Fall Awake -Sneak Peek

Warnings for – language, suicide attempt.

The Weekend.

ANNIE.

It’s still raining when I give Edgar a pat on the head and grab my keys from the kitchen counter. He returns my affection with a trill, and in true Edgar fashion, yawns and goes back to lounging. Rain is no longer crashing sideways on the apartment walls. Instead, droplets plink against my windows and fall at a rate steady enough to soak through my zip-up hoodie. The air is warmer than usual for April in Salem, Oregon, and it’s oppressive. The heaviness pushes me down, and hangs on my shoulders. I check my watch, 7:44pm, geez it got late fast.

 I start the Honda and buckle in, driving in silence on the way to the Sweet Field’s. No Itunes. No radio. Nothing but the sound of windshield wipers sloshing away, their squeaking reminding me that they need replaced. I chew on a thumbnail, staring straight ahead. My eyes follow yellow and white lines as the road winds through the trees. Above me, ominous gray clouds move across the sky, shrouding the last of the sun’s rays to the west.

I decide not to tell Margot what happened. Being completely honest might get me a three day grippy socks vacation. I’ll text her and tell her it was a rough weekend. She’s heard that before. She’ll tell me to write in my journal and reflect on it, like she always does. I groan internally. I don’t feel like I’ve made any progress at all the past two years.

The clock on the wall reads a quarter after eight when I go searching through the produce section for something to make a salad. The store is void of customers, and no employee wants to restock following the after work rush. Night shift will tonight, I’m sure, but my growling stomach and empty pantry tell me that I can’t wait until tomorrow to get groceries.

After living on cereal and ramen the past two years, I’ve decided to try eating healthier. A meager choice of lettuce and one lonely cucumber sit on the produce display. They both look decent enough, so I shove them in their respective bags. I wander around absentmindedly, up and down aisles, picking up item after item and staring blankly before placing each back on the shelf.

As I exam a Valencia orange, a low toneless voice speaks from behind me.

 “I wouldn’t buy that.”

It sends a shiver straight up my spine, like a snake’s cold scales slithering up my back. The voice seizes every nerve in my body – taking hold with a fierce grip. I jolt, which causes the orange to pop out of my hand. Before I realize, I’m scrambling like an idiot to catch it before the damn thing hits the floor and splatters.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE. WHAT – THE-FUCK-DUDE?!

Moments later, I pop up from the floor. With gritted teeth, a pounding heart, and shaky hands, I blow out a breath and peer around. A gentleman to my left is meticulously analyzing apples. It has to be him, he’s the only one here.

“Excuse me, sir?”

He looks up from his task only with his eyes. Green eyes  that appear through messy strands of raven colored hair. His eyes are dead. His expression is utterly impassive. With the tilt of his head he speaks. “Are you trying to kill yourself or something?” The right corner of his mouth turns up. “Unless you want to die.”

Everything in my chest seizes. My lungs stop moving. I’m trying to swallow my disbelief, but it’s caught in my throat, clawing at my esophagus. I can hear my heart thudding in my ears.  A moment ago it was beating erratically, but now the rhythm is slow and lethargic, like it just might stop pumping at any moment. I wonder if he can see the blood draining from my face.

“Too many pesticides.” He points to another bin of oranges beside the one I’d been digging though. “Get the organic.”

Oooh God, he’s just like… a hippie or something. I begin to breathe again.

Hands still shaking, I give a nervous chuckle setting down the killer orange. “Yeah, good call.” It dawns on me that my clothes and hair are wet from running into the store while it was pouring outside. The urge to comb my soaked, matted hair has me tangling my fingers through it. I’d made a big mistake, thinking I’d go unnoticed at the supermarket.

He nods nonchalantly, seemingly back on his mission, no longer paying attention to me. Slender fingers with black nails touch only the reddest, shiniest apples. “I’m making a pie. What kind of apples do you think are the best for that?” He studies each apple, contemplating.

He wears two rings. One, a shiny black band on his ring finger. Married. The other, a metal- what looks like tungsten band on his right index. I draw a blank. I know I’m being nosy as hell, but I don’t really care. There are words engraved into it, but my eyesight is too weak to read it at this distance. I squint trying to make out the words on the ring.

Two fingers snap inches from my face. The sound is slight, but it echoes in my ears  and brings me to attention. My heart is working overtime again. “Hello?” He says, waving his hand. “Stay with me here. This task is very important. This pie is for my landlady.”

“Huh?” His face comes back into focus. “Oh, sorry.” All the blood that had previously drained is returning to my cheeks with a vengeance.  “I-I don’t know. I heard Honey Crisp are good for baking. I think. And you should peel them.”

He’s not even looking at me, his eyes are on the apples again. Tightening his lips, he takes a long blink before he speaks through closed teeth. “Of course you should peel them.”

At this point, I am just staring, entranced as long fingers reach for apple after apple. Every time he picks one up, he studies it- every square inch like he’s a jeweler examining a diamond. Most of the fruit gets set gently back on the display. Every so often one is placed in a paper bag.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this.” He says.

“Buying fruit?”

“Picking up food and placing it back on the display.” He answers. “It’s bad manners. Actually sort of disgusting if you think about it. Like sticking your fingers in someone’s mouth.”

“Just wash it.” I respond.

“Doesn’t make it less weird.”

Further observation makes my head hurt. Mussed hair, in waves and loose curls. Purposeful or not? A black, long sleeve tee shirt pushed up to his elbows, forearm tattoos,  faded black, ripped jeans, and gray high top Converse. Nothing special, but like the apples – there’s a certain deliberateness to his style. He’s in a band. Or an artist. A tattoo artist. Or just expresses himself with dark aesthetics.  No one you need or want to get involved with so go home and  mind your own business. And yet…I can’t tear my eyes away.

“You’re sort of intense.” I murmur.

I look at my bag occupied with a few more groceries that I don’t remember choosing, but enough to get me through a few days or so. I dread going back to my apartment and being alone tonight, but I’m sort of always alone. Monday it’ll be full swing back at work. Life will once again be busy, yet unfulfilling.

“I’m just gonna go… check out.” I fade off before ending the sentence, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sweeny Todd, who is entirely back on task humming to himself.

Heading to the check-out, purchasing my goods, walking to my car, there’s no sign of the dark haired stranger in the parking lot. Nothing. He’s vanished.

With a sigh I slump down into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition key. The radio’s playing, blasting a song on a station I never listen to. Geez. Hurriedly, I turn it down. I wasn’t even listening to music on the way here. I give the dash a couple bumps with the bottom of a closed fist. “Work dammit.” I command before slouching back into the seat. Ah fuck, this thing is so old, it must be bugging out now.  The song though. It’s familiar. I’ve heard it before. Where did I hear it?

“Good choice.”

My head snaps toward the passenger seat.

“Going with the organic.”

Out of nowhere a shriek rips through the silence. It’s bloodcurdling. The sound is so shrill, it pierces my eardrums, bringing tears to my eyes. Everything around me is spinning. I’m paralyzed. Not a muscle in my body moves. I can’t breathe, like I’ve been hit so hard the wind was knocked out of me. Something is tearing at my throat, clawing and scratching relentlessly. It hurts so much, like the tissues are being ripped to shreds. And then I realize, that scream is coming from me.

LEVI.

The ledger is never wrong. Not once in all my years. Annie’s name is in that book. It is still there, written in jet black ink like every other name. Like the last 9,860 names of people I have accompanied during death. Most souls go to the other realm to rest for eternity, some must suffer their sins. I don’t get to go there though, at least not yet. My soul won’t rest in peace until my task is complete.

It is the third Friday of the month in April, 19:00 hours. I don’t know what year it is anymore. Twenty something. Nine thousand, eight hundred, sixty-one times. I’m hypersensitive to death- I can feel it – that is part of the curse. Her heart rate is slowing, and she has not taken a breath for over a minute. Another two minutes and she passes out and collapses face down onto the floor. Her plan worked, the belt is still tight. I can sense life begin to leave her body. Very soon I’ll take her soul and hand her over to the other side. This one was pretty easy…

Her fingers twitch. That’s fine, the nervous system takes a while to shut down. Nothing new here, I have seen it many times before.  She is definitely dead.

I wait another few minutes before searching for her soul in the darkness, sometimes people tend to hang on longer during untimely deaths and need some motivation. It is more of an annoyance for me than anything else. Too bad for her, she’s about to find out she will not be resting peacefully because she just got a laundry list of misery assigned to her.

There is nothing. Her soul is still lodged inside her body. It has been almost twenty minutes. Now I’m irritated.

“Just let go dammit.” I mumble, stepping forward. This time I physically reach out, grabbing her by the arm to roll her over. Her skin is clammy and cool under my touch. The belt she used slides off the doorknob, the buckle thudding dully on the carpet. “Why are you being so damn difficult?”

A mess of dark hair swirls around her face when I move her. I feel a sense of connection. There you are. I latch on to her soul – tugging at it.  To my dismay a muffled “huh?” leaves her lips. Her eyes begin to open.

I did not make a mistake, her name is in the book. But because this has never happened before,  I do things I’ve never done before.