Dying to Live Again

by D. M. Raver

  “I know,” I throw up my arms interrupting him, “so you could help me.” I pause, expecting him to put in a comment or argument, but he refrains. My anger is now too great to keep back what I want to say. “Maybe I don’t want you to take care of me anymore.” He starts to interject but I cut him off. “It’s no use trying to help me. It’s never going to stop. I go through this torture, I suffer every single day, and absolutely nothing changes. My life is meaningless, my pain is pointless.

  “Aruna...”

  “I just want it to end...” I turn away from him, feeling close to tears.

  “We all must find our purpose...”

  “And we all suffer...”

  “Some more than others,” we finish together.

  I look back to his dark, sad eyes. “Maybe there’s someone out there who could help me.”

  “No. It’s too risky. They would lock you away.”

  I stand, shaking with emotion. “Or maybe they would find a way to stop it.”

  As I start for the stairs I can tell Da wants to stop me. I leave quickly before he decides he needs to. He probably figures I am visiting the yogi to clear my mind. Reaching beneath the booth I take a stack of five dollar bills from the till. I have a much different plan in mind.

  It is amazing how little it takes to sell away your soul. Ten dollars and fifty cents. That’s all it took to purchase some graphics and bold fonts and two hundred neon fliers from the copy store. Each invites the regulars and tourists alike to the community stage to the east of the market. There, at sundown, they are promised a show beyond their imagination.

  I hand out the fliers to passerbys on the street. Da would be furious. All his efforts to hide me all these years, I will destroy in one afternoon.

  Once the last flier leaves my hand, I am left in empty vacillation. Today may be my last day to live a free life. It may be my last day period. I decide to go the international shop to get a henna tattoo. I never could sit still long enough to get one before, but at this point it really doesn’t matter.

  With the paisley and skull designs tattooed on my hands and another three hours until sunset, I decide to go to the warehouse. I can’t go home, Da will figure out what I’ve done. So I go to the renovated building without a mat.

  When I arrive I find the converted area is empty. Sighing, I walk to the middle of the cool, wood covered floor. I sit in the prayer pose and close my eyes.

  I try to relax, but thoughts race through my mind. All I can think of is the say the way clear blue water felt as it took my life, and all the other times I have tried to end my consciousness, permanently end it.

  Distant sounds of traffic and busy people of the city filter through my distracted thoughts. I breathe in, feeling the weight of my body pressing against the floor. My mind calms and I sink into the serenity of oblivion. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I can leave my body forever, like the masters of mediation are said to have done before me.

  Opening my eyes I realize I’m not alone. I turn to find the yogi, sitting to the back and left of me, also in a prayer pose.

  She opens her light colored eyes, sensing my attention. Her expression is calm and welcoming.

  “What troubles you child?”

  “Child?” I must look her same age by this time of day.

  “You usually attend my morning sessions.”

  “But... you can’t possibly recognize me.”

  She points to my center. “I recognize your spirit.”

  I must stare at her like she’s grown two heads, but she regards me with a kind curiosity. I have always respected her, but this... I take a deep breath, half disbelieving I’m about to say the words...

  “You know what I am?”

  The yogi bows her head to me. “I see who you are, child.”

  A hundred questions flood my mind, faster than I can speak them. If she knows that, maybe she knows how to stop it.

  “Why is this happening to me? Did I do something wrong?”

  She laughs, her voice as melodious as the bansuri, as if it resonates on different strings.

  “No, child. It is a gift.”

  The fluttering hope within me quells like an orchid caught in a frost. Bitter, familiar pain rises bile in my throat.

  “A gift? You don’t understand... It kills me.”

  She raises her hand to hold my anger. “And that helps you understand.”

  I shake my head, barely able to hear her over the growing roar in my ears.

  “We each have but one chance to understand the value of our lives. You have something to teach us, child.”

  I stand and bow to her, placing both hands together below my chest. Though I don’t agree with her, I still show her respect. I turn to reach for my yoga mat and remember I didn’t bring it.

  “Namaste,” she says to me with a bow in return. I smile coldly as I leave, as the term means ‘I salute the spirit in you.’

  What spirit? This empty shell is about to put itself on display for the world to see.

  The shadow of the yogi’s face plays across my eyes in the blurry delirium that follows the lack of oxygen. My last breath leaves me like the world breathes through me, like I leave to the world, never to return. My dying mind brings up the old woman’s words. What is there to understand? It is just the end. Again and again.

  Da holds me tighter, tighter than anyone holds another their entire life. But still, I slip away. He loses me, and I lose him. I lose everything.

  EPILOGUE

  Tentative movements part the crowd as the man lifts the frail form from the platform. A strange silence blankets the street, quiet that should be impossible for so many gathered people.

  The man doesn’t meet their gazes as he carries the lifeless body. By his mannerisms, the tenderness and care he holds her, they might think she is still alive. But there’s no chance, there’s no glow, no movement, no spark.

  Though her body is almost weightless in his arms, he is burdened by her remains. He walks through a thick shroud of grief, clenching his thick jaw to contain his emotion as he passes the crowd and starts the woesome journey down the street.

  A sleeping figure sits beside the bed, bent onto the nightstand from exhaustion. Subtle lifting and falling of his back shows his deep, rhythmic breath. His face holds the tint of aliveness and the feel of life is around him, while the bed to his left is still.

  The sun rises. The first reddish-gold rays warm the white curtains and dewy window panes.

  Movement stirs beneath the blankets and the man’s eyes open. A soft choking sounds through the quilt. As he pulls back the covers, the baby lets out her first cry. The tremulous cry of a newborn, turning her dark crimson skin scarlet.

  Gently he lifts the tiny, trembling infant in his arms. Hushing and rocking her, the infant starts to calm. She responds to the softness of the blanket he wraps her in, to the gentleness of his touch.

  The reddish pigment fades to a soft brown. Gradually, the spark of consciousness lights in her eyes. She starts to play with the blanket, looking around, taking in the room. He feels her grow heavier and longer in his arms with each passing minute.

  With paternal fondness, he runs his fingers through her growing, dark hair. Her brown eyes turn to him and her infantile play ceases.

  Joy lighting his face as much as the morning sunshine, he tickles her cheeks.

  “Hello my sweet one.”

  He smiles at him, giving a short, high squeal, and reaches to touch his face. He plays his chin against her infant hand.

  “Sweet baby, sweet child.”

  He bounces her, and soon she can sit up on her own. Her attention is drawn away, distracted by the warm light from the window. After a few minutes she looks to him, as if checking to see if he’s still there. A smile fills her face and he nuzzles against her neck to make her giggle. He holds out his hands and she examines and grabs them, trying to put them in her mouth.

  Nonsense babble pours from her and he answers back with soft, inquisitive phrases. He
r hair has grown past her ears in delicate, black curls. He kisses the top of her head, letting the sweet smell fill his senses. Her playing and babble have slowed some, becoming more purposeful. She is large enough now that she could crawl down and walk on her won, but she seems content to remain in his arms.

  He hums to her, the Hindi lori, a song brought with them from their homeland. Her features become more defined, losing the characteristic chubbiness of birth. Her chin, her cheeks, her brows etch forth with gentle, angular lines. He rocks her in the chair, holding her hand, and she stares with him at the window.

  “Da?” her very young, soft voice asks.

  “Yes, child,” he responds, holding her tighter as they both rock, enjoying the peaceful moment.

  She looks back and forth across the room, then sits up and turns back to him. Her very reflective, dark eyes stare into his.

  “Da?” she asks again. The brows on her young face knit together. Age and wisdom show through her eyes, well beyond the current age of her body. Memory lights like a spark and her gaze focuses. Her brows lift with a soft gasp.

  “Hello my Aruna,” he tells her. The anxiousness on her face amplifies and calms simultaneously.

  With a wail she buries her head against her chest, trying to hide from the truths that swell through her. He soothes her, stroking her hair, now past her shoulders. With a jerk she lifts her head and looks around.

  “It’s alright,” he reassures her.

  “But... I showed them who I am.”

  Such distress on her young face makes him tense, but he speaks calmly as he tells her, “No, they didn’t see you. Who you are is in here.” He taps two fingers over her heart. “They only saw your skin.”

  She looks to the door, expecting to see people barging in. “But they saw me die.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  She turns away, hiding her face in her hands. “I die every day.”

  He sighs and wraps his arms around her. She leans against his chest, sobbing but shedding no tears.

  “How old am I?” her young voice cracks. “How old am I really?”

  He swallows and responds, “You are thirteen.”

  She just sits quietly, letting the silence of their apartment reassure her that the government isn’t about to burst through their door.

  “You leave me every night,” he speaks softly, staring at the shades of sunlight in her hair. “Then you return to me in the morning. Where do you go?”

  Aruna gazes absently at the wall, calm in her father’s arms. After a time she responds.

  “I dream. I dream of an ocean that stretches on in every direction. Great waves rise high above the surface. Storms sometimes rage, lightning and wind crashing down. But the water below is always calm, vast and dark.”

  They both turn to the window, a low pitched mingle of sounds drifting from outside. Aruna rises, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. Reaching the window she draws back the curtain, staring down in awe.

  The street below their apartment if full of people. Collectively the crowd hushes and turns to her, the sun shining fully upon her young form. They look to her as they do the yogi, as if for guidance, though she is still just a child.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  D. M. Raver is an author of fantasy and science fiction. Her first book, BROTHER BETRAYED, was published in 2011. She has since published CITY OF SILVER, a distopian novella, THE ENCHANTRESS, an arabian fantasy, and DEEP DARK WATERS, a collection of poetry. FIRE BORN is her newest release, the first in the Flight Moon series, a collection of books she has been working on for over 20 years.

  DYING TO LIVE AGAIN is a short story based on a dream, just as CITY OF SILVER and THE ENCHANTRESS.

  Please enjoy the following sample from CITY OF SILVER:

  Enjoy this free sample of D. M. Raver’s distopian novella:

  CITY OF SILVER

  “Your reign is over, Jomicolis.”

  The words vibrate through the humming breath of a hundred onlookers. And they all face her - me - a tall woman with long braids and a satin dress.

  She stands on the floor of the immense hall, cascading light falling on her from high windows, and she watches the shaded figures seated on a balcony. Her jaw lifts as the robed councilman in the center speaks again.

  “Your sorcery has tainted the city. The people rebel. They resent you hoarding this power, refusing to share or explain.”

  “You aren’t ready,” she speaks, her voice the tail end of a sigh.

  “The people put their trust in you.”

  The queen glances back to the group of four men and women behind her. As different in dress as they are in appearance, they are united by an obvious purpose – to protect the queen and to defend their actions.

  “The riots draw near anarchy. They call you out, Jomicolis, that you would end their suffering. Yet you have nothing to offer them. Your promises were built on fruitless lies.”

  A warrior next to her tenses at that comment, but she lays a hand on his arm to calm him.

  “I have only ever wanted what is best for our people.”

  “The council has reached its decision. You and your side show attractions are relieved of rulership.”

  “Side show attractions!” a short-haired woman exclaims, her accented voice piercing through the nervous air. “We have defended this city for over a century.”

  “Defended or endangered it?” his hoarse voice responds calmly to her anger.

  “Endangered? I’ll show you endangered!” the woman returns, rivulets of flame bursting to life at her feet.

  “Treachery! Guards, don’t let them attack the Holy Council!” the speaker commands. Armed guards surround the group. The council members on the floor retreat to the walls. With guns pointed to the queen, the soldiers hesitate trying to seize her – the living flame still riling on the floor.

  “Capture her!” the speaker orders and stands, his large form hidden under his black robe. Gaining courage from their numbers, the soldiers advance on them.

  The air crackles with energy as the small group prepares to defend themselves. Two dozen rifles are trained at their hearts.

  “Stop!” the queen commands, as much to the soldiers as to her entourage. “Your violence is unnecessary.” She turns to face the robed figure standing upon the balcony. “I resign as queen of Argentar.”

  Surprised commotion fills the hall, and her five guardians turn back to her.

  “But Jomicolis...”

  “This is how it must be,” she says privately. “It is time.”

  “You are forbidden to leave! You will stand for your crimes. The people are out for blood,” the head councilman proclaims. The soldiers resume their aims.

  “Well, they won’t have it.” Jomicolis turns to the soldiers and their guns begin to melt as if they are wax, and she is the flame.

  “Stop her!” the robed figure yells, but none try as she starts to leave.

  Passing through the large two door entrance way, the queen stands with her back to the council, her shoulders tense with contained anger. As her guardians gather beside her, invisible energy slams the doors shut with a tremendous bang.

  Jomicolis takes a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil of feelings, but it only stirs them.

  “We’ll find a way out,” a tall, dark man tells her, and three of them leave quickly down the hallway.

  Jomicolis remains with a younger brown haired man, and they both gaze out the window. At the base of the large building gathers a crowd of protesters, held back by metal rails and police officers. And beyond them... more buildings just as tall, and each shines pure silver in the sunlight.

  “Look at them Raven, they are so hopeless.”

  The man gazes down at the scene, shaking. “Do you mean there is no hope for them, or that they are completely without hope?”

  “Both.”

  As they watch the city, a massive ground level explosion blasts from a nearby building, shaking the foundation. Holding
onto the rail, Jomicolis watches the billowing black smoke pour from the damaged area. Filled with anger and sadness, she looks down to the crowds of people breaking the barriers and storming inside. I – she feels she must do something.

  “We have to go!” the man urges me, grabbing my arm. But I can’t look away from the people, seeing them being shot down, more replacing them from behind.

  “No!” I scream.

  I come to my senses when a pillow smacks my face.

  Trying to wake myself out of the lingering dream, I sit up and wrap a blanket around myself to ward off the chill. I avoid my sister as she climbs down from the top bunk. She gives me a look as she lands on the floor, and I know I’m in for a lecture.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she snaps, her words colder than the drafty air of our room.

  The sensation of the dream floods back. I can almost hear the screams of the desperate people fighting to get inside. But as I return to the room all I’m faced with is her accusing glare. I know I shouldn’t bother, but her proximity and the realness of the feelings trump the warning in my head.

  “Do you ever dream you are someone else?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I dream I’m an only child so I don’t have to be woken up by my freak sister every morning.”

  “Girls, breakfast!” Mom calls from the kitchen.

  With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Malane turns away from me and goes to her trunk. Wrapping the blanket tighter, but feeling no comfort from it, I push aside the cloth door and enter the common room.

  Mom is at the sink with her back to me. This gives me a moment to collect myself before making the morning greeting. I pour some cereal and try to eat, but my stomach becomes a mess of knots when my sister sits down at the table.

  Then a slur of cursing and crashing erupts from Jarn, seated with a pile of wires and equipment on the other side of the room. Mom rushes over to help him, eliciting another eye roll from Malane.