Forsaken Repose: The Restless Dead (6 page)

Susan nodded and replied, “I know. In this case, I really
thought things would work out. I saw his wife at the bar all those
nights. I saw her with those other men. I figured Andy would be ready
to move on once he met someone as special as you.”

“He isn't ready!” Rose exclaimed, pointing a finger at
me. Rose swung her arm so that her pointed finger was leveled at
Susan. “You and him used to be together. You knew how he was.
You only -”

“I only...what?” Susan interrupted. “You think I
wanted this to happen?”

“Didn't you?” Rose shot back.

“Hey!” Susan snapped. “You're the one who got
all worked up about your boyfriend. You're the one who had a few
glasses of wine and decided to catch his cheating ass in the act.
You're the one who, after actually catching him, decided to race off
and ran into that tree.”

Softly, Rose replied, “I was mad. I didn't really -”

“I know,” Susan said gently, pulling Rose into her
arms. “You're still my little sister, and I still want you to
be happy. When you came back and told me you didn't want to be alone,
that you wanted a man worthy of you, I did what I could.” Susan
shrugged a little. “Sure, Andy might have been a little cruel
to me. I had to leave school to help mom and dad after you died and,
by the time I returned, he'd started to mess around with Claire, but
I thought he'd grown some over the years.”

Her cheek resting on Susan's shoulder, Rose asked, “Really?”

“Of course,” Susan said, chuckling a little. “What
did you think? That I've been setting you up with my exes with the
expectation that things will go wrong?”

“No,” Rose answered quickly. “I never thought
that.”

“Good.” Susan took a step back, smiled and cradled
Rose's face in her hands. “Nothing is going to come between us,
okay? Nothing ever has. Remember when my boyfriend dumped me for you
and you
still
decided to date him? I didn't get mad, did I?”

“No,” Rose sniffled.

“Remember when I visited home for the weekend about a month
later and bought that bottle of wine for you, even though you were
only nineteen and had to hide it in your bedroom closet so mom and
dad wouldn't find it?”

“Yeah,” Rose said, laughing a little.

“Remember how, the following weekend, I stayed up half the
night talking on the phone with you about what a bastard your
boyfriend – my ex-boyfriend – really was, while you drank
that bottle of wine and recited all that bad poetry you'd written?”

Rose nods, sniffles and slides a hand underneath her nose.

“Remember how you said you wanted to sneak out of the house,
drive over to his place and catch him cheating? Remember how I
supported your decision?”

“I remember,” Rose said.

“See?” Susan asked. “While it's a shame the way
things worked out, haven't I always been there for you? I mean, I was
certainly shocked to see you back from the dead, but once I accepted
it, haven't I always had your back?”

Rose fell into Susan's arms and, her face buried in Susan's chest,
she said, “You've always taken care of me.”

“That's right,” Susan agreed, looking over at me. “You
betrayed me, but I took care of you. In fact, I intend to take care
of everyone who's ever betrayed me.” Grinning darkly, Susan
added, “That's just the sort of person I am.”

Rose released Susan and took a step back. Susan slid past her and
lifted the off-red wine glass from the kitchen counter and dumped its
remaining contents into the sink. Susan reached out and took Rose's
hand into her own and the pair walked out my back door. Susan tossed
a glance over her shoulder at me. She wore a bright, cheerful smile
on her face...just like the one she wore when she and I broke up in
college. She closed my back door behind her and my head fell to the
side as the cold and darkness enveloped me.

You never know which direction your life will take. You never know
just what sorts of desires you have buried within you. You never know
where your choices will lead. And, if I can say one thing with
absolute certainty, it's that you never really know a person...not
until she kills you.

The Status Quo

You know what will happen when you go there.

Your journey started when you simply could no longer endure the
monotony of your existence. You clutched in your hands a shotgun you
bought from a pawn shop and stood, holding the barrel underneath your
chin and ready to squeeze the trigger, unleashing hot, loud, sweet
relief from the drudgery of your pedestrian life.

Now, you know you'll walk away from that area, back to your car
and drive away, returning to your new life. You'll be stronger when
you leave, but that's always the way of things. You'll become more
confident and capable. You'll still have the same job you've always
had, but you'll approach it from a new perspective. You'll understand
that there are more things for you to do, and that those things are
exponentially more important than your selfish desire to put an end
to your staid journey.

You'll wheel your car along the busy highway and then the quiet
back roads, not quite sure about your destination, but knowing
exactly where you'll wind up. It's the same place every time, and you
know it. You've known it all along. You'll go along with the whole
thing, not in anticipation of something different, but in expectation
of the same.

You'll stop your car a good distance from the place you wish to
visit, since you never want to be too closely associated with
business that unsavory. You'll make your way down the street, up the
driveway and around to the back of the house, the siren's song of
your target's despair drawing you like a moth to a flame. You'll
slide open the patio door and enter the house, then walk through the
living room, across the dining room and into the garage. He'll be in
there, just as you know he will be. He will look up at you, the
shotgun held under his chin, and you'll smile and nod, just as you
always do. He'll return your smile, seeming to appreciate that you've
come to see him off, and then he'll pull the trigger. The explosion
of crimson ichor, gray matter and bone fragments sent flying out the
back of his skull as the blast punches through his head will cause
you to reminisce a bit. That scene will have played out all too
often, but never enough for you.

You'll leave then, heading back to your normal life of home and
family. Your spouse still loves you and so do your kids. They don't
know who you are or what you've become, and maybe that is for the
best? You've never been sure how well they'll accept the new you,
have you?

You'll make the long drive home, lying to your spouse that you'd
gotten tied up in traffic. The funny thing about significant others
is that they're always willing to believe whatever is most
comfortable for them. You've never before had to struggle to see to
it that your deception was accepted, and you certainly won't have to
start now. You'll say it and your spouse will buy it; as easy as
that.

You'll go about your normal routine, eating dinner and playing
with the kids as if nothing had changed. You'll manage to maintain
the falsehood of your existence as easily as a chameleon maintains
its camouflage. You are a master of disguise, appearing as a regular
person, despite being anything but.

You'll continue to live as you always have. One of the strangest
things about your new self is your complete inability to reckon the
passage of time. If there isn't a clock or calender around, you're
completely clueless concerning the hour, day or, hell, even the
year
.
Even without a good sense of time, you know when duty calls –
and you're always ready to answer.

The cry of the desperate, seeking some form of reprieve from the
cumbersome shackles of their velvet-walled prison, will reach out to
you once again and summon you to their location. Dutifully you'll go,
consoling them for as long as they need before they end their labors
in the physical realm.

You've spent quite awhile wondering when it would all come
crashing down. You've wondered when everything would finally catch up
with you. Maybe it never will? Perhaps you'll be able to maintain
this masquerade forever? Is maintaining such a ruse for all eternity
even possible?

The call of one near the edge rings in your ears, so you'll have
to leave soon. You will, once again, make your way to whoever it is
that demands your services. After that, you'll have to find a way to
move the shotgun – the thing that grants your strength as well
as binds you to your current existence. Never before have you felt
such an attachment to so material a thing. The shotgun is less a
physical object than a talisman, anchoring you to your very being.
The emotions generated before the trigger is squeezed invigorate you
beyond the point that any words could describe. The day before you
walked into the warehouse, shotgun in hand, nothing could seem to
fill the black hole in your heart. Soon, however, you'll be filled to
overflowing with an energy that will once again satisfy your desires
and then some.

The catch here is that moving the shotgun is no easy feat. No
longer can you simply lift it and carry it to a new location. You'll
have to use your skills to compel someone to happen on the scene and
take the shotgun for their own purposes. You can influence them when
they draw near, hidden beyond where they can detect you. You need
only find the right person for the job. With any luck it will be
someone who will take the shotgun farther from your current location.
Too many have used the shotgun to end their own lives in this area,
and you've begun to suspect that the wrong sorts of people are taking
notice of the incredibly high suicide rate.

You don't have much time, that's for certain. You'll have to move
swiftly if you wish to make your engagement. You'll need the
soul-enriching nourishment that their act provides, so lateness is
not an option. You'll have to come up with some excuse and make your
way out. Of course, you've done this many times before, so it should
be a simple matter. Whatever you plan to do, you'll need to do it
quickly.

You'll make your excuses and be on your way, racing to your fate.
You'll do what you need to in order to keep things as they've been
for awhile. Whatever it takes to maintain the status quo. You're
balanced on the razor's edge of indescribable ecstasy and
unmentionable despair. Between those two extremes lies your target.
You will go to him, and you'll indulge your basest desires once more.
You'll be full then. You'll be whole. The alternating pain and
numbness will be gone.

When it's over you'll wonder (as you always do) if it will always
be this way. Will you always need to find a new owner for the
shotgun? Will you always need to be there to collect the delicious
energy from those people who finally succumb to whatever force it is
that compels the owner of the shotgun to end his or her drudgery?
Will things always be this way?

These are questions you won't be able to answer, so you won't even
try. You'll make your excuses, hop into your car and make the drive
to your target. You'll offer whatever encouragement the target needs
to end his banal existence, and you'll collect your reward. After
that, you'll find and compel someone new to move the shotgun, and the
cycle will continue. It's funny, in its own way, that the reason you
entered the warehouse was to put an end to the constant,
soul-crushing routine. You squeezed the trigger and fell backward
down that narrow chute in the floor. Your decomposing body lies there
still, while fragments of your consciousness remain in motion, using
nothing but the energy of the fallen and your own will to maintain a
physical form. Everyone who sees you still thinks that you're just as
you always were. They have no idea how you spend your nights wide
awake, staring at the ceiling or puttering through the house, the
need for sleep well beyond you. They have no clue that, while it's
entirely possible for you to consume food, you have no need for it.
You pass it – undigested, bite-sized morsels that you flush
down the toilet so no one is the wiser. There is only one source of
sustenance you now crave – and you can only gain it whenever
someone uses the shotgun.

You once wanted nothing more than to escape the routine. Now,
you're completely beholden to a
new
routine –
encouraging someone to end his life, followed by manipulating someone
into moving the shotgun, and then encouraging that person to end his
life and then finding someone new to move the shotgun, and then
encouraging...well, it never ends.

You often wonder what would happen if the shotgun were ever
destroyed. Would you perish along with it? You have the sinking
feeling you would. Maybe it would be a good idea to hide the shotgun
somehow? If you did that, would you still be able to gain the energy
you so desperately need? You'll give that idea quite a bit of
thought. You'll decide that you should try. You'll realize that the
chute into which your own body fell stretches a long way and the
bottom is large and mostly empty. You'll decide that, instead of
simply encouraging your target to end it all, you'll suggest a new
location for your target to go. You'll position your target near the
chute. You'll shove the target, sending him down along with the
shotgun. If everything works out as planned, you'll still be able to
receive the glorious energy you need, and you'll no longer feel
beholden to that shotgun. And why not? The shotgun routine has gotten
old, and everyone needs a break from the status quo, don't they?