Sort of Dead

Outside the carriage, it’s dark as a blind man's sight and silent as a dumb man's speech. I know I sound like I’ve been drugged, but it is what it is.

I can see nothing. And I mean absolutely nothing. I couldn’t see my own hand if I waved it in front of my eyes.

Rasthrum. He must know what’s going on. So I step back to climb into the carriage . . . only there is no carriage. Only darkness, dark as pitch.

I grope with my hands, hoping to touch something, but my efforts are in vain.

ES! I yell, then discover that my voice has failed me. I test again, by screaming her name. ES!

Still nothing. Either I have expired my vocal cords, or my ears have gone deaf, or this . . . this is sorcery.

Everything is black. Have I gone invisible? Have I become a spirit?

ES! I cry – literally cry – but again it is a fruitless exercise.

I weep. I cannot feel my tears.

Then I hear something. A rustle.

ES! IS THAT YOU? THIS ISN'T FUNNY, YOU KNOW!

Speaking is of no consequence, but as they say (I have no idea who ‘they are), old habits die hard.

I wheel my immaterial body around. My balance tips and I fall.

But I do not fall to the ground.

I just fall, and keep falling, darkness – no, blackness – all around me.

Then the rustle. I hear it again. I think I hear it again.

I try to wail. I fail.

(No, I am not trying my hand at poetry here. I am far too scared for that.)

I think of my mother in her last days, how she had been. Bald. Her blood impure. The tumor reaching her brain, squishing it into nothingness . . .

I think of my father, and I think of how I drove my temporary fangs into the stretch of his artery. It aches my chest. The ache is dull, but the ache is bad. I think then of Dad's smile, and that gives the ache more strength, and it intensifies.

I weep. I cannot feel my tears. I try to wail. I fail.

I think of –

(sleep, child . . . )

The rustle. It’s saying something to me.

(you are born of me, you will die of me. birth’d of curse, death of ash, bone of flame, blood profane . . .)

WHO ARE YOU? I shout. Get no response, of course.

(gossamer realm, leaf of elm . . . )

WHO IS SPEAKING?! WHERE IS ES?!

Silence.

Another rustle. Then a voice, a note above the rustle, different from the one than before. Malicious.

(doom empiric, spirit, spirit . . . )

I close my eyes. Not that it makes much difference. None, in fact.

I think of what Bee would do if she were in my place. Something strikes, and I hope against hope my plan will work.

I hold my breath, wishing at least I can do that. Turns out, yes, I can. I hold it. I hold it until I am spinning amongst the stars. I hold it until my non-existent cheeks are red as radishes, until I feel the soul slipping out of me like grains of sand from a grasping clench . . .