Deamons

Chapter 8 Scared with Death part 3

"There's no one for you. Your alone in this world boy," Rejection coaxes pushing his words up towards the inner ear. Starke looks forward toward his parents riding in the front. They seem to be miles away like when you looked to the ground from up in a plane. His world looks darker overshadowed by death and inside and out. He closes his eyes wanting to imagine life if he were someone else. Somewhere with people who loved him. The deamons hear every word. The ones he spoke and the ones he thought. He needs to go much deeper for them not to hear. "You're not loved boy. You are you. That is all you will ever be. A pathetic crumb for crows to feast upon. A piece of shit floating in a stream that sours the water," Pity goes on and on. Rejection never stops him as he did in the past. Starke eyes shut hard as he bops back and forth like a buoy bouncing about in the waves.

"Please God send my guardian angel to watch over me," Starke prays. "What good is that," Death whispers wistfully wafting by following the now rancid smell of the body's death bowel movement. Starke fights the urge to regurgitate the tuna salad sandwich he had for lunch. The body gurgles. Gases forming as bacteria break down proteins within. Bacteria have free reign now. Homeostasis lost its hold upon the body when death came. The temperature of the body is rising now beyond what it maintained during life. Things inside the once viable man held back by life processes were battling for supremacy now. Eating away every mortal thing that was him. His father backs up then whips the hearse forward quickly making a turn at the same time. The body wobbles. The belly shifts. It is coming his way. Starke has a fraction of a second to discern what is happening then take action. He rolls in place, looking up to the lifeless face that is staring back at him. One eye sunken, sort of shallowing back into the socket like cove water falling back during low tide. The other is out there man. The eye bloodshot as it could possibly be, a seven-day martini run with the masters of barflydom is the only way an eye on the living side of things could look like that. The skin is mottled red and purple then toward the bottom of the face, the side that it rested upon to long after death is all a reddish purple. The blood had fallen and settled there. It is called lividity.

Starke fears touching that bile bomb of a belly. The cot is shifting his way fast. No time for any further assessment. His good right arm just shoots out without any direct command from him. The body is still coming his way. Then his other arm shoots out. Both working in unison. Still this is not enough. He can see the metal tilting toward him. The straps are holding now but the wheels are lifting on the far side. He hooks his hands in and digs his elbows in locking up his body then twisting using every ounce that is in him keeping death from plummeting on him.

"Look at his eyes. Those eyes as wasted as they are have seen love. Somewhere someone cries for him. No one cries for you," Death controls Pity and Envy now helping develop them. Working with the pair like a chorus to sing those words. They were rough but he had them moving in the right direction. He could see how they could work to do wicked damage weakening Starke for his feast day. Also, he could see at least some of Rejections plan, it was ugly. Nice and ugly the way they all wanted it to be. Then Death puts a hand up signaling silence. He has them all kneel over and whisper to Starke's inner ear. "You are nothing. You're worthless. This man was loved in life unlike you. You are not loved at all, not even liked. This man is worth more to your father in death then you are to him living. He makes his living off of the money loved ones pay him to care for their departed relatives. What do you bring? Nothing! You are nothing but a burden to them! They would be happy without you," the deamons said. Then death beckons them to back away into the darkness just a little bit so only he could be heard. So powerful, they said his words were, he had to whisper. He dares not scream. Bad, horrible things happened when he screamed. "Starke, you would be better off dead. Go die and be with your dead grandfather. Finally, be with a spirit that loves you. That wants to play ball with you, go fishing, talk with you. Be interested in what you think. Want to know what you like, what make you tick. Share how you are alike. What not to do. Tell you why your belly wants to fly away every time you see that pretty girl," Death could chide on but Rejection wanders over and kneeling down shews Death away. "Perhaps he wants to show he is still in charge," Envy says slyly.

The hearse stops. He is so relieved. He wants to run in the house and wash his hands. The bile that spewed before he got in reached the metal. He told himself not to think about it while he had to hold on. Now that they were stopped he wanted out and to put all this behind him. He waits. Had it been minutes? No one opens the door. He looks up his parents were out. Why were they not opening the door? Should he holler for them? It is summer and hot, over ninety degrees. The smell of the body is all over him. The stench burrowing into his skin. The smell of feces so gross stuck in his nose. Then the sweet smell of the bile mixes with something that burns the back of his throat. Ugly death is wine to his deamons.

Then it happens his father comes back but and sits in the front by himself. Only his mother went in. He thought they forget him. "Dad," Starke says in little more than a whisper. "Dad," he says again only slightly louder. The hearse is moving again. Backing out of his driveway quick. He readies himself for the whipping back turn. His hands slip on the rail of the cot where he holds it and pushing to keep it from tipping. Where he has cuts on his hands burn in like mild battery acid from the bile. He gets past feeling sick. This is about survival now.

Inside. The deamons are feasting all furious over every bit of fear. "You aren't like any other kid you know. You are the shit on the sidewalk that people avoid stepping in," Envy whispers. "Why me. Poor me. I am unlovable an if only I could just shrink up to nothing and be unnoticeable," Pity repeats over and over again. "Look at him. He had a family that loved him. Maybe if you were dead you would be loved. Look at him. No more pain. Total peace. The kiss of death has healed every psychic wound. He is more at peace then you can ever possibly be in this lonely life," Death's voice is silky and soothing like fresh aloe on a raw burn. The seed is planted Starke is romancing the idea of death in his mind.