Hold the Light

by Ryan Sherwood

  As quiet as his whisper, he let out a breath that shot out a thin blue light. The light was so brisk that I wasn't sure if I even saw it. Then his body went limp. I released the arms of the chair from their torture and leaned in towards my best friend. Hovering over him, I surveyed him with my eyes as much as possible, not trusting the unpredictable situation. I held his right wrist and couldn't find a pulse. He was clammy and cold, enveloped by a strange sense of frailty. Lumped in the chair like a sick infant without the means to move, a frigid air circled around his body.

  Dear God, he's dead!

  I tried to shake him awake, but no matter how hard I pulled at him, his body was limp. My mind raced and I panicked. I looked about the room searching for something, but I didn't know what. I rested my finger below his nose and felt no breath. I contemplated CPR but I didn't know how to administer it beyond what I've seen in TV. Gathering my wits in a solemn breath, I stood and debated to move him; he looked so uncomfortable slouching in the chair.

  The room's stark white walls became bright and I had to squint. I carefully reached to lift him up, but goose bumps littered my skin and stopped me. I didn't want to touch him. I didn't know what to do. I took a deep breath to calm myself. Slowly and safely I reached my hands under both his armpits. I locked my knees and lifted him. His head cocked back on his limp neck and I jerked trying to catch it. His gaping mouth shut with a hard snap of chattering teeth and I jerked his body to get a better stance. Protective of his head as it rolled onto his left shoulder, I flinched, thinking I was hurting him. Silence tickled my ears as Randy limply pressed against me.

  "Sorry," I whispered to him.

  No breath or sound stirred anywhere. I put my ear to his chest and it was vacant of a recognizable heartbeat. My eyes were wild. I scanned over his pallid face and felt nauseous. I thought I was holding a corpse. My fingers trembled and I began to loose my grip.

  "No, you can't be dead Randy, no ...I don't know what to do." I said beginning to sob. "This isn't real, you feel like a doll. You can't be dead!"

  I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself again. My teeth began to chatter.

  "911. I'll call 911," I rationalized.

  Through my wet eyes, I scanned the apartment for the phone.

  Randy's head rolled back. I stopped. I looked at him curiously. His limp body became heavier and my muscles tried to compensate. His muscles tensed and I held strong. His pale skin began to color. A shiver ran over my flesh like a frigid stream as life flushed back into him. My heart skipped a beat and I let go of him. Randy shot back to life like a bolt of lightning powered him. Color returned to his face. I stumbled backwards and hit the floor. He rolled his eyes forwards and reached out to me.

  "That was a really long one," he said.

  "What the HELL was that?!"

  "The gift in action. No-one has ever seen it take place like you just did. Well, that I know of. Tell me, what exactly did I do?"

  "Al ..." I muttered in shock.

  "What? Al?"

  "Al .... Al ....Alcohol. I need a drink."

  Chapter 37

  It was hard to settle down and even harder to find a bottle in my sister's house. Thankfully, a bottle of whiskey was hidden behind the breakfast cereal cabinet in the kitchen. Pouring a full glass, I splashed in some ice and sat back down. Even after a few big gulps, I was still bewildered. I scanned around her apartment looking for a distraction, but came across more pictures of my sister littering the walls. I rolled my eyes and scanned further until I came across a small crucifix. It was our grandmother's; it didn't seem to fit well in her place. It captured my attention. The depiction of Christ was dreary and his penitent eyes stared at me. Our eyes locked until I shook my head and realized I was staring at a sculpture. I looked at Randy but was quickly drawn back to the sculpture. Then it began to hit me. I wondered if we'd ever be safe from persecution.

  I swirled the ice around the walls of the glass to distract myself. In vain, I repeatedly attempted to talk to Randy, but when I opened my mouth my bottom lip would just dangle. With every failed word that wouldn't come out of my mouth, I compensated with another drink. He had explained so much to me as I drank yet so much didn't want to make sense. It all seemed so damned magical; like some unreal fantasy. I stopped believing in such childish things long ago. But that massive convict was definitely not fantasy. Larger than life but not fantasy.

  "The convict will come again," Randy warned. "He is linked or informed in some manner. He knows when I kill and seems to be able to hone in and follow some trail I leave. I will be found no matter what efforts I make to stay hidden."

  I noticed he called it killing, like he was fully responsible. He didn't seem responsible for much when he was dead limp in my arms.

  "What's the deal with him anyway?" I asked.

  "The convict? Well, from what I have pieced together, he is old. The demon had made a deal with him centuries ago. His soul for the gift. He lived on but was apprehended in the thirties and pushed into my cell. That's most of what I know. His arrest was the end of him and the beginning for me. The demon obtained the gift somehow, gave it to the convict, and he gave it to me. I've searched the gift, asked it questions and probed it for information. But I cannot seem to wrestle much out of it."

  "Why now? Why is he after you now?'

  "I have been ...well, let us just say that I have been less than enthusiastic about the role I have been playing. Since the convict died, it appears I have been given a trial run to fill his shoes. I figure the demon uses the gift to torment the convict. After many decades, the gift has grown and taken its toll on me. The demon knows that the convict is faithful and maybe even addicted to the gift. The demon knows it has a servant in the convict. Which makes me expendable. He brought the convict back for an encore because it is sick of dealing with me."

  "Alright. Whatever. It's still a bit of a tall tale, but I trust you. I don't know why, but I do. But now what?"

  I watched him rise and walk to the window and realized why I believed him. I knew I was tangled in this already, somewhere deep down I knew, yet I couldn't help but to wonder when I knew. With my mother? With my father? I could never know, I can only remember what seemed important. But I think I believed him because deep down I knew much more than I was willing to admit. That and, as I retell this, I cannot remember a time, it seems, that this gift didn't haunt me in some way or another.

  Randy brushed the curtain aside and looked toward the afternoon sun that illuminated him for the first time in hours. He leaned his left hand onto the window and sunk his head down. My sister would have instantly yelled at him for leaving a greasy handprint, but the scene looked like a painting. All the glowing brightness of the sun peeked through the crack in the curtain as it tumbled down on Randy, over his black trench coat. It was a painting that a master would have done. The moment carried the burden he was lugging. His life, my life, and everyone else's in fact were resting in his hands. Resting there, waiting for their fate. As his shoulders drooped I could imagine that he could see all his victims asking him, with their big, round, childlike eyes if everything was going to be all right. Hoping that he wouldn't fail.

  He lifted his head and turned to me, revealing a twinkling wet line that ran down his cheek.

  Randy had never cursed, been derogatory, or shown an abundance of emotion until recently. But now, he was crying. I knew that he had more years than anyone to reflect and change his ways, but he was stubborn and all his years had probably made him even more stubborn. Seeing him cry, I knew he was scared for his life for the first time in his six decades, but I don't think that was why he cried. I think it was for me. He had dragged me into a situation of life and death and didn't know how to save me.

  The difficulty of understanding his own death, since he had been Death for a lifetime, was understandable. Yet he knew more about demise than anyone. Randy had seen plenty of people scared to die, but experiencing the fear of death for the first time in ages was completely different. His
tears told me that he realized he hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with it. Knowing he was being watched and his days being numbered finally broke him down, but with a stiff hand and pride, he wiped his tears away.

  "No. Death comes only in moments of weakness and I will be strong. I will beat this demon. My own and the other," he spoke to the window.

  "We will find a way," he said, turning to me. And I believed him again.

  Chapter 38

  We tried to stay out of my sister's place as much as possible, only using it for sleeping and bathing. Randy figured the convict and the demon would show up there once I was involved. We ate out often, caught lots of movies, and wandered the city. We did whatever we could to stay occupied and keep our spirits up, but we only had a week and a half left until my sister came home and only so much money.

  One sunny day, when out walking to get groceries, I noticed a church up a block ahead of us.

  "Could we hide out in a church Randy?"

  "No."

  "Why not? It's holy ground. Demons are unholy. Makes sense to me."

  "That does not matter," Randy answered.

  "Fine then," I pouted.

  Randy let out a sigh, "What do you want to know, George?"

  Biting on my lower lip, I asked, "How did this all come about? Why doesn't the church protect us?"

  "I truthfully do not know. I have pieced together much from the sparse memories of the convict left in the gift," Randy replied then sighed. "It is all about sparse memories. And only the bad ones. It skips over all the good in my life and the convict's life..."

  He paused and in his head, I'm sure he followed with "...and your life."

  I might have caught it then but I didn't realize it later.

  "Yet" Randy continued. "I have no idea where or how the gift originated and I really do not care. There is no reason to wonder."

  "Is it the devil?" I asked as we both stopped in front of the church.

  "No, I do not think so."

  "This all doesn't sound much like what the Bible or anything else says about death," I queried.

  "I have given up on figuring that out. All the holy books are either misinterpreted too much to trust fully or this may have nothing to do with any religion."

  "How can that be?" I asked. "What else is there?"

  "Everything. Everything is your answer. Everything down here. All I know is what I am. Nothing else matters. The best that I can figure is that I am to play this game and take lives from people. From the good and the bad. I am not privy to the great scheme of life, if there even is one. What I do know is that I feel like a vigilante. All the evidence I have gathered is so shaky that no logic stands strong. All I do is take souls, I do not even know where they go and why I take them."

  I could tell Randy was growing weary, but he knew I was curious. It was better to have me know the ropes than go into the ring blindfolded.

  "All right, that's enough school for now. Let's go home," I concluded.

  We walked in silence for a moment. My legs and arms felt heavy.

  "Let us spend the rest of the week here and then head to my sister's place," Randy added, changing the subject. "It is only fair, plus she is not too far from here."

  "Oh yeah, that's right," I said, "How old is your sister?"

  "She is about eighty," Randy answered.

  My eyes bulged in amazement as I stared at him. I quickly blinked and shook my head. "Yeah, I forget that you stayed looking like a super-model."

  "I guess," he smirked. "Do not make fun or I will get a group of my model friends to vomit on you."

  He lightened up for the first time in days. That quick smile he flashed got me thinking about our carefree college days. He reverted back into the Randy I knew so well, the one I knew before I knew he had the gift. Well, before I knew he had it. I began to wonder how he was so carefree in college with such a depressing burden on his soul. I guessed he had gotten used to the struggle, but my real worry was that if he was able to be so jovial with the gift before, why is he so sad now? Does he know something? Does he know he or I will die?

  I cut off my line of thinking and focused back on Randy. It was nice to see him this way again even it was only for a short time.

  "So I guess it must have been hard for your sister to watch you stay the same age while her and your family grew old?" I questioned.

  "I imagine her friends thought she had a young gentleman caller as of late," Randy laughed and then quickly turned serious. "Her and her husband had been the greatest help to me all these years. Well, until her husband died."

  Randy became encompassed in a far-off and remorseful gaze then continued, "I wish I could see my niece and nephews more, though."

  "Seems she's quite the sneak," I said.

  "She was and still is perfect."

  We continued to walk until we passed the church and a gated cemetery appeared from around the corner. Randy quickly became fully engrossed with the graveyard.

  "What do you see?" I asked.

  In an unexpected turn, Randy ran for the cemetery. All the groceries he was carrying plummeted to the sidewalk and he sprinted away from me. I leaned over and scooped up the bags between the things I was carrying and watched him. He stopped at the fence that lined the cemetery and stared in. Walking along slowly, he gripped each thin metal bar of the fence like he was hunting something. Eventually, he stopped and peeked his nose through the bars as if he spotted prey.

  I slowly followed, but couldn't see much. I tried not to disturb him. We both must have looked ridiculous. I got about ten feet from him when he slapped his hand against the bars, creating a low vibrating hum.

  "Damn it," he said.

  "What?"

  "Come out you coward," he yelled, ignoring me, "You are always around, stalking, lurking, scheming - just show your putrid face!"

  A flock of pigeons fluttered a fit into the air, scattering off far and away.

  "What're you ..."

  Randy ran around the fence into the cemetery, erratically weaving past headstones. His boots were loose and he couldn't maintain much speed, but didn't go far until he slapped his hands atop a tombstone.

  "You are worse than a disease," Randy said, turning around and walking back towards me, "At least a disease has the guts to stick around to fight."

  A little rattled and confused, I watched from behind the bars as his shadow stretched out towards my feet. Randy flipped up the bottom of his black trench coat, leaned up against the palisade with his back facing me, and sat on the grass. He raised his hand and gave a big wave for me to join him. Air hung low and damp around us, heavier than the surrounding smoggy streets. Wind trembled by unevenly, but never disturbed the humid air. It became cumbersome to breathe.

  "Come on in," Randy beckoned. "It is safe."

  "No way, graveyards give me the creeps, and especially more so now," I replied as I leaned against the fence. Dusk was falling fast yet gently.

  "Come George, this is the most peaceful place I know of," Randy implored.

  "There's just something about a place with a bunch of dead people...it's unsettling."

  "George, you have no idea."

  The graveyard was spacious. It looked too big to be inside the city. It should be out in the open, not able to be compared to the skyscrapers. Yet Randy fit right in with the tombstones. I had a strange feeling so I stayed out.

  "It is nice not to see faces, though," Randy blurted.

  "What faces?" I asked trying to keep up.

  "Anyone's. These people here don't have faces anymore. They're all dead and gone, only left in someone else's memories. Not mine."

  "What're you talking about Randy?" I asked, growing worried.

  "I have to look into their faces, into their eyes. I retrieve their souls from their mouths so they see me when I take it. All of them, every single one, look into my eyes. Then they give me a look."

  "A look of what?"

  "Of terror, of hope, of distrust - the point is, whatever the lo
ok is, it is their last. And it is horrid. I have to see his or her eyes tremble and lips plead, and it seems to be a new look each time from each person. Their souls get sucked out so quickly, that it is like looking at the sun. The image is permanently burned into my mind. After awhile, I got used to it and began to purposely look. Now, I have to see. I had to remind myself of just what I am. I am a killer. A vigilante. I just wish I knew my purpose. Death has me and life cannot outweigh it. I cannot ..."

  "Take it easy Randy," I interrupted.

  He sat there for a moment, deciding not to finish his sentence. He diverted himself to the ground and dug into the soil. Fingers burrowing deep, he slowly scooped up a chunk of dirt and grass, lifted it up to his face, and stared at it strangely like it induced a memory. A recollection that hurt him deeply. The way he was examining it - the sorrow in his face - began to worry me.