by Brindi Quinn
I’ll show him unruly. I’m going to fight him! Battle him, even! And this time, I’m going to win. I’m going to bite him and claw him and do whatever it takes to . . . to . . .
But the moment my back hits the rapist’s chest, something happens. Something overtakes me, and I feel funny. Well, funny’s relative. I feel–
“Comfy,” I blurt, though I certainly don’t mean to.
My body melts against the stranger’s chest and I feel like I’ve just woken up from a nap. No, I feel like I’m not quite awake yet, even.
“Come on, Marley Craw,” the soothing reaper-rapist urges. “Cuddle me.”
Cuddle? Sorry, I’m not prone to cuddling someone I’ve just met. That’s what I want to say, anyway, but I’m feeling sleepy. So, so sleepy. So . . . mmmm.
“Keep her down. I’ll get her calling card,” the annoyed reaper-rapist says.
“Yes, we can’t forget that,” the soothing one replies, voice muffled by my hair.
Calling card?
The red paper from Beck, I’m guessing. Yeah, I was interested to see what it said, too. Fine, fine, if one of the rapist-reapers can make it past the invisible goo between here and my dead bod– MY BODY!
In an instant, all-out panic strikes me, taking place of the sudden set-on sleepiness. The red paper is on the dead me’s stomach!
“DON’T TOUCH HER!”
My voice rings through the dingy alley. The mouth against my hair is silent a moment before responding, “He’s not going to–”
“DON’T EVEN LOOK AT HER!”
Hauntingly, my voice ripples through the air. The echo of a spirit? I am that spirit. Those are my echoes. The soothing reaper waits for them to clear before repeating,
“You shouldn’t have seen that, Marley Craw.”
But I did. I saw the body – my body – and now I can’t unsee it.
The soothing reaper meshes his face into my neck. “Don’t worry, we can’t see it, either. We only see souls; not vessels.”
“. . . Really?”
“Mmhmm.” He pulls me closer and I start to melt again. Into butter. Into putty. Into sludge.
Comfy. I don’t know what it is, but this guy is so incredibly . . .
“To us, your old vessel is no more than an outline on the pavement,” he goes on.
“Wait–” Despite my relaxed state, I feel my brows flatten with disdain. “Like what cops do at a murder scene?”
“What are cops?”
“She means police,” the annoyed reaper answers. “Authorities? Enforcers? Any of those ring a bell? Tch. This is going to be fun.”
I’m sleepy.
I fight it. “But . . . you can TOO see the dead me. That Beck guy was talking about her . . . my gash.”
“That lameass?” the annoyed reaper scoffs. “He’s different. He’s your angel. We’re your reapers.”
“Prove it.”
“Not here,” the soothing reaper murmurs into my hair. With that, he pulls me with him, away from the dead me, away from the blood and dirtiness – away, away, away. “Drift, Marley Craw, and when I finally let you go, you’ll be safe and sound.”
Is it weird, though, that I don’t really want him to let go anymore? Comfy – like the edge of sleep in the plushiest of beds – that’s what this guy’s embrace feels like.
All right. I guess . . . after what I’ve been through . . . I’ll drift into this so-called reaper, for just a little teensy bit.
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
“We’re here.”
Here? How long, exactly, have I been whisked? And where, exactly, is here?
The soothing reaper gives me one tight squeeze before letting me go.
Whoa. Once out of his arms, I’m brought whizzing back to the land of the living. Well, not really. Still dead, but awake at least. With the soothing reaper’s arm at last removed from my eyes, I notice that the world has turned blue and also kind of glowy. A low humming sound moves through the air.
“Is this the underworld?” I say, adjusting.
“No,” the soothing reaper’s voice says, from behind my back. “It’s the fish prison.”
“He means aquarium,” the annoyed one corrects.
Oh. So it is. The aquarium. Wonder why we’re in the aquari–
WAIT!
Being released by the soothing reaper was too abrupt – so abrupt that I totally forgot about the two mysterious possible-rapists that whisked me away from my body without so much as giving me a peek at their faces! Quick as a shot of whisky, I spin to see what they look like, expecting skeleton arms, hooded cloaks, and eyeless sockets.
That isn’t what I see at all.
My mouth falls open.
“Hot.”
“You’re hot?” The soothing-sounding reaper tips his head in concern.
No, but I’m quickly becoming.
“I believe she means attractive, and I think she’s referring to at least one of us,” the other reaper explains.
Yup. That is completely accurate.
But gawd! Why’d I go blurting it out like that?!
Well, that’s because . . .
They’re both hot. Really, really hot.
Black hooded cloaks? Well, they’ve got black hoods, but the hoods aren’t attached to cloaks; they’re attached to sweatshirts. Regular old hoodies any common burglar would have hanging in his or her closet. The annoyed reaper’s is unzipped a ways, showing off a black collared shirt and white tie underneath. The other has his zipped to the neck.
Both are tall and lean and . . .
Not completely human.
That’s to be expected, I guess. These are grim reapers we’re talking about.
The soothing reaper has outgrown hair that breezes around his neck and curls around his ears in a playful way. It isn’t blond. Not even platinum. It’s white. Stark as my hermit-cousin’s basement-dwelling bum. Okay, well, I probably shouldn’t compare anything about this hottie to Milo’s bum, but . . .
The soothing reaper’s eyes are wide, soft . . . and without a doubt red. Not like irritated, high, or allergied red. I mean the irises of his eyes are red surrounding inky black pupils. Red eyes? Like those contacts people wear on Halloween. One time, I ordered a pair to change my eyes from green to blue, but the damn things kept slipping around and tickling my eyes, and I ended up flicking them down the drain.
I digress.
The reaper’s right ear is hooped with three earrings – two at the top, one on the lobe. His jeans are loose, his stance is lax, and his shoes are checkered black and white. But most striking is his expression. There’s something innocent about him. Maybe it’s those wide eyes hiding beneath an uncertain brow line, or the way his mouth holds a slight frown of concern, but he’s–
So. Insanely. Cute.
In contrast, the annoyed reaper’s expression doesn’t hold a shred of uncertainty, and now that I see him, he doesn’t look all that annoyed, really. Actually, he’s a little hard to read. Mysterious. Downright enigmatic, if I’m trying my hand at vocabulary. His bottom lip is full and set and complements a sharp jaw. His hair is shorter than the soothing reaper’s, except for his bang, which cuts across his face, completely covering one of his eyes. His hair is dark – darker than dark – the darkest black I’ve ever seen, and his uncovered eye, which is light – maybe even silver – is shrewd and drilling. It pierces into me without reservation. Like the other reaper, this guy also has earrings, one black stud in each ear.
What’s with these two and their bling?
Meanwhile, I’ve been forced into this matronly smock that not even Jackie Onassis could make look good. I stick out my chest for good measure.
The annoyed reaper’s build is a little fuller than the white-haired guy’s. His arms, in particular, look strong. Hmph. Bet he wouldn’t have had any problem fending off the rapist. His jeans are tight and his shoes are nothing but black, like his hair, like his pupils that bore through the silver of his eyes and into my sou
l. Literally. I mean, that’s all that’s left of me now, isn’t it?
“So . . . you guys are reapers. You’re here to reap my soul?”
The annoyed reaper nods. “I’m Pine,” he says, not removing his eye from mine. His stare is even and unfaltering and direct.
Oh. My. Gosh.
“I’m Minx,” the soothing reaper says, and upon delivering the name, he smiles and his face lights for the first time. The concerned look of his eyes changes, becoming downright impish, as though he’d like to steal me away, force me into mischief . . . or force mischief into me.
Kill. Me. Now.
Oh wait. Already dead. Whoops.
“Oookaaay, then how does this work? How do you ‘reap’ me? And why are we at the aquarium, again?” Long stretches of blue-lit glass encircle the room, behind which abnormal-looking eels and dumb-stared fish wiggle through the water. The floor is industrial, cold and hard. The glow bathed over the space is soft and mythic. The tanks gleam with sheen and intimidation.
White-haired Minx leans against the glass and points to black-haired Pine with his thumb. His face turns pouty. “We’re here thanks to this guy. He navigated us from Dhiant, but he missed your death site. Our portal’s here now. This is where we have to stay until your reaping.”
Reaping.
Pine furrows and hides his eyes in the starfish pool at the center of the room. In response to being blamed, I’m guessing. He appears wry. There’s something in the pool he doesn’t like, though, because he immediately cringes and flicks his stare back to me. His eyes command my attention the moment they’re set on me. Their color is striking, making it seem like he’s staring hard without any real effort.
“What’s Dhiant?” I utter, eyes transfixed on his.
“The underworld,” says Pine.
Oh, right, the under– THE UNDERWORLD!? As in . . . HELL? The hotties are from Hell?
I take a step away from them. “You guys are demons?”
“Of course not!” cries Minx.
“Hardly,” says Pine.
“Oh.” Well, that’s a relief.
Pine crosses his arms. “There are demons and there are daems, and then there are angels and reapers.”
“Daems? I’ve never even heard of those,” I say.
“Tch.” Pine swats the air. “Irritable bastards.”
Minx lets out a light laugh. “This guy’s one to talk.” He winks at me. “Right?”
I don’t know yet. I don’t know anything about anything, really.
I fold my arms into myself. “I’m . . . dead.”
Minx’s laughter falls. Pine shoots him a sidelong glance.
“Right?” I prod.
“Mmhmm,” Minx says, delicately.
“Like, dead as a deadbolt dead,” I press.
Minx nods.
“But if I’m dead, why aren’t I . . . sad? Or, like, regretful? I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t hit me yet. I saw the dead me. I saw what happened to her . . . to me. And it made me lose it.”
Minx tips his head. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”
Yeah, yeah, as he’s mentioned twice already.
“Why aren’t I sad that I’m dead?” I ask again.
Yawning, Minx wraps his arms around himself and snuggles up inside his hoodie. “Because you don’t need to feel that way. You shouldn’t feel that way,” he explains.
“Grief is for the living,” Pine adds in a somewhat flat voice. He doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about it. Either way, I’m relieved. Here I was, worried that death had turned me heartless.
But there’s something strange. Pine’s sidelong glance lingers, like there’s something else. Something he isn’t saying.
Growl.
Can’t say I’m a fan of being lied to.
Pine’s gaze slips back to mine. “We only have two weeks. We should probably get started.”
“Started? With what?” I ask.
Minx straightens out of his snuggle and draws a finger along his bottom lip. His eyes reflect the blue glow of the tanks, making him look like a wizard or something. “Your judgment, of course,” he says. “Your soul must be weighed, Marley Craw.”
“Just Marley’s fine,” I tell him.
“Very well, Just Marley.”
Pine rolls his eyes. “She means call her Marley, dumbass.”
Minx frowns.
“Hold on, you guys are here to judge me?”
“Not us,” says Pine. He nods to the ceiling. “Up there. That angel is in charge of building your report.”
“Beck, the so-called lameass. Right. To see . . . if I’m going to Heaven or Hell?”
Neither of them answers for a moment.
“. . . Something like that,” says Minx.
I feel my brows flatten a second time. That isn’t a very definite answer.
“Just don’t worry about it.” Pine fiddles absentmindedly with one of his earrings. “Think of it as a two-week vacation before the afterlife.”
Minx raises his finger. “AND you get to spend it with us.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re on the undeclared list,” says Pine. He comes across the dusky aquarium to where I stand, holding a red slip of paper between his pointer and middle finger. I take it from him.
~ Beck Lemmings ~
Angel in Accounting
Reachable at #99-840
“Turn it over,” he says.
Case #887PR2E
Marley Craw
Undeclared, Score 402
Suitable Reapers: #2287, Minx & #508, Pine
Score? Great. If the ranking’s anything like a credit score, that’s not a very good number at all! Yeah . . . if I remember correctly, that Beck guy was rating me on ‘morality’ and ‘charity’ and God knows what else. Intrusive little punk.
“What’s the score out of?” I ask.
“The numbers aren’t important,” says Minx. He walks over and puts his hands on my shoulders. “All that matters is that you act exactly as you would have when you were alive. No cheating or faking, or you’ll have a miserable afterlife.”
I don’t get it. I really, reeeally don’t get it. Cheating. Faking. What, exactly, am I being judged on? And what’s with the two-week deadline? Whoever said death keeps no calendar, obviously had no idea what the hell they were talking about.
But none of that matters now.
“Marley Craw?”
With Minx’s hands on my shoulders, I realize again just how attractive he is. His red eyes sear into mine, his mouth frowns slightly at the corner, and his hair plays around his ears, as he tips his head and says, “Cuddle me,” in a voice that’s just as much innocent as it is longing.
Holy. Potato. Salad.
My heart has started to beat loud, loud, LOUDER until it’s filling my ears.
Minx’s hands move from my shoulders and begin to slide down my back. Judging by his expression, he’s going in for an embrace or a fondle or some other similar act of affection and I’m in no position to stop him.
Why? Why’s he doing that?!
Get a grip, Marley Craw. You very recently found out that you’re dead, there are loads of things you need to ask, and you can’t just let some guy, be it a reaper or whoever, swoop in and grab you whenever he feels like it! That’s just plain easy. I mean, at least make him get to know you first.
Know you.
There’s an ache very, very small and very, very deep inside my pounding heart. It comes on suddenly and is hardly noticeable, but for some reason, I feel like if I just let Minx hold me, the ache will snuff itself out. Like a flame without air.
At least, I think that’s how it works. Science isn’t really my strong point.
Body closing in on mine, Minx’s arms slither down my back as he pulls me to his chest and–
“Stop.”
Pine snatches Minx by the hood. “Let her get settled. You can nap later,” the dark-haired reaper says.
Settled. Suuure. Settled inside the A-QUA-RI-UM.
<
br /> Minx lets out a whine and removes his hands but continues to stare at me like he wants to . . . take me.
Awkward.
Distraction mode commence! I take another look around the place. Fish are okay, I guess, but I never really understood what was so special about them. We came to this place on a field trip in seventh grade, and while most of the maggots had their noses pressed up to the glass, my friend Carmen and I were scratching our names into the concession stand with a nail file. The file was hers. Mine was confiscated earlier that year.
Hah. No wonder my morality’s only at a six.
Anyway, we just barely finished digging our names in when we were caught. I wonder if they’re still there.
. . .
Wait just a gosh damn minute! Something just occurred to me! It’s the middle of the day, isn’t it? This place should have at least a handful of browsers unfortunate enough to think a trip to the aquarium is fun.
But there’s no one. Just me and sexy Minx and sexy Pine.
There’s the concession stand, with a lit up case displaying sweating pretzels . . . the empty bottom of the dolphin tank . . . the starfish pool, complete with hand-washing stations . . . one of those cheesy wooden displays with the head holes cut out of the picture – you know, the ones where visitors can stick their faces in, take a picture, and see themselves in a silly scene? So lame. . . . Actually, there was this one time that we made one of those for Homecoming. The picture was of our school’s mascot, Char-Char the big red bear, stomping on the neck of the opposing team’s hawk or eagle or something – anyway, it was funny because this plump kid got his head stuck in the hole and . . .
Oh never mind.
The important thing is that there are no living people to be found in the aquarium. The air in here is muggy and warm, and that sickly blue glow over everything’s a little creepy, now that I think about it.
Listen to me, practically a ghost, saying something’s creepy.
Classic.
“Something wrong, Marley Craw?” Minx watches me with wide-eyed wonder.
“Just Marley’s fine,” I tell him again. “And yeah, there’s no one here,” I mention. “It’s a little weird, isn’t it?”
