Epilogue Two
Babalon - Chapter Twenty-Five
Kaleb
The second she sparked my lighter I felt my soul drawn from the blinding bliss of the afterlife to the stench of her childhood home. Laden with anger, disgust, and a sorrow so deep in the wood paneling they’re warping.
Her room is utterly destroyed. The window I used to sneak in and out of is coated in a foggy film blocking the once clear view, then the blankets she had pinned over the filthy glass now ripped and torn into shreds.
Her bed, dresser, desk, it’s all demolished too.
Someone came in here in a frenzy, damaging everything they could to make a statement and it’s so fucking loud it’s nearly screaming with resentment.
I used to spend hours in here under her touch, wearing goofy-looking beauty masks and creams I’d let her paint across my skin.
Listening to her babble on and on about something she learned in school that day—she was always a go-getter, aiming for the damn stars even with a ball and chain anchoring her to this hell hole.
Like everything else in her life, those incredible memories are now tarnished by filth. Whoever did this is showing her how little she means to them—and I have an idea who.
I begin to dwell, to fume over her fathers hatred when she catches my eye. Snapping my gaze to her, I’m across the room in a flash, idling behind her as pure energy and nothing more.
Sliding her hand into her jeans, she leaves the lighter there and sighs in disappointment. Instinctively I reach to soothe her, hooking my hand into the crook of her arm only for her to pass right through me like I’m made of fog.
Squeezing my fist, every breath of my soul wishes to feel the warmth of her body; the smooth skin I used to pepper kisses across, the soft areas where I would sink my teeth into her.
Breaks my heart everytime I do this, you would think I’d have learned my lesson by now, that I’ll never feel her skin against mine again and she will only ever sense me rather than hear me or see my face.
Fuck, I miss her.
Following her out of her room, I’m struck by how run down her home is.
He let this place go to shit when she left—I shouldn’t be surprised, he’s always been a disgusting pig, it’s still jarring.
When we enter the living area, there’s more.
Fucker is bordering on a hoarder type situation where there’s more trash blanketing most of the surfaces including the asshole-garbage man himself.
Gene, hunkered at his old chair rolling a cigarette with a very noticeable tremble in his hands.
Desperate for a hit of nicotine he doesn’t look up when Nadia enters, ignoring her like he always has unless he needs something.
While I sympathize, the way Nadia disregards him tells me everything—she’s cut him out and deservingly so. Observing every ounce of anger and hatred in the move she makes, I linger in the shadows with my arms crossing my chest, expecting her to put that wrath to use.
My face lights up when she pulls the Zippo from her pocket and strikes it, the few metal snicks giving way to a flame she stares at for a few beets, watching the flame dance in her hand.
She’s mesmerized, I’m not surprised, the way she threw the molotov cocktail at a damn cop?
Kinda set her up, you know? Maybe it’s that night she thinks of, she finds happiness in flames, because she thinks of me—let’s hope it’s that.
Nadia’s hand waves under the dingy curtains hanging over the living room windows. Allowing the flames to lick at them when she’s done getting lost in the orange glow, her dad not paying her a bit of attention while she silently sets them on fire.
I remember the day she hung them, I was camped out in her room, jacket hung on the back of her desk chair and sprawled across her twin sized bed when he came home, shouting for her from the kitchen.
At first I didn’t want her to leave, to pretend she was asleep, but we both knew better.
He would have hunted her down and found me in the process.
Despite hating him, she responded to his every beck and call, it was better she went—always better to avoid the confrontation with him rather than duke it out.
She returned an hour later, he sat in his chair while she did all the work, watching a fucking football game between the Raiders and the Cowboys—thrilling game.
He made no attempt to help her, no direction, opinion, and even made her find the tools all on her own.
Of course, in the end, they were hung up with the right equipment while the ones in her room were pinned by thumb-tacks.
The good mood she had was gone when she returned to me. I sensed her tension when the door clicked closed with a soft snick—trying to shrink away from the man who gave her life.
That day was a turning point for her. She was already retreating from him, from her friends, and doing the bare minimum outside of protecting them.
At times I would give her a ride to Ivy or Wren's place but she’d call me again in the middle of the night to come get her, and I never protested.
I always hated bringing her back here but where else could she go?
My mom would expect more than what either of us were ready for if she woke up the next morning and Nadia was tucked away in my bed.
Her dad would also come looking if he woke up and she was missing—bet you money he would have called the cops and Uncle would have been the first dickhead to show up at our door.
Now that she’s on her own, capable, and fighting for herself instead of others, I pray that this is the last time she will ever come back here.
I hope she burns every fucking thing in this house to ash and finally turns her back on the man she desperately tried to love who never wanted her to begin with—only wanted to hurt her mom.
Observing the filthy curtains catching fire more quickly, I grin.
This is what she needs—to burn away memories that bring her pain and heartache.
There was a time where self-hatred burdened her and now that she’s taking matters into her own hands, I couldn’t be more proud.
It took her long enough but sometimes you can’t rush perfection.
Nadia moves over to the other set of curtains when her dad finally realizes what’s happening and freaks out, rushing to the kitchen to grab the expired fire extinguisher he stuffed under the sink fifteen years ago.
Pulling the pin, he squeezes the handle and sweeps the nozzle side to side only for nothing to spray from the dusty tip.
His anger goes nuclear, screaming and shouting all while my girl sets more shit on fire.
There’s no stopping me, even as a damn ghost she turns me on and I need to touch her. At her back, I lean in and kiss the side of her neck. Amazed when the skin there prickles with goosebumps—the chill of my existence contrasting the sweltering heat of a house ablaze.
“Get out of the house before you’re joining me on this side. You have far too much to live through before it’s time to be in my hands again.” I whisper at the soft skin behind her ear.
Pocketing my Zippo again, she uses her free hand to rub her neck where my lips skimmed just seconds ago.
That’s right, I’m still here. I’m always here.
I’m hovering over her like an ominous cloud when we get outside.
If I were alive, I’d be pressed to her side, breathing down into the mess of dark locks she calls hair.
Listening to the crackling roar of an inferno to my left, the wailing of a fire truck too wide to fit through the road-parked cars, and her father’s nerve grating voice.
“Nadia?”
Hearing her name being called, I turn in sync with her, protective even now when a stranger approaches. He’s a well put together man—slacks, button up, smooth combed hair. Not her taste, by far.
I wonder who the fuck this cat is.
“Detective. Wasn’t aware IA dabbled in accidental fires.”
“Mm, that’s why I am here. The fire marshal said this may be arson according to the homeowner.”
I can’t help being nosey and listening to their conversation, the weight of the afterlife pulling at me with its chains and ropes—almost time to return to the fray.
I’ve visited briefly a time or two in the past few years and will make it a point to come around again, but the pressure grows the longer I’m here.
Wishing I could interrupt her conversation and tell her goodbye, promise I’ll come back, I hope deep in her heart she feels me, and knows how proud of her I am.
Proud is an understatement. She deserves this. Freedom.
Mi cosita diabolica.