Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  He eyes me carefully for a second, a crease forming between his brows that tells me he can see the worry etched into my face. His hand comes up, and his fingers run gently through the long strands of my hair. Once, twice, that’s it before he pulls back, but I’m already sighing.

  “You?” He leans closer, elbows resting on his thighs, and looks me dead on. I always love when his eyes get overtaken by the green like this. For some reason, it makes me feel like it’s not just Death talking to me, but him. The soul inside. “You’re going to rest right here in your warm, comfortable bed. You’ll wake up tomorrow ready for a new day. You’ll slip on your fancy mood ring—” He pauses, glancing down at my bare fingers with a cocked brow, and I slink deeper into the bed. Why does it feel like I’m being chastised for not wearing the ring? And why do I like it? “And you’ll go on with your life, just as you have been.”

  “But my heart—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Leave it to me.”

  “Don’t worry? But—”

  “Look at me, Lou.” I lift my chin, just now noticing that I’ve already curled fully into the blankets, my eyelids growing heavy with the need to sleep. I hold them open to peer up at him, his face looming over mine. He’s looking at me in a way I’m sure no one else has done before, because I’d recognize the wild rush it sends pulsing through my veins. “I don’t have all the answers right now,” he continues, his voice a smooth lullaby, “but I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay?”

  I feel my head nod up and down, my eyes already closing. “Okay,” I whisper into the darkness.

  The chair creaks beneath his body as he leans back against it, the sound filling me with comfort. That sound means he’s not leaving yet. It means he’s still here, with me. As the gentle silence drones on, my mind drifts away with it. I should still be scared after a night like this. I should be freaking out. But my chest, it’s somehow so full, and I can’t help but feel a certain sense of peace. Even if I know the feeling won’t last. Even if I know it’s just for a little while, as he sits here beside me. I’ll take what I can get.

  “Gumdrop?” I whisper dazedly, just before my mind can shut down fully.

  “Yes, Lou.”

  “I think my heart beats for you, too.”

  Chapter 30

  Liquor, puke, and blood.

  The scents blend together to form a disgusting sea of filth in the air around us.

  I shift my gaze to my right, attempting to lock eyes with the boy who sits tied up in a chair beside me. He’s shaking, his entire twelve-year-old frame quivering as he stares down at his clothes, wide eyed.

  “Look at me, Tommy,” I hear myself command, my voice a firm whisper. I glance quickly at the monster, ensuring his back is still turned as he digs through the kitchen cabinets, then return my attention to the petrified boy. “You’ll look at me right now, you hear me?”

  Finally his head shifts toward me, his movements stiff. It’s then that I see the way his teeth are chattering.

  “What do you see?”

  “I-I-I see you. I see you.”

  “Uh-huh. And who am I?”

  “M-my brother.”

  “That’s right. And is there any mess we haven’t gotten out of together, little brother?”

  He swallows, then shakes his head.

  “Damn straight.”

  Tommy’s gaze drops to my clothes, then raises back up to meet mine. “Y-you’re going to be okay. He didn’t soak you in the liquor like he did me.”

  I feel the snap of my jaw as my teeth grind together. My hands tug and yank behind me, still fumbling hard with the old rope I’ve gotten to know so well. “That’s because he’s a twisted fuck,” I answer. “Not because he’s feeling generous. He wants me to watch you suffer before he moves on to me.”

  “Goddamn bastard! He tell you that?” Tommy shrieks, and we both swing our heads toward the monster. He doesn’t seem to have heard us though, so we turn back to face each other.

  A grin stretches across my face despite the morbid clusterfuck we’re in. “So all it took was knowing your big bro’s life is at stake, too, for you to remember you’ve got a big ol’ pair of balls in there? Well, shit, I should have said something sooner.”

  Just when Tommy starts to grin back, a loud roar rips through the kitchen. “Where is it!” The monster whirls around to face us then stomps over, his eyes narrowing right at me, index finger shoving against my chest. “You. I know you did this. Where are all the matches? Where are they!”

  “What, so I can help you light your kid on fire? You sick son of a bitch.”

  The monster’s face twists into something ugly as he sneers down at me, taking a step closer. His nose is red, pupils dilated, and I glimpse white residue around his nostrils. “Nah, boy. Think you got me confused with yourself. You’re the real son of a bitch, ain’t you? Your mom’s mistaken if she thinks she can run off with another man without you two havin’ to pay.” I cry out as he digs his finger into an open gash on my thigh, crippling pain shooting all the way to my chest. “I ain’t gonna kill you boys. Just teach her another lesson is all.”

  A snarl sounds from my right, taking us both by surprise. Little Tommy’s got the fiery look in his eyes I usually only see in my own reflection. “She doesn’t give a damn about your so-called ‘lessons,’ Pops! Stop using her as a shit excuse to take out your demented rage on us!”

  The man before us stops, angles himself toward Tommy, and stares at him almost as though seeing him for the first time. “What’d you say to me?”

  Shit. My eyes close briefly as I shake my head, my hands fighting harder than ever to get freed. I almost smile when I feel the blood start to trickle down my wrists. So close now. “Forget him,” I mutter. “You were talking to me, remember?”

  “You shut your mouth. I believe Tommy, on the other hand, has somethin’ to say. Anything else you’d like to add to that, little boy?” He inches closer, until the toes of his boots slam against Tommy’s.

  Tommy’s eyes go wide, losing all of their spark as he watches the monster reach into his back pocket. “Uh, n-no. That was it.”

  “You sure about that?” A large, silver pocket knife appears in his hand, and he runs the blade smoothly across his fingers.

  Tommy’s swallow could be heard from where I sit. “Y-yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. Now you know it pains me to do this,” he says with a soft chuckle, “but I still gotta teach you a lesson for that attitude of yours. I swear your mom gave you boys her worst qualities. Hmm, been awhile since I gave you a tattoo, hasn’t it?” He bends forward, eyes scanning over Tommy’s small torso. “Now where would you like it? I’ll even let you choose.”

  I don’t know if there’s a name for the sensation that suddenly swells inside me, flooding my lungs with hot fumes, but I do know it’s filled with red. Scorching flames of red, setting my veins on fire until I can’t see clearly, can’t think. There is one, single thought that rings through with utter clarity, though. Right here, right now, is where this ends.

  And I’m going to be the one to end it.

  I wake up to the racing pulse I’m beginning to get a little too familiar with. Dammit. I wasn’t supposed to wake up yet. I need to fall back asleep. I’m overcome with an urgent, desperate need to know that the brothers got out of there alive, that they’re okay. That they’re safe. Did he end it like he’d intended? Where is the closure for these poor boys? When will enough be enough?

  My hand comes up to my chest, expecting to find a frantic rhythm beating within, but for a moment, I don’t feel anything at all. And it scares the living hell out me. I freeze, palm still pressed against me, until finally I feel a vague thump. Then another. A breath of relief pours out of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Calm down. You’re okay.

  He said I’d be fine, and I am.

  I remember then that he was still here when I’d fallen asleep, and I qui
ckly scan the room. I don’t know why I’m so hopeful even though it’s clear he’s no longer here. The absence of his warmth surrounds me like an actual entity, each cold breeze seeping in through the window reminding me I’m alone again.

  It seems he has a habit of disappearing on me while I sleep. I wonder what it’d be like to actually wake up to him. I bet I’d feel him against my skin before I even opened my eyes, the same way soft sun warms your skin in the middle of spring. Would he stroke my hair, like he did so briefly last night? Would he stay in the chair beside me, watching while I sleep, or would he sneak into my bed and let me curl into him? I smile at the thought, stretching my arms out over my head before making my way into the bathroom.

  My smile immediately turns upside down when my gaze meets the mirror and drops to my chest. I press my fingers over my heart, rubbing the area in a soothing, circular motion. I don’t want to worry, or be scared, because I know from experience that never gets you anywhere. But standing before my reflection reminds me I’m only human. I need to feel a solid drum within me to know I’m going to be okay. And right now, that beat is slowly slipping away. My eyes close, already begging for a break in reality. I can’t do this. Can I? How do you figure out how to fix something you don’t even understand?

  For a moment I consider summoning Death back here to keep me from losing it completely, but then I remember I have somewhere to be. Still, I wish I could feel that safety net I had when he was here beside me, his hypnotic voice telling me not to worry. I wish he’d stay with me just a while longer. Does that make me weak?

  Yes.

  No.

  Maybe . . .

  It’s funny, just a month ago I would have answered that question with a resounding yes. But now? Now I wonder if maybe allowing another person to give you strength takes a certain kind of strength in itself. To be able to lean all your weight on someone else with confidence in the knowledge they won’t drop you. How often does a person really find that kind of trust in another?

  My mind drifts back to the feelings that took over when I was with him last night, and I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance I may have found it.

  I groan aloud. Just my luck. Who else would find comfort in the Grim Reaper? And just when I might be about to drop dead, too. I frown and look up, past the ceiling and toward the sky, right as I feel another hitch in the rhythm of my heartbeat.

  “You’ve got a sick sense of humor, buddy.”

  Chapter 31

  Clark Street isn’t large. It isn’t super busy, either, and it’s been closed off to vehicles for festival setups. One would think all these factors would make it easy to spot a Claire look-alike in the small crowd, yet I’ve been scanning the street for ten minutes without any luck. I even stopped by Claire’s desk before heading here to make sure Lydia, her mom, would be here.

  I decide to do another quick survey of the area before texting Claire. There’s a pair of burly men to my right, unloading equipment from a truck. A trio of girls around my age chattering as they hang up banners and the likes. Several other people are setting up booths. Directly across from me, on the opposite sidewalk, stands a tall, African-American woman with a clipboard attached to her arm. She’s the one everyone goes to with questions, and she also seems to be the most friendly of the group. Her smile is big and bright, and her eyes are warm.

  If I don't end up finding Lydia on my own, and if Claire keeps refusing to help me, then maybe that woman is someone I can approach. Surely the person running the show would know everyone helping to put on the event, right?

  I pull out my phone and start texting.

  Me: You sure she’s here?

  Claire: Positive!

  Me: Been standing here for ten minutes, and I don’t see her.

  Claire: Look harder ;)

  Me: Can’t you just send me her number so I can call her?

  Claire: Oh, but this is so much more fun.

  Me: Careful, your evil side is showing.

  Claire: Hahaha, think you’ll live!

  I laugh as I slide the phone into my back pocket. All right, time to get this over with. I’m not exactly looking forward to digging around for info on Mr. Blackwood, but it has to be better than doing nothing and discovering too late that he needs help of some kind. I wait a second while the woman with the clipboard finishes wrapping up a conversation, then stroll toward her.

  “Excuse me,” I call, before someone else can steal her from me. “Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if by chance you’ve seen a Lydia Birch around here?”

  Her painted lips curve up warmly as she extends her free hand toward me. “That would be me. And you must be Claire’s friend, Lou.”

  “Oh! I’m—yes, I’m Lou.”

  Lydia chuckles as we release hands. “Honey, it’s okay. Claire’s adopted, but she’s been a part of our family since before she was born. She told me to expect you this morning, but with all the set ups and such I didn’t notice you standing there. Have you been here long?”

  “No, no,” I lie. “Well, not really.”

  Seeing right through me, she wrinkles her nose. “Sorry. There’s not much in the way of entertainment around here, so I allow myself to get caught up in all this.” She waves a hand in the air, gesturing to the set ups, then wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me across the street, away from the watchful eyes surrounding us. “Anyhow, Claire said you wanted to see me in regards to Mr. Blackwood?”

  I nod, not quite sure how to begin. “I just . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to overstep, but I’m a little worried about him.”

  “Here, honey. Take a seat.” We’ve reached a small outdoor seating area, and we’re both silent as we get settled across the table from each other. “Mr. Blackwood . . . well, he certainly is a private man.”

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She laughs. “I can see why Claire likes you. You two must get along pretty well.”

  “She’s easy to get along with.”

  “That she is.” Her smile widens, and my heart swells.

  They’re such simple, general words, but the way she says them . . . it’s impossible not to feel the love she holds for her daughter. The woman is so motherly in this moment that the constant longing I have for my own mother bubbles back up to the surface.

  “Lucky for you,” Lydia continues, returning to the topic of Mr. Blackwood, “I just so happen to have a knack for learning about the residents in my town. Unlucky for both of us, however, that man is about as hardheaded as a mule, so I’m afraid I haven’t discovered much.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.” I chew on the inside of my lip, my already minimal hope deflating. “Anything could be helpful, though, if it sheds more light on who he is. How I might be able to connect with him better.”

  She nods as though she understands, and I think she really does. I remember that, back when I first got the job, Claire said something to suggest her mother was one of the town folk urging Mr. Blackwood to get a caretaker. “Right,” Lydia says, crossing one leg over the other as she leans back against the seat. “Well, you’re aware he’s an author?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t seen any of his work.”

  “Oh, you should. It’s perhaps a bit far-fetched for some, but remarkable work regardless.”

  “Far-fetched? How’s that?”

  “We carry them in our library. You should check them out and see for yourself.”

  The library. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “I think I will. Thanks.”

  “Other than that, I know he moved here about twenty years ago from Colorado. He’s been the same way he is now ever since I’ve known him—closed off, and a little too friendly with his liquor.”

  “And his leg? Do you know what happened to him?” I ask, thinking back to the steel I’ve glimpsed multiple times now.

  “Ah, yes. His leg. Some kind of car accident, I believe. It happened before he moved here.”

  I frown. Going throug
h any accident like that is traumatic enough, but to have no one you love to lean on afterward? To have no support to get you through the inevitable rough times? Poor Mr. Blackwood. “No kids? Siblings? Any visitors at all?”

  She shakes her head, a sad expression washing over her elegant features. “I wish I could say yes. For years when he’d first arrived, many of the locals tried involving him in activities, clubs . . . anything, really. But he wasn’t having any of it. Always said he was busy working on his research. That was a little while before his latest book was ever published, though, and I really thought he’d become more available after that. As far as I know, he has no plans on publishing anything else, so I can’t imagine that he’s still spending all his time cooped up in his house over some research.”

  I almost snort aloud. The man rarely does anything but research.

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s all I know,” she continues. “As I’m sure you’ve come to notice, he doesn’t make many appearances in town.”

  I chuckle, trying to picture Mr. Blackwood standing in the middle of the winter festival as happy families surround him, his flask in one hand and the bird in the other. “Yeah, I have.”

  A moment of silence passes between us, my chest becoming heavy as I realize I truly might not be able to do much for this man. Lydia’s gentle voice eventually interrupts my thoughts. “You know, it’s been awhile since I’ve really tried reaching out to the gentleman. In fact, I’ve hardly spoken to him at all lately.” She glances down briefly in guilt, pressing her lips together. “I can see how much you care about him, Lou. I’d be happy to try speaking to him again, to see if maybe—”

  “Oh, no. Please.” Now it’s my turn to look away, to feel the guilt rise. “I shouldn’t even be butting into his life like this. He wouldn’t appreciate it. And I’m sure he wouldn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him either, so I should . . . I should probably go.” I stand, the metal chair scraping against the sidewalk as I do. “Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me, Mrs. Birch. Really, it was so nice to meet you.”