The Tragedy Makers
One
I didn't spare the girl much thought until she had wrapped her hands around a truck driver's shirt and started screaming profanity. Two years of working at the overnight diner, and I'd seen m fair share of raving drunks and the exhausted and the broken. Our town existed just beyond a major interstate in Pennsylvania, which mean we saw travelers and didn't accumulate regulars aside from the hungover high school student variety, so it did not surprise me that I didn't recognize the girl when she walked in, cradling a stack of fliers.
I seated her, alone, and took her a cup of coffee that she drank black. After that, I scrolled through my phone and waited for the appropriate amount of time to hassle my guests again about refills. How she had gone from gazing out the window, pensive and soft-eyed, from screaming at an overweight man with yellowed teeth, well, I missed that somewhere between the cat videos and tutorials on a braid I thought my sister might like.
The screaming started. I turned my head in their direction, more curious than alarmed. Fliers littered the floor, spiraled out under the tables and at the feet of the few other guests. To my surprise, the girl had launched herself on top of the table and had the man in a tight grip. Their noses were just shy of touching.
“Huh,” I marveled.
“Selene!”
Cora, the hastily appointed manager two months ago and my best friend, flung the kitchen door open and raced to my side.
“What's all this screaming about?”
Her wide eyes bugged further at the scene.
“Oh dear God! What if the cops get called again? No, no. Help me, please!”
“Aye, aye, captain. Right behind you.”
I pocketed my phone and allowed myself a stretch before I joined her at the table. By then, Cora had separated the two. The girl had thrown herself into a scramble to collect the fliers. Moments ago, she had been feral and strong, but just then I noticed tear stains down her cheeks.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” the man growled. “But no one around here is eager to die.”
“We die everyday!” Fliers abandoned, the girl slapped her hands against the tiled floor. I winced, thinking of all the bodily fluids I'd cleaned from that spot. “What's to stop them from coming for us next? What if they decided a town's not enough? They might want a whole state. A whole country! They call the shots here. How could you pass up a chance to fight them?”
Ah, I thought, now curious. A Tragedy-related fight. Nothing uncommon, but still not grounds for a brawl in the diner. Sniffling, the girl collected her fliers and stood. At such a close proximity, I realized she could not have been older than my own eighteen years. Messy hair, a silver nose ring, and patched clothes. Her kind were on the streets, people put out of homes by Tragedies, which never seemed to fall on any insurance plans.
“Can I pay for my coffee now?” she asked me.
“Sure.” Surprised she remembered, I turned and headed back behind the counter as Cora spouted apologies to the assaulted man. In high school, she hadn't been wired nor timid. She had been a faithful co-captain on the volleyball team, sweet and shy, but with a bold laugh. I hadn't heard her laugh since graduation.
I handed the girl her change as she shifted her weight, casting glances back at the man with a frown.
“None of them get it,” she whispered. Without any other insights or assaults, she left. Cora returned to my side, short blond hair in a disarray, her lanky form all but trembling.
“Think I talked him down,” she muttered. “Apologize. Solve. Understand the problem.”
“Is that from your manager pamphlet? Because if it is, I'd rather you never repeat it again.”
“Sorry,” she sighed, even though she knew I was joking and no apology was required. Maybe she was apologizing to herself. Cora had never been destined to be manager at the Loretto branch of Lucky's 24/7 diner. She had received the same volleyball scholarship as I had, with a better GPA and parents that supported her. Things happen, however. Tragedy happens.
“Any idea what all that was about?”
“Oh.” She pulled a crumpled paper from her apron pocket. “It's the usual propaganda. This group is going to act as a kind of military, I guess. You get paid, trained, all that jazz, to research and find a way to kill Tragedy.”
“The kings will kill that group in a heartbeat,” I scoffed. I opened my hand for the paper, which she passed to me. It would have been a surprise to no one to discover a small child had designed and printed the thing, with it's uneven font and lines where the ink had begun to run out, but it made bold statements.
“The Hope Bringers,” I read. “Jesus they want to die, don't they? It's like an elaborate suicide method.”
“'Bringing an end to Tragedy, to pain, to loss',” Cora quoted, reading the flier from my side. “I have to admit, the sound of money is tempting. But everyone knows the east is the worst section. I'd have not put a target on my back.”
Cora trailed off, eyes darkening.
“They already know about me, after all. Best let it be. This is our life now.”
As it had been our parents and grandparents lives, ever since the early 1920's, when a wrinkled man in a bowler hat sat down for an interview, an interview everyone believed to be based around his longevity and how he'd managed to reach the age of 104 and managed to get around so well.
“See here,” he'd said. “I'm not one-hundred and four. I don't supposed I ever shall be. I stopped aging at seventy-six!”
Claiming to have sold his soul to a demon for a wish, he stated that he to became an immortal, slated to act out devastation and tragedy for the rest of his existence. He outlined, in the interview, a Class system, graded on how terrible the tragedy he and the others had been damned to preform. The man's name was Walter Crossley, and he had been spotted just days ago shopping for shoes in New York, his bold Tragedy tattoo curled around the side of his throat.
In over one hundred years, he sported not a singular wrinkle more than he had in his sepia toned newspaper photos.
“Military would never get on board with it.”
I jumped. Edna, a long time customer and the town drunk according to everyone, had crept up to the counter without my noticing.
“And I wouldn't want to be seen holding that thing. Not around here.”
She tapped the back of the paper with her nicotine-stained nails. I flipped it over and studied the map. Four towns across the United States, one that belonged to each of the kings and his collection of purchased souls. In the east, the demon king Blackheart resided at Hawthrone Hill. It was represented by a star in the tiny far right corner of Pennsylvania, just a four hour drive from Loretto.
“This town has survived for too long now. The girl was right about one thing; Blackheart will only grow greedier as time passes.”
“Let's hope that day is a long way off.”
Edna snorted.
“We both know that's not true, Selene.”
Something about her using my name changed the rhythm of my heart. Had she ever done so before? Nametag be damned, there was something eerie about a stranger addressing you by name in such a caviler manner.
“Besides. Is there nothing you'd sell your soul for?”
“Why would I sell my soul?”
“It's tempting for everyone, even if they don't want to admit it. A life of acting out Tragedy in your class. Maybe you'd be a murderer, like the Grimm. Cause environmental disasters, destroy relationships and break hearts. Maybe you'd have to break dreams, or maybe you'd just be one of those that just brings bad luck. But everyone around here is getting desperate. Everyone has something that would take them to see the Black Cats.”
The air I inhaled had turned to ice. News reports had dubbed them the Eastern Division, but on the underground, in social media, at lunch tables, they were called the Black Cats. The Eastern Tragedies. Maybe for their catlike pupils or their wild acrobatics and graceful movements. To hear their true name spoken with a touch of reverence put me balancing on an edge.
What would I sell my soul for, if that day came?
A tricky question, because there were many things I wanted, but so few that I needed. Most of my desires centered around Cassie living a fulfilling life. There had been little room to spare for myself. When my dad left and my mother took to her room and never really made it back out, I swore to never be bitter. To be kind and understanding to my mother, to not waver when I took on bills and the looming cost of Cassie's college tuition.
When I had everything I needed, I tried to leave little room for the want. Want turned good people into monsters.
“Nah.” I crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it into my apron pocket, where it would sit among a few sad one dollar bills that comprised my tips for the night. “My life is perfect. What do I need to make a deal with a demon for?”
“Perfect is a dangerous word.” She had a mad gleam in her, unnerving, certain. Without further creepy insights, she spun and tottered to the door. As I watched her exit, I noticed for the first time that she was wearing flower-patterned house shoes.
“To each their own,” I muttered.
Customers waved me over, one by one. No one else filed in for the night, to my disappointment. Distraction would have been welcome, in the face of my own lies. If I could sell my soul for anything, it would be to know Cassie as I had before. Before Tia entered the picture. Before the school started calling to inform me of her excessive absences. Before I feared waking up to blue lights flashing through the window.
I and my sister were made from the same two people. We shared DNA, we shared the couch, our food, our home. Every shift I worked, I worker for her. But since Tia, since Cassie had bypassed teenage years, a monumental rift had yawned between us. Our paths had diverted, and I wasn't so sure that they would ever cross again.
As long as she's happy, I reaffirmed to myself. Being close with my sister was nothing to sell my soul for, after all.
I seated her, alone, and took her a cup of coffee that she drank black. After that, I scrolled through my phone and waited for the appropriate amount of time to hassle my guests again about refills. How she had gone from gazing out the window, pensive and soft-eyed, from screaming at an overweight man with yellowed teeth, well, I missed that somewhere between the cat videos and tutorials on a braid I thought my sister might like.
The screaming started. I turned my head in their direction, more curious than alarmed. Fliers littered the floor, spiraled out under the tables and at the feet of the few other guests. To my surprise, the girl had launched herself on top of the table and had the man in a tight grip. Their noses were just shy of touching.
“Huh,” I marveled.
“Selene!”
Cora, the hastily appointed manager two months ago and my best friend, flung the kitchen door open and raced to my side.
“What's all this screaming about?”
Her wide eyes bugged further at the scene.
“Oh dear God! What if the cops get called again? No, no. Help me, please!”
“Aye, aye, captain. Right behind you.”
I pocketed my phone and allowed myself a stretch before I joined her at the table. By then, Cora had separated the two. The girl had thrown herself into a scramble to collect the fliers. Moments ago, she had been feral and strong, but just then I noticed tear stains down her cheeks.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” the man growled. “But no one around here is eager to die.”
“We die everyday!” Fliers abandoned, the girl slapped her hands against the tiled floor. I winced, thinking of all the bodily fluids I'd cleaned from that spot. “What's to stop them from coming for us next? What if they decided a town's not enough? They might want a whole state. A whole country! They call the shots here. How could you pass up a chance to fight them?”
Ah, I thought, now curious. A Tragedy-related fight. Nothing uncommon, but still not grounds for a brawl in the diner. Sniffling, the girl collected her fliers and stood. At such a close proximity, I realized she could not have been older than my own eighteen years. Messy hair, a silver nose ring, and patched clothes. Her kind were on the streets, people put out of homes by Tragedies, which never seemed to fall on any insurance plans.
“Can I pay for my coffee now?” she asked me.
“Sure.” Surprised she remembered, I turned and headed back behind the counter as Cora spouted apologies to the assaulted man. In high school, she hadn't been wired nor timid. She had been a faithful co-captain on the volleyball team, sweet and shy, but with a bold laugh. I hadn't heard her laugh since graduation.
I handed the girl her change as she shifted her weight, casting glances back at the man with a frown.
“None of them get it,” she whispered. Without any other insights or assaults, she left. Cora returned to my side, short blond hair in a disarray, her lanky form all but trembling.
“Think I talked him down,” she muttered. “Apologize. Solve. Understand the problem.”
“Is that from your manager pamphlet? Because if it is, I'd rather you never repeat it again.”
“Sorry,” she sighed, even though she knew I was joking and no apology was required. Maybe she was apologizing to herself. Cora had never been destined to be manager at the Loretto branch of Lucky's 24/7 diner. She had received the same volleyball scholarship as I had, with a better GPA and parents that supported her. Things happen, however. Tragedy happens.
“Any idea what all that was about?”
“Oh.” She pulled a crumpled paper from her apron pocket. “It's the usual propaganda. This group is going to act as a kind of military, I guess. You get paid, trained, all that jazz, to research and find a way to kill Tragedy.”
“The kings will kill that group in a heartbeat,” I scoffed. I opened my hand for the paper, which she passed to me. It would have been a surprise to no one to discover a small child had designed and printed the thing, with it's uneven font and lines where the ink had begun to run out, but it made bold statements.
“The Hope Bringers,” I read. “Jesus they want to die, don't they? It's like an elaborate suicide method.”
“'Bringing an end to Tragedy, to pain, to loss',” Cora quoted, reading the flier from my side. “I have to admit, the sound of money is tempting. But everyone knows the east is the worst section. I'd have not put a target on my back.”
Cora trailed off, eyes darkening.
“They already know about me, after all. Best let it be. This is our life now.”
As it had been our parents and grandparents lives, ever since the early 1920's, when a wrinkled man in a bowler hat sat down for an interview, an interview everyone believed to be based around his longevity and how he'd managed to reach the age of 104 and managed to get around so well.
“See here,” he'd said. “I'm not one-hundred and four. I don't supposed I ever shall be. I stopped aging at seventy-six!”
Claiming to have sold his soul to a demon for a wish, he stated that he to became an immortal, slated to act out devastation and tragedy for the rest of his existence. He outlined, in the interview, a Class system, graded on how terrible the tragedy he and the others had been damned to preform. The man's name was Walter Crossley, and he had been spotted just days ago shopping for shoes in New York, his bold Tragedy tattoo curled around the side of his throat.
In over one hundred years, he sported not a singular wrinkle more than he had in his sepia toned newspaper photos.
“Military would never get on board with it.”
I jumped. Edna, a long time customer and the town drunk according to everyone, had crept up to the counter without my noticing.
“And I wouldn't want to be seen holding that thing. Not around here.”
She tapped the back of the paper with her nicotine-stained nails. I flipped it over and studied the map. Four towns across the United States, one that belonged to each of the kings and his collection of purchased souls. In the east, the demon king Blackheart resided at Hawthrone Hill. It was represented by a star in the tiny far right corner of Pennsylvania, just a four hour drive from Loretto.
“This town has survived for too long now. The girl was right about one thing; Blackheart will only grow greedier as time passes.”
“Let's hope that day is a long way off.”
Edna snorted.
“We both know that's not true, Selene.”
Something about her using my name changed the rhythm of my heart. Had she ever done so before? Nametag be damned, there was something eerie about a stranger addressing you by name in such a caviler manner.
“Besides. Is there nothing you'd sell your soul for?”
“Why would I sell my soul?”
“It's tempting for everyone, even if they don't want to admit it. A life of acting out Tragedy in your class. Maybe you'd be a murderer, like the Grimm. Cause environmental disasters, destroy relationships and break hearts. Maybe you'd have to break dreams, or maybe you'd just be one of those that just brings bad luck. But everyone around here is getting desperate. Everyone has something that would take them to see the Black Cats.”
The air I inhaled had turned to ice. News reports had dubbed them the Eastern Division, but on the underground, in social media, at lunch tables, they were called the Black Cats. The Eastern Tragedies. Maybe for their catlike pupils or their wild acrobatics and graceful movements. To hear their true name spoken with a touch of reverence put me balancing on an edge.
What would I sell my soul for, if that day came?
A tricky question, because there were many things I wanted, but so few that I needed. Most of my desires centered around Cassie living a fulfilling life. There had been little room to spare for myself. When my dad left and my mother took to her room and never really made it back out, I swore to never be bitter. To be kind and understanding to my mother, to not waver when I took on bills and the looming cost of Cassie's college tuition.
When I had everything I needed, I tried to leave little room for the want. Want turned good people into monsters.
“Nah.” I crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it into my apron pocket, where it would sit among a few sad one dollar bills that comprised my tips for the night. “My life is perfect. What do I need to make a deal with a demon for?”
“Perfect is a dangerous word.” She had a mad gleam in her, unnerving, certain. Without further creepy insights, she spun and tottered to the door. As I watched her exit, I noticed for the first time that she was wearing flower-patterned house shoes.
“To each their own,” I muttered.
Customers waved me over, one by one. No one else filed in for the night, to my disappointment. Distraction would have been welcome, in the face of my own lies. If I could sell my soul for anything, it would be to know Cassie as I had before. Before Tia entered the picture. Before the school started calling to inform me of her excessive absences. Before I feared waking up to blue lights flashing through the window.
I and my sister were made from the same two people. We shared DNA, we shared the couch, our food, our home. Every shift I worked, I worker for her. But since Tia, since Cassie had bypassed teenage years, a monumental rift had yawned between us. Our paths had diverted, and I wasn't so sure that they would ever cross again.
As long as she's happy, I reaffirmed to myself. Being close with my sister was nothing to sell my soul for, after all.