Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 21: HOW TO DIE TWICE - NESS

This night might be the strangest adventure of my life. Yet, I'm still here. I haven't turned back to the office after this peculiar woman appeared in an alley and seduced me into following her up a ladder. I also didn't call the police when she let herself fall off the roof. Completely against my training.

I sat there and gaped when she reappeared. Full of wonder. She didn't die. She didn't have a single scratch on her beautiful, sleek form.

I didn't question following her across rooftops, full well knowing I was risking my own hide. Something about Grace blinds me with awe. The fascination lead me here. Into the old Pullman Yard. A place I was taught to avoid after dusk. Really during any time, but especially when the night fell. Drug dealers and the shadows of society were supposedly taking hold of this territory. Nothing good happened here if I recall the tales.

While they were right, I don't think they fully accounted for what I just witnessed. It still sits in my bones. The image of the body swaying. Hung by the feet. Dripping blood and slowing filling a bucket below.

Drip.

I shudder as I hoist myself up onto another roof. Grace told me her story. She told me what happened when she woke up in this new body. Her months of vengeance. I listened intently. Lying on the concrete floor of this forgotten place, playing with strands of her hair. I should have run.

She told me how after a few years she'd been found out once. Discovered for what she was. She had married. I felt a small pang of unwarranted jealousy. Deep in my stomach. Grace had fallen in love and married a wonderful, kind man. But he found his new bride to be very strange. To only entertain at night. Not wanting to have tea or luncheons. She pretended to be very sensitive to the sun. An illness. At first, he understood. But his mother got wary and finally, he got angry with her and one day yanked the curtains open. The pain was indescribable. She couldn't help herself. Couldn't control it. Her adoring, young love died in a frenzy of her rage and when she came back to normal, she could barely remember what she had done.

In that moment I understood why she wanted to die. She wouldn't be able to love someone openly without fear of killing them. Ever. I traced her porcelain skin under the lobe of her ear. Where the sensitive part of her neck made her hair rise to my fingers' command.

She continued telling me the story. How she inherited the house. But her mother-in-law didn't let up. One day, when Grace was locked away in the darkness, her husband's mother brought the town registrar and the mayor with her. They burned her at the stake that night. No trial. No questions. That pain was worse than death.

I gulped. I never thought I would agree to help someone die. Let alone become part of this elaborate, crazy plan we're now enacting. But in that moment. I nodded and I agreed. Not because she would likely kill me otherwise. Somehow I am not afraid of her.

Now we stand on the old, rusted beams of the roof. The train cars rest below. And I'm holding a gun.

I've never held one before. The cold metal cools my palm.

My hands are shaking and my heart skips a beat. This is crazy. I'm holding a gun, pointing it at a person. No, I remind myself. Not a person. Someone who ceased to be a person long ago.

"Safety is off. All you have to do is -"

Grace is trying to calm me down, but it's not working one bit.

"This is insane. I can't do this."

This isn't real, I tell myself. But this stupid gun feels about as real as the wobbly roof below.

"Why can't you shoot yourself?" A question I never thought would come out of my mouth.

"I've tried. I think it might have to be someone else doing the deed. A human." I blink at her. It doesn't make sense. Not fully. But nothing about this crazy night made sense to me and yet...

I exhale and hold the revolver. My hands are shaking. So is the damn gun.

Grace comes closer and tells me to hold it with both hands and breathe. Somehow that irks me. Similar to telling someone in an argument to calm down. I start pacing and waving the silly weapon through the air.

"I can't shoot you. I can't shoot anyone." It's true. I save lives. It's my job. I talk people out of this sort of scenario.

"Yes, you can." She's steady. Ready to die.

It makes me even more nervous.

"You picked the wrong person. I try to save people." I'm shouting. I don't know why, but it's a small release of the confusing emotions bubbling up inside of me.

"You would be saving me." I can't argue. She's right.

"Why me?"

She smiles. Such a sad smile. So beautiful.

"You picked up the phone."

I take a deep breath. Vampires are not real. This is not real. Grace approaches. She places the gun against her chest. Her hand on mine. Strokes my cheek. Soft and calming. Our eyes meet.

"Just pull the trigger."

"No."

"Come on. Just one little flick of your finger."

I shake my head. No. I can't shoot her.

She cups my head softly with one hand. Strong but not forceful. Brow to brow we stand and I stare into her ice-blue eyes. Mesmerizing. Like the ocean in a tropical land. I lose myself in them. A huff of a breath escapes me and gives away my utter helplessness. I lower my eyes. My head clears when I see the partial roof and the concrete looming far, far below.

"Look at me." Grace says and caresses my ear with her thumb. This is not fair.

"No." I can resist her. She isn't real.

But Grace doesn't play fair. Swift and smooth, she snags my jaw and presses a kiss onto my lips. The world ceases to spin. Her lips are soft and cool. A small noise escapes my throat.

Defenses down. Grace retracts, smiles at my surprised face, and forces my finger to PULL THE TRIGGER.

A SCREAM escapes me as the SHOT RINGS clear.

Grace falls back and plummets through the broken beams down. DOWN.

For a moment, the night goes silent. I hear no cars in the distance, no sirens, no rain, not a single noise of the usual cacophony that shrouds the city in busy life. The shot reverberates in the air and in my bones.

Then I blink and snap back to reality.

I drop onto my knees. Scanning the floor below. I see the train car. The spot where we laid and shared stories.

There. Wood and pieces of plaster, but Grace stares up at me, lifeless. She's dead.