Chapter Six #2
The Catastrophe Division is unlike any other in the OtherWorld.
It’s cold and impersonal, which suits me just fine; it matches my temperament perfectly.
However, the reality of overwhelming chaos leads to pretty harrowing scenes.
Many souls we sever never make it to AfterLife Processing.
Souls that separate during a catastrophic incident suffer deep-rooted trauma that renders their essence unfit for OtherWorld employment.
They get fast-tracked straight to The Bliss.
Give up a lifetime of pesky memories for an eternity of staring at a peaceful landscape.
Could be worse, I suppose. They could still be alive.
A vivid sensation floods my memory. The feeling of my fingers wrapped around the cold, immovable iron bars sends shivers up my arms. The palms of my undead hands feel ice cold.
Get a grip, Asher.
I cannot help but smirk at the recognition of that unintentional, awful pun. I shake the sensation from my hands, deftly tossing my blade back and forth to refocus on the present. With Quinn’s eerie whistling setting an uneven rhythm somewhere below, I return to this dark dance.
I stare into the flickering eyes of an elderly woman, begging for mercy. I grip Ifaísteio firmly in my right hand and provide what relief I can.
Mercy? I’m not sure about that. But it’s an end … of sorts at least. I untether the soul from its host and scan the room. It’s cleared.
I see Quinn make his way past the doorframe. He pauses and cranes his head back into the room I’m vacating.
“Brutality looks good on you, Asher. One more floor to go.”
Then he disappears down the corridor as I head to the third and final floor.
After carefully navigating through the wreckage and separating several more souls, I reach the final flat. I hear the resigned sobs of a man who knows his end is near.
Good. This should make for an easy separation then.
I make my way through a room engulfed in flames. A couch, table, and wall full of pictures are all mere seconds away from nothingness. Items stripped of function, moments of life memorialized no longer. In an open space just beyond, I come upon the back of a man.
The final figure in this room does not behave like those I am used to seeing when faced with their untimely end. He does not cower or beg. He stands strong, gently weeping, yet physically grounded despite the softness of his cries.
The set of his shoulders is firm as I move closer to him.
His stance and rigid posture command my attention.
For a moment, I wonder if he is immune to the flames.
Then a greedy red spark catches the tails of his suit jacket and quickly spreads.
His back illumines as I approach him to cleave the eternal from him.
But as I stand before him, bowie knife poised and ready to strike, I pause. I freeze. I break.
The face I am staring into is unmistakable. The dead glare of his grey eyes and smarmy twist of his fish lips taunt me from beyond the grave.
It’s not possible. It cannot be, and yet it looks exactly like the man who took my life from me. The man who took my love from me.
My vision blurs, and my body begins to tremble. I feel myself losing control.
My mind repeats the refrain, “It can’t be,” uselessly as my memories flood back, searingly realistic remembrances of those final moments—the soft clacking of his shoes against the stone floor, his disgusting laugh at the sight of me in that cage, the way power radiated off him in waves, as he knew he had me in a defenseless position.
The face I’m staring into now looks just like the visage of the man responsible for my ruin.
I cannot stop the torrent of hate and vitriol from pouring through me.
The memory is poison. His disavowal of our love, his dismissal of my life.
His greasy fingers stained the parchment of Maddy’s perfectly crafted letter.
Why can’t I remember what she wrote? Why do all these awful moments come back unbidden and crystal clear, yet the one thing I wish for—the words I have craved for more than a hundred years—continues to elude me?
My blade drops to the floor by my feet.
My hands shoot to my head, pressing against my temples, tearing at my hair. I cry out. A sound that matches the screams of the souls I’ve reaped this past hour. Raw. Broken. Anguished.
Then the pain dissipates, and I am left with nothing. No sensation, no memory, no ability to think or feel or move. I stand, frozen, opposite this dying soul who mirrors my own agony.
A burst of wind shoots through a window, shattering glass and sending sparks flying higher as it rips through the room, feeding the flames. But I cannot move. I cannot do anything.
I hear Quinn’s gasp as he stands in the threshold to this final room.
I can see him; I can register the poor dying man, whose eyes plead with me for release.
Quinn yells something in my direction, but the words sound like they are being spoken underwater.
The roar of the flames against the aging wood and the bubbling of old paint meld with the screams and the protests.
It all just becomes noise, and I remain frozen in place.
Catatonic.
Freed from those prison bars, yet somehow still trapped.
Quinn continues to yell, but the words do not reach my ears.
The whoosh of the wind, the tinkling of shattered glass, and the crack of wooden beams grow louder and louder.
My vision blurs, and I still cannot find a way to speak or move.
I stare directly into the face of a soul desperate for release.
I know exactly what to do, but I cannot.
All my training has escaped me. The only sensation left is a blinding, crippling hatred coursing through my useless veins.
Quinn takes another step toward me and this man who reminds me of my own life’s personal monster. But Abernathy is too late.
The wood gives way with a loud crack.
The beam splits, and the floor collapses beneath us. The building crumbles in on itself, sending me, Quinn, and the dying man hurtling toward the ground to land at the center of a pile of rubble and wreckage.
His soul is lost among the ruin.
I have failed to complete a reap.
The weight of that realization settles heavily on me. I can already imagine Big D’s disappointment and anger, knowing he won’t take this fucking lightly. There will be consequences for my failure, but right now, I can’t focus on that.
All I can think about is the man’s pleading eyes, a reminder of my mistake.
I feel stuck in this moment, caught between what I should have done and the harsh reality of what has happened.
The chaos around me fades into the background as I try to come to terms with the loss and all the memories it brought back—the cell, the fire, the letter burning, and Maddy’s last words. Lost. Forever.