure puffs. The blue light painted her lips like gloss. She leaned in towards him for one last kiss; so much life pulsed between those lips. The convict craned his head almost curiously, looking up at her from his crouch with such hatred that two strange notions gripped her. The first was the most awkward enduring love for him, no matter how decrepit he was. Two centuries passed and he wouldn't allow another woman beyond his wife near that dead heart of his. She was almost proud, save the fact that she was his wife and not the insolent little snot he was crooning over. God, had she ever looked or been as stupid or impudent as this dolt? The answer saddened her. Yes she most certainly had. Oh to her everlasting shame, she had.

There would be a kiss, just not the one she wished for. Not the one that would bring them back together but the one that will rip open the fissure so wide it would be impassable. She would not go where he would be.

Blue light raced from her thinly parted lips but the growing rush forced them full apart. Veronica collapsed, even falling gracefully, as her light blew to the convict in one long exhalation. It surrounded him and as she ended, Mural began.

After two centuries of death, Mural began to live. His face stitched itself together no differently then the gift had done. Skin grew over the exposed bone and muscle. Tuffs of strangled and thinned hair multiplied and thickened. The dull orbs sitting glumly in his head began to twinkle. Broken and decayed bones grew back to life. Coagulated and crusted blood on the verge of fossilization thinned and began to course through softening veins. Even his soul was whole. The convict stood, his broken and teetering hunch straightening and he became Mural again.

But his eyes betrayed one remaining ailment was left. His heart.

Seconds after his completion, he cast aside both his old incarnations. His chest caved and he crashed to his knees, crying into his palms over a lifeless Veronica for a second time. Raising his head high, tears streaking his face, he looked around the world, unabated by rot and decay. A visible emotional change overcame him. He was no longer the convict and no longer Mural. Though he suffered the memories of both, neither one existed any longer.

Kneeling next to Veronica as she lay dying, he took her hand in his, and then gazed over to Amber, as she shook in the grips of madness, and put his left hand in hers.

In the terrible coldness of their touch, he felt the gifts final twist of torture. Life. He was filled with the warmth of it, while his only reason for living, his whole reason for any of this, lay dying in his hands.

Unable to stand the frigidity of their touch any longer he rose to his feet and dropped their hands. He looked them over with all the intention of one more loving gaze and found he was incapable of even doing that. Though his heart beat, it did so for no one.

Yet his heart was not void of all passion. It clung with the fervor of dangling for its life, to the notion of hate. That single pungent possessing emotion brimmed and pumped into his bloodstream, cursing everywhere, especially in his ears, the whispers of old.

Two separate sounds arose. One for each ear almost.

To his right whispers of purity and love, with a hint of the sting of betrayal came from what should have been his wife. Yet, as he remembered far too well, she discarded those qualities, as well as him, generations ago. He barely restrained his fist from rapping his head to pound out all sense of her.

He didn't have to think long on her though, for the other whispers came from his left and stank of the bitter betrayal. He could sense little else beyond that acridly familiar sentiment. It hurt his heart just to be near.

After only one step into what he prayed would be a clean and unhindered future, the past resurfaced in a twinkling gleam. It blared from his right, just past Veronica, in the black sludge and ashen remnants of his tormentor and brother. The sight panged with a vague memory of youth. From the first time he ever murdered.

And just like the first time, the gold twinkle catching his eye among charred remains drew him in. He reached into the mire and clutched sparkling metal. He pulled out the same gold wedding band he gave to Nathaniel so long ago. As he brought the ring to his face, a leather thong that was looped through the band fell back to the soil.

He gazed, thinking of when he first pulled it from the ashes over two hundred years ago, and then pushed the tiny band onto his pinky finger until it stopped at the first knuckle. He needed this reminder and no other.

With the foreign and deafening sound of a pulse thudding in his head and ears, he turned his back on the two women, on everything, hung his head low and walked into the darkness, steering clear from any and all light.

Chapter 80

A slow breeze united into a swirl, swaddling me into an impalpable blanket. My body fought off dying out of habit, entirely too used to healing. My neck strained to keep my head elevated. I had to look over my body. But my head grew heavy and it fell to the ground where I found the dull blue stone that was the gift. Squinting at it, I saw more blue around it than within. My eyes were drawn just beyond the insipid stone to a tranquil and extreme vastness that no mind could ever hope to contain. The space spanned everything and defied definition. All was blue and warm. It reached across the entirety of my imagination, from end to beginning and beginning to end. It was all and I felt so free.

All the meaning that I was searching for in life and death washed over me in a sudden downpour. The rush washed away my senses and all physical sensation. I felt no weight or texture. I was tied to nothing and every question or worry had no place anymore.

The open expanse was daunting, but I had the courage not to run. I stood my ground and faced what lay before me. Never again would I flee; too many people had died because of my fears. Too many.

The expanses of blue firmament rippled with sapphire souls. A blue light emerged in the distance, punching upwards like it had freed itself from underwater. Navy blue outlines formed around the upwelling cobalt and turned into figures. I was quivered with anticipation. Appearing small and fragile, three silhouettes shaped into small figurines. One left the group and waddled towards me. She was beautiful. Sweetness glistened on her lips and eternal love shone in her eyes. Her face was as pure and perfect as I remembered it, as if forced myself to remember. I hadn't forgotten a single detail.

All the encircling and comforting beauty reached out for me. I dared one last look at the gift again as it nestled neatly on the dark grass. But the gift seemed shorter somehow, more squat than before. It seemed to be sinking; diminishing into the dirt like quicksand, dropping back into where it should be.

My eyes shifted away but my gaze was detained by yellow. My note lay next to it unfolded and open to the air. Crinkled along the edges and piebald with oblong wrinkle spots that had once been my blood stains, the paper revealed nothing. It was utterly vacant of the words I had written. Vacant of my soul. It was just a clean piece of paper. Every letter was safe within me.

I looked back up and into my wife's eyes. Accepting the beautiful embrace she opened, I simply fell away from the world that treated me so badly and the world that treated me so well.

Epilogue

The earth is rushing in. Tons of dirt and multi-colored specks of darkness are caving in all around. Cracks are everywhere, splitting and growing as if black blood were drowning me. The moon is bright and shining. The rustling leaves sound like rattlesnakes; like a warning. I'm slipping away, dirt covering me from above now. I'll be buried soon.

Footsteps. Someone's coming. The moon's disappearing from me, swallowed up by the soil. I'm so alone, always alone. What a sad repetition.

Wait, I see a face. Long raven black hanging over her eyes. I can't tell which one she is. It's no matter though. She knows suffering, whichever one she is, and still comes for me. What a mordant smell greed is, enticing with its sickness, to the brash and unwary. Greed is far too subtle for the brain to recognize and too pleasing to pass up.

Her fingers dig in the dirt for me, scurrying to get a hold of the power to twist fate. To hold my light. She is close to me now. Gray bursts of her anxious breath puff into the cold night air. Her lips tremble in anticipation and her big eyes glisten sweetly.

No wonder the convict wanted her. She is exquisite in the moonlight.

"Beautiful," she whispers as she comes in closer. "Didn't know how beautiful."

Even their voices sound alike. There's a scar on her lip. That doesn't help. She holds her breath and runs her long chary fingers across me delicately.

Pulling me free from the strangling dirt, shedding pound after pound of the earth, she raises me from the black soil to her shadowy frightened face. I calm her fears by lessening the volume of the countless dying voices clawing her mind. Her lips part into a weak smile. I almost feel bad about blasting all that pain into her when we first touched. Almost.

"So you wish to make the same mistakes do you?" another strained feminine voice asks.

"Seeing their pain was not enough so you must experience it yourself?"

It is the other woman! Oh, this should be interesting...

The voice startles the woman as she digs in the dirt and almost drops me. Turning on her haunches the best she could with a leg in a partial cast, we find another raven-haired woman crawling on her belly, hurling hisses, slowly snaking along the grass as time and death catch up with her.

"Must you need Hell to understand damnation?" the woman in the grass continues. Her breaths shorten as a red stain in the back of her dress swells and seeps blood. "Have you learned nothing while pitching a fit on the ground, engrossed in just one touch of the gift's despair?

Must you experience the same torture as your brother?"

"It's mine," Amber answers, and I reward her by lessening the tormenting voices. "You can't have it."

"I do not want it and neither should you. End it now," Veronica gasps and pleads as she pathetically twitches, blood now pouring from her back. "As your brother did. He died to avoid repeating the same mistakes you are about to make. He buried it and now you are digging it up. You are looking for power that is not there - it is an illusion. Fate is uncontrollable. Let it go before it controls you."

"You really are a gift," Amber says to me. I cannot help but be touched so I quell every haunting wail that rattles her head. She turns her back, unabated by Veronica's so called advice and limps away. "I can feel it...feel you."

"No!" Veronica shouted as much as her failing voice allowed. It came out horse and paltry.

"Put it back in the earth! You do not understand. It is not what you think. You will destroy everything!"

Not hearing another word of Veronica's gurgling, blood choked pleas - it is just another voice I must quiet for her, Amber stares at me lovingly, at her little lump of a gift.

You will make me whole again and we will be together. We can do any...

Ambers scheming thoughts bullied the end of the gift's contemplation off and it listened with silent attention. This, the time before joining, is often the best part anyway.

"...whether it is cursed or not, wrong or foolish, such a gift as the ability to fold fate or hem destiny to fit my taste, has to be taken. Needs to be taken. Stupid not to take - as long as this works..."

Amber can't help smiling as she remembers the deal she whispered just as she bent to pick up the dull coal-like gift. Amber can't help repeating it aloud. It was just so fitting after what George, who had to die to make this work, had said to the gravestone.

"You are the lantern and I am the light," she said, turning her thoughts out aloud, reiterating the flip of the phrase that she had pledged to the gift and been pondering for some time. "I give myself to save the gift."

The moment she speaks those words again, a blue shine rolls along the dull shell of the gift. Watching the cobalt hint at the greed in her eyes, the gift titters with joy of having another host to consume, yet completely misses her furtive cunning. But not for long.

Amber can't help but wonder. Can the gift fear its own end? Does it realize, for she can sense its cognizance, that she gave her life to save it? That therefore it and only it is now in destiny's crosshairs, since it is the only thing left she cares for.

She is the soul collector now, the aim of fate's torture - the gifts torture - except that the gift is now the first and only target of such torments. It must target itself. And, she feels - almost knows - that the gift couldn't bring itself to kill itself. So it must come begging to her, its savior and enslaver, for reprieve. And come it will.

And the price it will pay, as it folds fate for its continuing survival, will be the servitude of twisting destiny to fit her fashion alone.

And even more amazingly, she just realizes that in doing so the gift would be put into a perfect and almost paradoxical loop, sinking the gift further and further in her debt.

Table of Contents

Epilogue