The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
-Edgar Allan Poe
Smoke and ashes?
They were thick in the air, curling around burning trees and rolling down over the jagged outcropping of rocks like something out of one of those crappy disaster movies Fist and Alex used to like watching when they?d camp out on the couch of my old house in New Haven. Familiar (and not so familiar) forms kept disappearing in and out of the gray murk as it shifted and moved on a strong wind. It clung to me unnaturally, like one of those handsy hookers at that brothel Mesteno used to hang out at when he thought I was long past due for getting laid, trying to choke me on deathlike kisses and?
The smoke. It was why I couldn?t smell the blood.
But I tasted it. It was a coppery froth on my tongue and lips, flying from me in little red specks when I wheezed a cough. It was a sudden, hazy reminder of how hard it was to breathe, one lung feeling like lead in my chest while I stood half doubled over. There was a dull, thumping throb in the middle of my ribs and when I looked down at my chest? more frothy wet blood, spilling free and staining my shirt (AC/DC? Back in Black? DAMNIT!). There were holes in me, gaping ones, and with the pain oddly fading, I was dimly aware of the soft hissing sound coming from them.
...So this is what sucking chest wound feels like?
I heard someone shout my name. Then someone else. Eden. Then Mesteno. I recognized the voices, instinct, but when I tried to understand the words, all I could think was ?Why do they sound like the adults from the Peanuts cartoons??. Mesteno snarled at something (it reminded me of the night we first met, chasing that nutjob down in the sewers) and then I lost the sound amidst the power chord riff of new roars battling echoed sentiment of people I knew. I almost laughed when the first thing to break through the growing fog of my mind was to compare it to a Cliche Rhy?din Dueling Banjos. But I didn?t laugh. Instead, I coughed up more foamy blood, the motion jerking my head up.
And that?s when I remembered the man standing in front of me.
He was smiling; the long silver talons tipping his large fingers still glimmering wet with my blood. A mountain of a man, he was tall and broad and his eyes were afire with the anxious, anticipatory confidence of someone who had gone past eight seconds during NFR in Vegas (that?s a bull riding reference for those watching at home), and was just waiting for them to hand him the trophy. I wheezed out a rumbling snarl and he laughed, a deep baritone thing of grim mirth that shook his shoulders, ending it with a **** eating grin that was too white against the coarse black stubble of a neatly maintained five o? clock shadow. And all I could think when he did was ?Man, eff this guy, I used to rock that look. And better?.
Because how easy is it to know when you?re going into shock.
I barely felt it when he plunged his hand into my body again and wondered, idly, why I didn?t stop him. Hadn?t I just been winning this fight a few minutes ago? Or was it hours? Time is more wishy-washy than a southern investment banker. Something else in me ruptured? or I think it did and? Man, those were my best boots! I grit my teeth and bellowed something incoherent at him (really, I just moaned and coughed more nasty bits), but when I took a lurching overhand swipe at him everything went fuzzy.
When did I end up on my knees?
A dozen paces away someone went down in a tangle of fur, dark chitin, and limbs; it could have been Jess but? wait, was Jessica here? I don?t remember seeing her. Lisa and Lola have dark hair? Maybe? I dunno. Eff me for a sorry, forgetful S.O.B. They were there, the faces, familiar but blurred until I couldn?t tell (or remember) who had shown up for this barn burner. I?ll take solace in the fact that having so many women for friends prevented this from being a sausage fes--
He was looming over me.
I don?t remember losing my hat, but he had it in his hand, dropping a satisfied stare at me as he settled it atop his head. The played out furnace of my anger flickered to life for a half a fading heartbeat, a testament to my withering pride and diminishing indignation. Never jack another guy?s status symbol. That?s just asking for an ass whooping. Well, when you?re not bleeding out at someone else?s mercy, I guess. He said something to me then, but this isn?t the movies. No monologue. No witty gloating. All I could really here is more Charles Schulz-esque ?Wah. Wah-wah-wah-wah. Wah-wah?. I?m sure it was clever. I was tired. Too tired to be afraid. For me, anyway.
There were plenty of people out there in the smoke and the fire to fear for. Some who had shown up for me. Some for what needed doing. Nobility or the feels. Did it matter?
But I just wanted to lay down for a minute. Get my second wind or whatever. They never ask for Time Outs in the movies. Maybe it would be just funny enough of an idea to work?
Someone?s scream pierced my wandering thoughts. It was feminine but unrecognizable. Someone needed me. But then I couldn?t see. It had gotten awful dark on me all of a sudden but, hey, my body stopped hurting. Everything stopped hurting. Hurray for me!
And then I thought about her. Claire. My wife. ****, how did I get so lucky? I had her. My precious Belle, whom I?ve become so awkwardly fond of. The twins and my precious little boy on the way. I broke all of the rules for this. Everything I never thought I?d get to have. I?m a dad and it?s gonna be so gr--
?It?s time to go,? a familiar voice said close to my ear. So familiar, like, I expected him to just be standing there beside me, casually smoking a cigarette like he?d just stepped out of some silly 1950?s noir film about the 20?s or 30?s. I had heard that voice a thousand times or more in the last decade and a half. At the tavern. Sunday football. Holidays. But it was different this time. It was commanding and, yet, it was also full of regret. He didn?t want this any more than I did. ?It?s time. You have an appointment to keep.?
Nononononono. Not now. They need me. I need them so bad. Man, don?t do this to me...
It got really bleak there in the end. And black. I wanted to argue. But as the last of the world fell away and the cold touch of oblivion tried to grab me by the ankles and make me hold its outturned pocket (watch some TV shows about prison, then you?ll get it), all I could think was?
...man, my inner monologue is way less twangy than I am out loud?
It shouldn?t have to end like this.
-Edgar Allan Poe
Smoke and ashes?
They were thick in the air, curling around burning trees and rolling down over the jagged outcropping of rocks like something out of one of those crappy disaster movies Fist and Alex used to like watching when they?d camp out on the couch of my old house in New Haven. Familiar (and not so familiar) forms kept disappearing in and out of the gray murk as it shifted and moved on a strong wind. It clung to me unnaturally, like one of those handsy hookers at that brothel Mesteno used to hang out at when he thought I was long past due for getting laid, trying to choke me on deathlike kisses and?
The smoke. It was why I couldn?t smell the blood.
But I tasted it. It was a coppery froth on my tongue and lips, flying from me in little red specks when I wheezed a cough. It was a sudden, hazy reminder of how hard it was to breathe, one lung feeling like lead in my chest while I stood half doubled over. There was a dull, thumping throb in the middle of my ribs and when I looked down at my chest? more frothy wet blood, spilling free and staining my shirt (AC/DC? Back in Black? DAMNIT!). There were holes in me, gaping ones, and with the pain oddly fading, I was dimly aware of the soft hissing sound coming from them.
...So this is what sucking chest wound feels like?
I heard someone shout my name. Then someone else. Eden. Then Mesteno. I recognized the voices, instinct, but when I tried to understand the words, all I could think was ?Why do they sound like the adults from the Peanuts cartoons??. Mesteno snarled at something (it reminded me of the night we first met, chasing that nutjob down in the sewers) and then I lost the sound amidst the power chord riff of new roars battling echoed sentiment of people I knew. I almost laughed when the first thing to break through the growing fog of my mind was to compare it to a Cliche Rhy?din Dueling Banjos. But I didn?t laugh. Instead, I coughed up more foamy blood, the motion jerking my head up.
And that?s when I remembered the man standing in front of me.
He was smiling; the long silver talons tipping his large fingers still glimmering wet with my blood. A mountain of a man, he was tall and broad and his eyes were afire with the anxious, anticipatory confidence of someone who had gone past eight seconds during NFR in Vegas (that?s a bull riding reference for those watching at home), and was just waiting for them to hand him the trophy. I wheezed out a rumbling snarl and he laughed, a deep baritone thing of grim mirth that shook his shoulders, ending it with a **** eating grin that was too white against the coarse black stubble of a neatly maintained five o? clock shadow. And all I could think when he did was ?Man, eff this guy, I used to rock that look. And better?.
Because how easy is it to know when you?re going into shock.
I barely felt it when he plunged his hand into my body again and wondered, idly, why I didn?t stop him. Hadn?t I just been winning this fight a few minutes ago? Or was it hours? Time is more wishy-washy than a southern investment banker. Something else in me ruptured? or I think it did and? Man, those were my best boots! I grit my teeth and bellowed something incoherent at him (really, I just moaned and coughed more nasty bits), but when I took a lurching overhand swipe at him everything went fuzzy.
When did I end up on my knees?
A dozen paces away someone went down in a tangle of fur, dark chitin, and limbs; it could have been Jess but? wait, was Jessica here? I don?t remember seeing her. Lisa and Lola have dark hair? Maybe? I dunno. Eff me for a sorry, forgetful S.O.B. They were there, the faces, familiar but blurred until I couldn?t tell (or remember) who had shown up for this barn burner. I?ll take solace in the fact that having so many women for friends prevented this from being a sausage fes--
He was looming over me.
I don?t remember losing my hat, but he had it in his hand, dropping a satisfied stare at me as he settled it atop his head. The played out furnace of my anger flickered to life for a half a fading heartbeat, a testament to my withering pride and diminishing indignation. Never jack another guy?s status symbol. That?s just asking for an ass whooping. Well, when you?re not bleeding out at someone else?s mercy, I guess. He said something to me then, but this isn?t the movies. No monologue. No witty gloating. All I could really here is more Charles Schulz-esque ?Wah. Wah-wah-wah-wah. Wah-wah?. I?m sure it was clever. I was tired. Too tired to be afraid. For me, anyway.
There were plenty of people out there in the smoke and the fire to fear for. Some who had shown up for me. Some for what needed doing. Nobility or the feels. Did it matter?
But I just wanted to lay down for a minute. Get my second wind or whatever. They never ask for Time Outs in the movies. Maybe it would be just funny enough of an idea to work?
Someone?s scream pierced my wandering thoughts. It was feminine but unrecognizable. Someone needed me. But then I couldn?t see. It had gotten awful dark on me all of a sudden but, hey, my body stopped hurting. Everything stopped hurting. Hurray for me!
And then I thought about her. Claire. My wife. ****, how did I get so lucky? I had her. My precious Belle, whom I?ve become so awkwardly fond of. The twins and my precious little boy on the way. I broke all of the rules for this. Everything I never thought I?d get to have. I?m a dad and it?s gonna be so gr--
?It?s time to go,? a familiar voice said close to my ear. So familiar, like, I expected him to just be standing there beside me, casually smoking a cigarette like he?d just stepped out of some silly 1950?s noir film about the 20?s or 30?s. I had heard that voice a thousand times or more in the last decade and a half. At the tavern. Sunday football. Holidays. But it was different this time. It was commanding and, yet, it was also full of regret. He didn?t want this any more than I did. ?It?s time. You have an appointment to keep.?
Nononononono. Not now. They need me. I need them so bad. Man, don?t do this to me...
It got really bleak there in the end. And black. I wanted to argue. But as the last of the world fell away and the cold touch of oblivion tried to grab me by the ankles and make me hold its outturned pocket (watch some TV shows about prison, then you?ll get it), all I could think was?
...man, my inner monologue is way less twangy than I am out loud?
It shouldn?t have to end like this.