Mr. Poe

Sounds of staggered breaths make their way from the entrance of the candle lit room. Sawyer takes small steps towards the noise, hoping not to disturb the man that is just inside. The man of early years slowly coils his fingers around the frame of the fading oak door and pulls himself forward. His eyes see one of the greatest writers the city has ever seen: Edgar Allan Poe. What Sawyer sees next causes a wave of sorrow to fall over him. Poe's face is laying in the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on his desk that more resembles a table. Scattered papers litter the surface, a cup of ink on its side with the quill barely inside. A crumpled paper balled in Edgar's fist catches his curiosity.

Sawyer steps into the light with his hands clasped behind his back, causing his stance to straighten. With a cautious voice, like a child to an angered father he speaks, "Mr. Poe?"

Edgar's head flies up to the slim boy in front of him, but before Sawyer can take in the writer's expression, Poe slides the back of his hand over his eyes. His palms push against the mahogany table and he stands, gliding his hands down the front of his black vest. Poe releases a shaky breath and turns to Sawyer, "What is it, boy?"

Sawyer's green eyes focus hard on the chipped wooden floor and he runs his tongue slightly over his lips, "Is something the matter, sir?" He flits his gaze to the older gentleman's.

"Nothing's the matter," Edgar spurts out quickly. "Now off with you. I have work to attend to down the street at the pub." Poe grabs his charcoal black coat, taking rushed steps past Sawyer.

The brown haired boy runs after Edgar's heavy thudding feet, "Mr. Poe, please. Don't drown yourself in the Devil's venom. The contents of that parchment can be addressed. I can help you, sir. I can help you through this-." Sawyer is suddenly cut short by Edgar spinning around in a hault and Sawyer almost falls on top of him.

Fury burned in Edgar's eyes and he growls through clenched teeth, "You know nothing, peasant! The words in the letter are none of your concern. You have been following my footprints for ages as a shadow. Why is it that only my eyes view your body that is blind to others? What makes you so attached to my leg as a small child would do? What do you care if I end up rotting on a hill?"

A loud gulp slides down Sawyer's throat. He cannot tell the legend that the young lad standing before him is living without a bone in his body, living without a beating heart. The news would poison the already darkened mind of Poe.

"The talks of my being are not important. You are my hero, Mr. Poe. Your writing speaks truth that other's quills fear to stroke into existence. If death takes you," Sawyer pauses then speaks again. "A legend will be lost to this world that needs it the most," Sawyer answers with a truthful strain in his voice as if an old rope was tugging at his throat. Poe bore his eyes into Sawyer's soul. There is a hint of shock in his stare but is easily masked by annoyance.

"Bunk off, Shadow," Poe hollers waving his hand aggressively through the air, "I do not need your words of lies. Be gone!" With a swing of his hands, he stalked away down the hall and out into the cold October air. The stubborn boy let out a huff and followed the dismal man with great distance.

The cold breeze bites at Sawyer's small nose as he takes cautious steps on the brick sidewalk behind Edgar. The distressed man isn't aware of the presence of Sawyer. Poe wasn't lying, as he enters The Horse. Sawyer decides it is best to wait for Edgar .His back hits the damp stone wall and slides down till he's sitting on the wet cold ground.

Sawyer has been sitting still for what seems like a lifetime for Poe to exit the pub. His hands fidget impatiently in his lap as various people walk by and none of them being the man he's looking for. Sawyer hears shuffling feet against the ground in the alleyway of The Horse. Turning his head towards the noise and spots a black figure stumbling over his feet, its shoulder hugging the damp wall for support. To the boy's happiness, he recognizes Mr. Poe. The corners of his mouth fall once the black mass tumbles to the hard rock below him, the clinking of the glass bouncing off the narrow walls. Sawyer's feet quickly guide him to Edgar as he falls to his knees next to the unconscious heap. He cups his hands around Poe's cheeks and shakes him lightly in efforts of waking him up. Sawyer tastes salty tears cascading down his face as he mutters soft pleas of 'wake up, sir' or 'please don't go, please'.

A scream tears through his mouth, "You aren't supposed to die, you oaf! I need your help to move on, only you can do it. Wake up!" Sawyer chokes on an unforgiving sob as he vigorously continues to shake the paled man. Sawyer bows his head in defeat as his body shudders in sadness and leans into Edgar's chest and rests. There was no hope of peace for the poor boy now.

Laughter fills Sawyer's ears and he looks up to see a couple holding hands down the strip. Shaking, he gets up and waits silently for the two to see his hero lying deathly pale.Panic fills their eyes as they rush over to Edgar. In mere seconds, a crowd gathers around the esteemed writer. Cries of those who recognize the man fill empty crisp air.

Within a blink, Sawyer sits in a chair next to the hospital bed where Poe now lies. His hands are clasped together as he bounces his knee impatiently. Poe is alive, that's all that matters to Sawyer. He hears footsteps coming through the entryway as the doctor and nurse walks in. Many sighs fill the room with a glance at the ghostly white Edgar.

"This doesn't look good, Mabel," the doctor's voice trails off in uncertainty.

"What will be the cause though, dear doctor? There must be a reason for his sudden illness."

Doctor Moran lets out a distressed sigh, "I'm not sure, it could be many things. The poor man has a dark past."

Suddenly, Edgar speaks but it's not to the two at the end of his bed. It's to Sawyer. "Didn't I say to leave me be," Edgar spits at Swayer.

"But sir, I want to help you. I need you to continue with your writing," Sawyer speaks softly with sincere eyes.

"I would rather be skinned and tanned than help you find this invisible peace you seek. Begone! Begone, I say, demon," Edgar roars thrashing his arms wildly around. The nurse stands aghast at the sight before her. Moran rushes over to Poe in efforts to calm him down, but fails to do so. "Why must you haunt me, enigmatic creature? I haven't done the slightest thing to anger his mighty, yet here lies a ghost of my mistakes. Away with your blackness. Away!"

Sawyer looks down slightly with tears threatening to fall once again and then gently says, "As you wish, Mr. Poe," with that statement Sawyer vanishes with a quick blink of Edgar's eyes that show pure horror. The boy who showed up on his doorstep unannounced disappears with a snap of his fingers. Edgar's eyes become heavy from the movement, his eyes roll back as he falls with a thump onto the bed.

The date is October 9th, 1849. The writer of "The Raven", "Fall of the House of Usher", "The Tell-tale Heart", and so much more has met his demise. Sawyer stands before the grave of his idol, clouds masking the sun, but he shows no signs of weeping over the lost soul. In his right hand, he loosely grasps a single red rose and in his left, a bottle of brandy. He kneels down on one knee, placing the flower on the step of the stone then he stands once again, uncapping the bottle and then tips it to the side over the broken tundra saying, "One for the road." He proceeds to pour half of the alcohol onto the dirt. He plugs the bottle up, standing it next to the rose, "One for your return."

Sawyer studies the letters of the name he admires so much still, standing there for what seems to be years. A deep breath escapes his lips as he leans forward and gently presses his lips to the stone just above the raven. He pulls back slightly, placing his forehead where his lips were and whispers, "Your turn to be a mystery, Mr. Poe." With those last words, Sawyer walks away into the middle of the molding tombs, soon fading away with a gust of wind taking the memory of his being with him.