I always seemed to have a fascination with death.
By fascination I mean a fearing curiosity that could not be quenched, for death seems to surround me where ever I turned.
I use to think of it as my curse, even at a young age I knew it wasn't normal to look at a man on the street and think, quite certainly: He's going to die.
There is not a moment in my life where death ceases to haunt me.
I can recall my earliest memory quite vividly.
My aunt's house was decorated in pink streamers while plastic bottles and baby carriages were scattered on the tables. The house was full of laughter and joy at the news of the baby and my aunt stood beaming with pride as she rubbed her round tummy.
It was perfect.
Well, it would have been picture-perfect if I hadn't been crying softly in the corner.
My father approached and crouched down to my level.
"What's wrong Blaire Bear?" He asked softly.
He was expecting to hear that a toy had broken or that my cousin had stolen the end piece of the cake. For what does a child of four have to worry about besides such things?
"Why are they so happy?" I whimpered out as I tried to wipe away the tears with my small hands.
My father furrowed his brow in confusion, "Well, Aunt Lori is going to have a baby! Wouldn't you like another little cousin?"
"But she's dead!" I wailed as I broke into tears once again.
Everyone gave us looks after my strange outcry and my father tried to sooth my sorrowful spirits with a sugary treat.
That memory seems to be seared in my brain, never to be forgotten. Along with the memory of the small casket of a stillborn slowly descending to the earth as my Aunt Lori watched, awfully pale and tearful.
As I grew older and I realized how unusual these thoughts and intuitive feelings seemed to be I tried to ignore them. It felt, at first, like I was closing my eyes to the obvious; like I was closing my eyes and stating that the sun had disappeared completely from the world because I merely couldn't see it.
I knew I was only ignoring the truth.
But the longer I ignored, the less I felt it and the more I could feel Death slink back into hiding.
I forgot, however, that death was a beast, and it only remained silent when it was preparing to pounce.
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I was never the superstitious one, which seemed to drive my Nan mad.
Her and her family moved from Ireland to America when she was a child, so that meant that she still firmly believed in all of the myths of the Fae.
As a child she was convinced that a Faery had chosen to torment her just because she wouldn't allow it to steal away a strand of her blonde hair.
"Oh, If I hadn't been so vain." She would sigh as she recounted the story to me, "They'll likely torment me to my grave!"
As a child I would help Nan Faery-proof her whole house, sometimes working through the night to make sure no unwanted visitors could enter.
"Why do we want to keep them out?" I asked her one day as she was boiling some water for tea.
"They're not the greatest house guests," She said smiling down at me.
I thought about it for a moment, searching Nan's face. She had never spoken about the faeries in a tone of disdain, but I always sense a sort of fearful admiration.
"Are they evil?" I asked softly.
Nan hummed in thought, "They have no sense of right or wrong. I don't think it's just to call them evil, perhaps just mischievous."
The kettle screamed, announcing the end of the conversation as I was left to wondering what mischievous actually meant. It was the first thing I asked my dad when he picked me up from her house.
I watched him consider me through the rearview mirror of the car. "Erm, playful I suppose."
There was nothing I could find wrong with playful, at least, at that time.
"Nan," I asked softly the next day, "If faeries are just mischievous creature, and they're not evil, why don't we catch one?"
Nan stopped mid-sip, the steam from her tea fogged her glasses as her eyes widened.
"Why would we do that?" She asked, a bit pale at the thought.
I shrugged, "Have you ever seen one?"
Her eyes became distant as she lost herself in a memory, a slight smile flashing across her face.
"Their wings felt like a light breeze against my cheeks as they flew by, their whole body illuminated by magic. I hardly believed my eyes when I saw one tugging on my hair, chattering angrily at me."
"What did it sound like?" I asked, lost in my imagination.
"Like the softest chime of bells that can be heard by human ears."
There was a pause before she spoke again, setting down her cup on the table. "Blaire."
I had recognized that tone, my dad had used it on my several times when he tried to make a point about something. I called it the, no-funny-business tone. I opened my eyes and the wonderment of Nans story faded away.
Nan sighed when she saw how I sobered so quickly, she was never one for seriousness, that was all my dad.
Nevertheless her gaze was stern, trying to ingrain the words she spoke very carefully into my impressionable mind."We must never capture, seek, or befriend a faery."
"Why not?" I ventured.
"Because while they are neither good or bad, they can hold a grudge for a very long time if angered, imparting curses and torments upon you and your family."
I processed her words, but then searched her eyes as I asked, "Is that why you're afraid of them?"
One night stuck particularly in my mind. Dad buckled me in the car thinking I was asleep, little did he know I woke up shortly after only to see my dad holding my Nan tightly. I could barely see her in the streetlight, but I could tell that she was crying.
"It's all my fault." She had whispered to my dad.
He only shushed her gently and I quickly pretended I was asleep before they could realize that I had woken up. It was the date of my mother's death, I had almost forgotten if it hadn't been for that moment.
She looked down, smiling sadly as she said, "It is best to leave them alone."
Noticing the heaviness in the air she lifted my chin, "Cheer up, little one! No faery can bother us as long as I've got my little guardian."
She ruffled my hair so that it hung messily in my eyes, we laughed and left the topic of faery capturing behind us.
Nan always called me her little guardian, to this day actually. She believes with all her heart that I have an amazing super power to ward off the faeries, for the faeries seldomly tried to enter when I visited. I grew up, however, and Nan's stories became less and less probable. I soon came to realize that this superpower was hardly a superpower at all.
The faeries never came, because the faeries never existed in the first place.
After this gradual reality check, I left the tradition of guarding the house with Nan to my younger sister, Fiona. Now she hangs on her every word, believing the stories that Nan told me with wide eyes.
Although I tried to convince myself that believing in those stories was childish, I still found myself heeding Nan's advice and usually faced my shoes away from my bed at night. It was more out of habit than anything, for I knew the faeries weren't really responsible for tangling my hair while I slept. My unruly red curls didn't need any interference from any form of mythical creature.
Although, whether or not I believed, I was still happy that summer, the summer before everything changed.
You see, Nan was a paranoid creature of habit. She was never open to the unknown and always cautious of how her actions could upset the mythical world around her. That is why I was surprised when I met him.
When we first arrived Nan hugged and kissed her two favorite, and only, granddaughters. I was prepared for the moment Nan would give us our slippers to wear around the house with the bells she had sown onto toes to ward off the faeries. But she allowed us to keep our sneakers on our feet, and instead ushered us into the kitchen where there stood a boy my age.
He was perched on top of the counter, analyzing a crystal bell of Nan's before he shook it softly, allowing its chime to fill the air. Despite the soft noise he shook his head as if it hurt, and looked up.
Our eyes met, I flashed a polite smile as I tried to mask the confusion and terror welling up inside me. His crooked grin and unruly hair was welcoming, but there was a complete opposite presentation of what I saw coming through him.
Darkness, a complete absence of everything, seemed to cloud around him, churning around his limbs and clinging to his flesh. It reminded me of a parasite, living off of a host.
A suddenly as I had seen it, it recoiled back and dived into his body. Almost as if the monster had been frightened and retreated back to the safety of its shelter.
It was then that I noticed that the boy had his hand outstretched for me to shake. Hoping that he didn't see the fear in my eyes, I took his hand in mine and a chill enveloped my body as a slow devouring feeling of dread crept up within me. I barely heard him utter that his name was Peter.
It was such a simple name for an ordinary boy, but somehow he had awaken within me the feelings I had been suppressing since I was a child.
But suddenly, the feeling was gone, and I found myself forcing a smile back up at him.
I was a fool for trying to ignore the truth.