Hold the Light (30 page)

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?"