Death Becomes You

My father stood in the doorway to our house. He was staring at the pendent in my hands. “Where did you get that?” He repeated. His deep voice seeped with confusion and something that smelled a lot like whiskey. Of course, he wouldn’t remember his mother passing down a family heirloom.

“Nana gave it to me three years ago for my birthday,” I retorted before blowing out the candles. I grabbed the book from the table. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” His eyes drooped while his words began to run together; his brow furrowed and he wiped his mouth. The scent of whiskey grew stronger and mixed with his sweat; the stench burned my eyes and nose.

“Dad…” before I could say anything else he ran to the bathroom. Gagging and coughing noises filled the air. I grabbed the ingredients for the summoning, my bag from the stairs, and went up to my room, pausing only for a moment at Chandler’s door. Before I realized what I was doing, my fingers caressed the dark wood, running along the carved indentations. A tear slipped from my eyes as I turned away from the door across from mine, the door that never opened anymore, the door that held the thing that hurt the most.

The book was set on my dresser along with the candles, incenses, and pendent. I sat my bag on the floor before I bothered to look around the room. There, by my window, stood the familiar trench coat held up by a stout man with broad shoulders and graying hair. Salt and pepper stubble graced his squared jaw. He wasn't unattractive, but I did not like the way he looked.

“Where did you get that book?” he asked softly. His brow crinkled as his lips set in a straight line, they did not move with his words which made my frustration stronger. My fists clenched as the memories of those stormy eyes standing over my brother’s unmoving body flooded my mind. His words ‘you cannot save this one’ found their way to my ears. Before I knew what I was doing, I lashed out at him. My fist connected with his jaw. It bounced off with no more damage to him than to a pillow, but my hand felt broken. Pain reverberated through my fingers and tendons.

“You!” I hissed.

“Lane!” He scolded, lips still settled in their line. “You called me here.” I looked at those familiar lightening filled eyes. The chill that accompanied him the first time he entered my room found its way in again.

“You took everything from me,” I cried. “My father is down stairs puking his guts out from the alcohol he consumed at his so-called job, I have to make sure the bills are paid now instead of living a normal life, and my best friend is gone!”

He took a step forward. I shook my head frantically. My hand hurt so much. The middle finger on the hand I hit him with began to throb and swell. He stood there with stoic features and outstretched arms, palms up, until my ragged breathing settled then he waited longer. I thought my ears would explode from the deafening silence that consumed my room.

“My actions were not meant to hurt you,” he spoke softly while taking a step toward me; his mouth finally forming around the words. “I do not take more than the list I am given. It is fate, Lane, and nothing more.” His brow smoothed along with the rest of his features while his foot rose to take another step. Thinking better of it he settled in his spot, trying to relax his stance.

I stepped back bumping into my dresser causing the attached mirror to shake and rattle the brushes lying on the cherry wood. “Why couldn’t Chandler see you when Mom died?” The calmness that seeped into my tone was as vast as the ocean while I latched onto the edge of the dresser. Emotion filled me, but the calm took control and it still frightened me. My knuckles turned white as I watched him carefully.

“Most humans cannot lay eyes upon me.” His stormy eyes watched my reaction almost as carefully as I watched his. A crease disrupted the smooth skin between his brows while his nose crinkled as if it smelt something sour. The corners of his mouth turned down almost making his thin lips vanish. I felt angry, afraid, distraught, curious; but nothing showed on my soft features.

“How come I saw you? I saw you when I was seven years old, the day Evelyn Harris died. Why couldn’t Annie or Chandler see you? Why didn’t anyone in that crowd bother to look at you?” My words grew frantic as his words sank in to my thoughts. Most humans cannot lay eyes upon me…

“There are people who can hear my words. They are my faithful companions and often help with my missions; however, none of them have ever held a conversation like this with me. No one except for a human I consider a dear friend.” His eyes began to sparkle while the corners of his mouth turned up just a little, something I never saw on him before, as he watched me.

“What am I, Azrael?”