Repossessed (3 page)

A
fter I finished the shower, I filled up the tub and took a bath. I filled it as high as it would go. I liked this water; I liked the feeling of it. It was warm and floaty. I slapped the surface to make little waves that disappeared quickly, and then I slid Shaun's whole body back and forth to make big waves that slopped over the side of the tub. When the water got cold, I filled the tub again, with even hotter water that turned Shawn's skin red. I watched his fingers and toes prune up.

I lay back so that his ears were under the surface, and I listened to his skin squeak as I rubbed his legs and bottom along the porcelain. Then I knocked on the side of the tub and listened to the echoing clank.

Cool.

When I sat up, water draining out of Shaun's ears, I heard a woman's voice. “He's been in there
how
long?”

Shaun's mom.

I listened, rivulets running down Shaun's back and chest.

“Two and a half hours.” That was Jason. “Every time I knock, he just says he's taking a bath.”

Well, I
was
taking a bath.

Footsteps.

Knock knock knock
.

“Shaun, baby?” His mom sounded worried. “You all right?”

“Just fine,” I called out. But now I was thinking that maybe I
had
been in a bit long, for a human. For Shaun. The water was cold again, anyway; his arms were goose-pimply. “I'm getting out now,” I called to Shaun's mother.

I let the water out of the tub while I dried off; then I wrapped a towel around Shaun's waist. The air was a lot colder than the water had been; it was uncomfortable. Still, being curious, I opened the medicine cabinet and poked around in it a bit, reading all the labels on the bottles and boxes. AQuify. Target brand ibuprofen. Benadryl.

Hmm. Maybe Shaun would get sick so I could experience a runny nose, sneezing, and itchy, watery eyes, and
then feel them being relieved by the medication. I especially wanted to try a sneeze. I'd never quite understood what one was. It seemed like it would be painful—the forceful and sudden expulsion of air through one's nose—but generally, no one seemed to be hurt by it.

I shut the cabinet door, then slid open a drawer and looked inside.

“Shaun?” His mom's voice again. This time it sounded as if she was right up against the door. “I'm beginning to get a little worried. Do I need to come in there?”

“No, I'll be out in a sec,” I told her calmly, popping the lid off Shaun's stick deodorant. I rolled the little wheel to make more deodorant come out. Then I rolled it back. Rolled it out again. Interesting.

I remembered the stench of Shaun's T-shirt, and rubbed some under his arms. It didn't feel like much of anything. I sniffed the stick. Right Guard Xtreme Power Stripe; it smelled good.

When I finally opened the bathroom door, Shaun's mom was discreetly sitting in the living room, in the only chair that allowed a clear sight line to the bathroom door. She doesn't normally sit there. She doesn't normally sit at all when she comes home from work; usually she changes clothes and starts a load of laundry.

I felt a short surge of affection for her. She was trying hard not to be a pushy parent.

She looked up when I came out, and her eyes widened. Then she turned away quickly.

Shaun never steps out of the bathroom unless he's fully dressed. But I'd forgotten to take clean clothes in with me, and so I was wearing only a small, damp towel.

This time when I went into Shaun's room, I remembered to shut the door behind me. I dropped the towel on the floor and looked toward some of Shaun's clean clothes that he'd left draped over the electric guitar he never plays. But now that I had gotten somewhat used to the feel of cloth against Shaun's skin, I was dissatisfied with the way his clothes looked. Raggedy. Limp. Faded. Full of holes. I knew Shaun fought every time his mom tried to take him shopping, but I'd never thought about what that meant.

His mom did take him shopping, every year before school started. Against his will, she always bought him clothes that he never wore. This year's were still hanging in the closet, with the price tags on.

Those
were what I wanted to wear. If they still fit. Shaun being a growing boy and all.

I found a shirt in the closet and pulled it on. Then pants. Shaun's ratty old clothes had felt better against my skin, soft and worn. But these unworn clothes had a bright crispness about them that pleased me a great deal.

I looked at myself in Shaun's mirror. His hair needed
a trim, I thought, to reveal more of his face, but otherwise I had him looking pretty snappy.

I turned and looked at myself from various angles, and felt even more pleased. Was this Pride? Or Vanity?

Whatever it was, it felt
good
.

I watched myself in Shaun's mirror as I tucked his shirt in, then inserted a belt through the loops at his waist and buckled it.

That didn't look right to me. The shirt was a lovely blue, conversely brighter
and
darker than the sky. But almost half of it was now hidden under the pants. And the belt seemed like a torture device intended to bind the shirt tightly in its pants prison, offering no chance of escape.

I took off the belt and untucked.
Go free, little shirt!

Shaun's shoes were smelly and mildewed, and I didn't want them on his nicely cleaned feet, so I dug around in the closet and found some shoes that he wore to a wedding a few months ago.

“Shaun, old boy,” I whispered to the mirror as I combed his hair, “I wish you could see yourself.”

When I came out of the room, Shaun's mother's mouth dropped open.

“Are you going somewhere?” was all she asked.

“I don't think so,” I told her. “I wasn't planning to.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “You look nice,” she
added tentatively, after a moment.

“Thank you,” I said.

I sat on the couch and watched Jason play a video game. I was not interested in playing any myself, but now, looking through Shaun's eyes, I could see that Jason was actually very good. He shot his way through many aliens, then collected a health pickup that erased what minimal damage he'd sustained.

At first he kept looking at me over his shoulder, as if I were about to attack him from behind. But then he forgot about me and just played.

Dinner was fairly silent. Both Jason and Shaun's mom kept darting looks at me. Shaun's mom had made hot dogs, and they were delicious. I had one with mustard, one with cheese and ketchup, one with relish and mustard and ketchup and cheese. I decided I liked the ketchup best, and ate a bun with just that on it. Was this Gluttony? I hoped so. I certainly was enjoying it.

I saw Shaun's mom open her mouth a few times to say something, but each time nothing came out and she closed her mouth again.

Finally she managed to speak. “Shaun,” she said, “are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“Yes,” I told her, “I'm fine.” At the same moment, I realized that I had forgotten to put on any underwear. No matter. I took another bun, opened it, and put ketchup on it.

“He's psycho,” Jason told her. “He was French-kissing his shirt earlier.”

I started to object that I had not “French-kissed” anything. But then I remembered how I'd felt the T-shirt with various parts of my tongue after I shut the door in Jason's face, and so I remained silent while I ate my bun.

“Jason, you are not being helpful,” his mom said. “Shaun…did something happen today? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Well, Shaun died, but other than that…

“Nope,” I told Shaun's mom. “It's just been a normal, regular day.”

“Okay.” She looked puzzled, watching me stuff the last of the ketchupy bun into my mouth. “Anyway, I'm glad you're finally wearing the clothes I bought you.” Something flickered across her face, and suddenly she seemed to relax. She didn't say anything. But I saw her smile secretly to herself.

“Have you boys done your homework yet?” she asked, getting up to clear the table.

“No,” said Jason.

“No,” I said.

“Will you please get it done before you go to bed?”

Jason sighed. I thought about it for a moment. Shaun did bring his backpack home, and in it was a biology worksheet that was due tomorrow. Of course, he'd left all
his books at the bottom of his locker.

It didn't matter. I knew all the answers. And I thought it would be fun to read questions and let the answers form themselves into actual words inside Shaun's head. And to write, on a piece of paper, with a pencil—to experience for myself the delicacy of finger movements required to make marks that communicated one's thoughts to anyone who saw them. Sounded like fun to me!

“I'll do it right now,” I told Shaun's mom.

It
was
fun. I sharpened the pencil in Shaun's electric sharpener—buzz, buzz, and it's done!—and laid my cheek on the paper to watch the thready trail of graphite left behind as I formed the letters. Then I erased some to watch the graphite roll away in little pink particles. Then I switched to ballpoint pen. That wasn't as much fun, so I went to get a gel pen and swooped along the lines in cursive rather than in printing. Finally I put Shaun's name at the top in block letters and drew shadows hanging from them so they looked 3-D. Cool.

I put the finished homework in Shaun's backpack. Then I cleared the clothes off Shaun's weight bench to try lifting weights. I folded the clothes and put them in a drawer, because I didn't like having to kick everything aside just to walk.

After a few go-rounds with the weight bench, I still couldn't see why Shaun had quit. I liked the way it made
his arms feel stretchy. He'd started with heavier weights than I did; maybe that was it. I remembered that he had seemed bored, and couldn't make himself stick with it. But it was only a few minutes a day. I didn't get it. I've always
known
why humans do certain things, but I've never really
understood
a lot of it.

I put the weights down and started picking up Shaun's dirty clothes. I wanted them out of the room. I didn't care for the way they smelled. I liked the clothes that smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

I headed to the laundry room, carrying the pile of clothes. When I passed through the living room, Jason was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, books and papers scattered all over it. He was hunched over his work, and something about him looked different. I paused to observe him for a moment to figure it out.

He sighed loudly, flipped through a few pages, wrote a few words. Then he sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair.

That was it. He had been absentmindedly using his fingers as a rake, so that now his hair stuck straight up in odd tufts and spikes on his head. Before, it had been lying down, following the shape of his skull.

As I watched, his pencil stopped moving and he turned his head to look at me. I noticed that in this light, at this distance, I could not see the lovely color of his irises.

I turned away with Shaun's dirty clothes, and continued to the laundry room.

As I dumped Shaun's clothes into the basket, I heard Jason's voice coming faintly from down the hall. “Mom,” he said, “is something wrong with Shaun?”

“Shh. He'll hear you.” Her voice was low. “He's just growing up.”

“But did you see what he was
wearing
?”

“It's normal for a teenage boy to take a sudden interest in his appearance. And did you hear him lifting weights?”

“So?”

I heard her sigh. “It's a
girl
, Jason. Shaun is interested in a girl.”

“Who?”

“I don't know,” Shaun's mom said quietly, “but I have a good guess.”

I walked back through the room and they both got quiet suddenly. Jason bent over his homework again. Shaun's mom, however looked up and gave me a pleasant smile.

I stopped and smiled back at her. Then I went on to Shaun's room.

Lady,
I thought as I shut the door behind me,
it's a mercy that you don't have a clue
.

K
yrie eleison
. It's Greek, meaning “Lord have mercy.” I've always liked the term, because one of the many names I have been called is Kiriel. It's my favorite, from a language no longer in use, no longer remembered, and its meaning is “mirror of souls.”

My function has always been to echo souls' regrets back at them, thus letting them feel the full burden of their shame, guilt, and sorrow. These emotions, in order to be fully experienced, also require the sufferer to know that the sins which caused them are no longer secret, but have been witnessed.

By acting as echo, I become that witness.

Now, in Shaun's body, I didn't have to be a mirror anymore. I got to cast my
own
reflection. To be cause
instead of effect.

And for the first time, I was faced with
sleep
.

I know a little about dreams, but only secondhand, and sleep itself has always been a complete mystery. The soul doesn't leave the body, but it doesn't need sleep the way a body does. And what happens to the soul during sleep, I haven't been able to tell.

I said good-night to Shaun's mother and brother, and from their rooms I heard the soft tread of feet on the floor, the clicking of light switches, the squeaking of bedsprings.

I did not turn out the lights in Shaun's room. I stayed up, looking through his drawers, through his closet, wanting to see and touch and smell and taste all I could.

I knew my time here was limited. I was surprised I'd been allowed to linger so long already. I was out of my sphere, out of my designated place in the scheme of the universe. What I was doing wasn't allowed.

I'd be forced to go back, and sooner rather than later. What more natural time to be kicked out of this existence than when Shaun's body was asleep and I was unaware?

Down the hall, I heard Jason cough.

From Shaun's mom's room, only silence.

I wasn't ready to lose my grip on this earthly plane. I wouldn't sleep till I had to.

I found a box containing Shaun's old rock collection
and pulled each rock out, examining it. I couldn't detect any smell, and the few I popped into Shaun's mouth and rolled around on his tongue had no taste at all. But each one was quite different from the others in color, texture, and weight.

As I looked and felt, Shaun's eyelids grew heavy. His body needed to shut down, to recharge.

I forced the eyelids open wide. I put the box back in Shaun's closet and sat on his bed, looking at some of his magazines. He didn't have many. An old
Sports Illustrated
with flawless women in scanty clothing, cavorting on beaches. A catalogue of sporting equipment and clothes.

My mind grew fuzzier and fuzzier, as if melting from the edges in. This was sleepiness, no question—a dullness that begged the mind to go blank.

I found myself staring at the catalogue, not seeing the page.

It occurred to me: maybe I
wouldn't
go back to my function when Shaun's body slept.

Maybe I wouldn't be allowed to.

When sleep overtook this body, would I
die
, as Shaun had? I'd done that which shouldn't be done. Would I now end up in my own domain, this time undergoing the same interminable torments I'd always supervised?

Or would I disappear completely, a flame in an environment without air?

Was this human fear I felt—this dread, this reluctance to sleep even when Shaun's body was crying out to do so?

After the Rebellion, when divine judgment loomed, I was afraid. I didn't know what lay ahead. I just knew that there was no escape.

This fear was nothing, compared to that. This fear was a delicious knot taking shape inside. Yes, I was afraid of what might happen to me. But the fear was delicious because it was my
own
emotion, inside
my
mind, created by
my
actions. For me and from me.

I already lived in Hell. Anything worse than that would only be a matter of degree.

Besides, whatever happened next, I deserved it. I never felt I particularly deserved to be punished for the Rebellion. That was undertaken—for my part—with hope and expectation and a sense of justice. I wanted to do more than appreciate, exalt, and honor; I wanted to take an active hand in the creation of the cosmos, to have an influence that was all my own.

The Rebellion wasn't a physical act, because we are not physical creatures. It was a spiritual uprising, an unauthorized outpouring of zeal. Picture a huge tree, rising for yards before spreading into a magnificent canopy, with a complex network of roots that spread unseen under your feet; the whole thing replete with green shade in the summer and lacelike boughs in the winter, perfect in its
complexity, changing and yet unchanging, and wondrous to watch over time.

And then, suddenly, a lone twiggy stick appears on its trunk, growing a few feet above the ground. That's what the Rebellion was. It wasn't pretty; it didn't fit in. It turned out to be a tiny, twisted, pathetic imitation of the Creator's will; it turned out to be based in mistaken audacity and pride, and the shame of it has kept all of us diligently at our wretched and paltry tasks ever since.

But at the time, it was done with goodwill.

On the other hand, I had stolen Shaun's body with a clear sense of it being wrong. I had deserted my assigned duties. Abandoned ship, so to speak.

This time, I didn't just deserve punishment. I
owned
it. I
reveled
in it. The consequences were
mine. Take that, Creator!

With that thought, I felt I was ready to attempt sleep. Shaun's body had wanted to for some time, desperately so.

I turned out the light and made my way to Shaun's bed in the dark, shuffling carefully, hands feeling in the dark. There—a mattress, just knee-high.

I lay down on Shaun's bed and pulled the covers up. I had always pictured going to sleep as a slow fall, like being dropped bit by bit into a bottomless hole. Would it really be like that?

Now I would find out. I allowed Shaun's eyes to close,
and while I waited, I had the most delicious thought of all: perhaps I might have finally managed to elicit the attention of the Creator Himself, even if that attention was composed of wrath. Perhaps these deliberate acts of mine would prompt Him to notice me personally.

Terror and oblivion would be worth that!