❝If life must not be taken too seriously, then so neither must death.❞
-Samuel Butler
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The halls of Ashdown High are dim and weak, the wallpaper all peeling, the lockers rusting, the floor chipping. They haven't renovated this place since the 70s, unless you count the addition of the weight room. The lights flicker as kids yell and laugh and blow out vape, too concerned with themselves to care about their surroundings. As I walk down the hallway to my first class of the second day, I feel less like a depressed, teenage student and more like an inmate walking to the electric chair.
Before, these hallways were lively. Will would always give me a ride, and everyone would greet us with a smile or a wave or a, "Yo, what's up?!". Sun would shine in through the dusty windows, and on the quad, cool breezes would chase the autumn leaves in an eternal game of cat-and-mouse.
Now, nobody even meets my eye. The wind has gone from slight breezes to full gusts. The sun hasn't come out since the storm the afternoon previous.
After the events of yesterday, I feel a bit shaken and a bit feverish. Mor hasn't appeared again, which leads the hopeful side of me to believe that it was all just a weird hallucination. But maybe he just only appears in darkness. Maybe he's nocturnal, like a vampire!
He's not a vampire, I tell myself, shaking my mind out of its Irrational Idea Time state. People are staring at you. Stop reacting to your own thoughts so obviously.
I pass the trophy case, where the team's 3 state championship trophies stand proudly. The team was a mess when I was in junior high, but once my grade came up, they became the idol of the town. Something about the boys in my grade made the team state champs thrice, and I can't help but feel Will had that "something" in the strongest concentration.
I don't glance at the trophies, not even once. I keep my eyes locked ahead.
"Lila!" A voice exclaims from behind me, sweet and mellifluous. "Hey, Lila, wait up!"
I whirl and see my only true remaining friend, Macy DiMaggio, running from where she was talking to Coach Wycliffe at the gym doors to catch up with me.
"Hey, Macy," I say, trying to sound happy. I'd read somewhere that if you sound negative, people are less likely to continue to hang out with you. So happy I will sound.
"Hey." She brushes a strand of straightened dark hair behind her ear. "Sorry I didn't catch you yesterday before class. We had an emergency cheer meeting."
"It's fine," I answer. "What was the emergency?"
It's a risky thing to ask. If you ask Macy about either of her favorite things - painting and cheer - she may never shut up about it again. But I'm trying to be polite.
"Oh, well..." she grimaces, as if she doesn't want to tell me. "Um, the school board decided that they're changing their tracks and sending more funds to the Athletic department, so we'll finally be able to get new uniforms!"
"Changing their tracks?" I ask hesitantly. "Where were the funds originally going to go?"
"Uh... the music department. Which they're actually... cutting... almost completely..."
She says it very, very slowly, then winces, waiting for its impact on me. Macy and I may not be very close, but she knows at least that the one subject that always meant something to me was music.
The news makes me feel like the tightrope I've been walking on since Will died has suddenly been cut, and now I'm tumbling into the abyss. I'd never been a star, but the school musical was close to my heart. Sure, so was the football team - and by proxy, the cheerleaders - but they weren't exactly doing anything for me right now.
"Oh my god," I say, looking at the floor. "What exactly does that mean?"
Macy shrugs. "I don't really know. I know they're keeping band, just for the football games, but everything else is probably going to be removed."
A pit forms in my stomach, but I keep my face straight.
"Veronica's going to be pissed."
"I know." Macy scowls, shaking her head. "I do not want to be there when someone reveals the news to her."
"If only we lived in a town where the mean girl was also the rich girl, and she could just get her father to pay for it all," I say darkly.
Macy chuckles. "If only, right?" Her brown skin pales. "Are you okay, though? I know you really like your music classes and all that."
"It's fine," I echo. "I can find something else."
It's a complete and utter lie, but I'm not going to let Macy see my sadness, even as my face starts to tingle and my neck heats up like I have the flu.
"Okay!" Macy is oblivious to the fact that I feel like I'm going to be sick. "Well, this is my first period, so..."
We come to a halting stop, right next to the art room, where I can see a dozen other creative, emotional, beautiful people like Macy waiting to express their hearts out. A few girls wave to Macy and she eagerly waves back, nearly leaping to her seat without so much as a goodbye.
"See you later..." I murmur sadly.
Who knew if I would really see Macy later. Macy was a mysterious force in my life, a sometime friend, onetime enemy, sometime awkward acquaintance. She seemed to come swooping in right when things would start going terribly for me, but I never knew if she was going to help or hurt the cause. It wasn't exactly her fault, per se, she just knew what she wanted and how to get there, oblivious along the way. And sometimes that path didn't include me or Will or anybody else who cared about her.
I try to forget the news she told me, but it's hard to get out of my mind.
As I walk down the hallowed halls of Ashdown High, kids laughing around me, lights flickering above me, I think of when things were bright and alive and beautiful. When Will and I had so much school spirit, the upperclassmen all chose us for the "Most Likely to Bleed Black and Red" senior superlative... even though we were juniors. When things were happy.
I want to at least pretend to be like that again. But sometimes, trying to act happy only makes you sadder.
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10 hours and 20 minutes later, I'm sitting at my dining room table, stirring my lo mein around with my chopsticks but never actually taking a bite.
"Are you actually going to eat anything?" My mother asks my sister, who's holding her chopstick like a weapon and repetitively stabbing a piece of General Tso's. "What did that chicken ever do to you?"
"I'm really tense, okay?" Kat snaps, setting down her utensil. Fresh from a pick-up soccer game with her friends, she's still in athletic clothes, and her mood is volatile. "I'm worried about how I did at try-outs yesterday. I won't know if I made the team until Thursday. Until then, I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Mija, you've made the team every year you've tried out. You've been playing soccer since you were 6. I think you'll be fine." Mama takes a bite of her own food, then says in her youthful, sweet voice, "And Lila, you need to eat too. You're losing too much weight."
"I'm not hungry," I say dismally, letting the most passive-aggressive sadness sink in that I could muster.
Mama gives me a Really? look. "I know you're still...," she trails off. "...coping. But starving yourself isn't going to help anything."
I give her the evil eye over the take-out boxes. "I'm not starving myself. I'm just not hungry."
"Has something happened?" Mama cocks her head, able to see that it's more than just grief that's bugging me.
"Uh," Kat starts to say, "Yeah, duh-"
Our mother snaps her fingers at Kat, stopping her from saying anything more. "At school. Did something happen at school today?"
"They cut the music program." I say flatly. My mother's fine-boned, perfectly tanned face goes ashen, and Kat's big brown eyes - the same eyes I have - widen almost cartoonishly. "All the funds that were funneled to orchestra, theater, chorus, and classes are now going to the Athletic department. I guess that's their reward for making so many state champions."
Kat doesn't know what to say. Suddenly, she becomes much too focused on a piece of baby corn on her plate, poking that now instead of the chicken.
Meanwhile, my mother frowns deeply. "Mija, I'm so sorry. That's terrible. Does that mean you won't have a musical this year?"
"I don't know," I say truthfully. "Macy told me about it this morning. I haven't a clue about the details."
Mama gazes at me with a sad, sad look on her face. She's only 19 years older than me, and both her personality and looks make her able pass to as my older sister, but when she looks at Kat and I like that, she reminds me of my abuela.
"Oh, Lila..." she never finishes the sentence.
Mama's a good parent, never failing to take care of Kat and I, but she's never been great with advice. When Kat wasn't even a year old, our father, a surgeon at the time, passed away. I was only 1 and a half, so I hardly remember anything of him, but Mama... she's still grieving her long lost love. She can't even get over her own emotions, so she's never been able to help us get over ours.
"I'm gonna take a walk," I say abruptly, standing up. I dump my lo mein on Kat's uneaten chicken, to her fervent indignation, and continue, "I'll take the trash out on my way."
"Lila," Mama says again, to no avail.
Lila, Lila, Lila. I've been hearing my name in that weird, uncomfortable tone a lot lately. Every time someone says it, it feels like they're trying it out, like they've never heard it before. Like they don't know me.
Oh, how I long for someone who knows me, truly. Like Will did. But before I can find that, first, I have to take out the trash.
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The sky is too dark tonight.
It's only 6:00, but the void above is already turning smoky, and the air around is already turning cold. After taking out the trash, I walk down to the end of the block, where Route 7 cuts between the outskirts and downtown.
In the near distance, I can see the sparkling, yet dim lights of the town square, still alive from the gentle end of sunmertime. Ashdown's no city, but I've always enjoyed looking at the skyline. And at the stars. But there are no stars out tonight.
There were stars out the night of prom. Plenty of them, in fact. If things had gone right, Will and I could've gone to The Fox and laid out on his tailgate stargazing. My boyfriend didn't know the constellations like I did, but that was okay.
Yet, things didn't go right. I'll never stargaze with Will again, unless there's stars in heaven.
I pull my jacket closer around me, wishing it was somehow spring again and I had another chance to change how things went down. I can't help but feel that it should've been me. Will had a life ahead of him, with plans for college and a career. All I knew was that I vaguely liked theater, and enjoyed looking at the stars.
I sigh, feeling defeated and preparing to go back to my house. But then there's that gravelly voice.
"Having fun?"
I whirl, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. It's Mor, somehow perching on my neighbors mailbox like a black cat ready to pounce. He's spinning his scythe like it's a toy, and once again, I'm struck by how skeleton-like he is, the way his cheeks sink in like dead flesh between two rods.
That Molotov cocktail of feelings - sadness and anger, fear and shock, and something not quite knowable - erupts within me. I try to keep it down, like some sort of sickly cough syrup, but it's useless to take your medicine when you're staring death in the face.
"Y-you," I start, "You scared the hell out of me!"
Mor tilts his head curiously, then feigns naiveté and says, "There's no hell in you, Miss Cabrera. Hell is a place."
I narrow my eyes. Trying not to let my voice waver, I say, "What do you want?"
"I want to get my job done." In a single, nimble movement, he leaps from the mailbox to land across from me, next to the curb. "Are you having any luck with the stars?"
"No." I frown, giving him a pointed look. "Thanks to the storm yesterday, everything's cloudy."
Mor looks up at the sky for a moment, and the clouds part, letting a sliver of the crescent moon's icy light turn his dead eyes reflective. That shine stays as Mor faces me again and says, "Can you guess what you wanted to do as an 8 year old?"
"I'm guessing, you're going to tell me."
"See the Northern Lights," Mor continues, as if I hadn't said anything. "I'd think that's a lot more exciting than... this." He waves his gloved hand, gesturing to the faded sky.
My skin goes cold, and I shake my head. "You can't possibly fly us all the way to the Arctic circle. That's thousands of miles away."
"No, but I can do one better." Without waiting for me this time, Mor takes my hand in his dead, cold one. In an instant, Ashdown disappears. And then we're somewhere else entirely.
The first thing I feel is the bitingly cold wind, tearing at my exposed skin. And then I see the sky, dark and buzzing with the smallest bits of color.
"Oh my God..." I trail off.
My eyes widen as I take in my surroundings. One, I'm wearing a blood-red, faux fur-lined parka and the fuzziest gloves I've ever felt. Two, Mor and I are standing on the balcony of a lodge, a jungle of snow coated pines below us. In the distance, scattered lights of a city glow like fireflies.
Where... are we?
"Welcome to Finland," Mor says, as if he can read my mind, which he probaby can. "In my opinion, flying's a pain. I only flew before to prove to you I'm real. Teleportation's always a lot easier."
"Flying made me sick," I muse nervously, not knowing what else to say.
"You're not the only charge of mine that's said that," he replies, looking away. "You have to get used to it."
Charge. That made me remember - I was going to ask him about Will. But before I can say anything, Mor points at the sky. "Look."
I follow his gesture to see the sky is coming alive. Like sparks leaping into flames, a blaze of purples and greens take over the darkness. Waves of color weave in and out of each other, crocheting a blanket that swaths the valley in light.
As cold winds blow deep, the colors stay steady, never faltering, never fading.
"Woah," I breathe.
Mor is no longer standing beside me; now he's balanced on the railing, leaning against the wind. I wonder if he's been present for the Borealis before. Maybe he's seen prettier sights and felt more bitter colds. He seems undisturbed by the scene unfolding around us.
But for me, it's surreal. If Will was here, he'd think it's pure magic. He always had an eye for the beauty in everything, although the both of us tended to prefer the beach over the snow.
I scan the area, watching the warm light spread across the evergreen canopy. Then, to Mor, I say, "Can I ask you something?"
"Within reason," he replies simply.
I'm almost afraid to ask him, but quickly, I blurt out, "Do you know who Will is?"
Mor goes still. For a moment, I sincerely believe he knows Will as well as I do, that he had some deathly hand in that crash. But then the Reaper just says, "Yes. But not how you might think." My eyes widen, and he continues, "Before reapers are assigned a charge, they're given a file on them so they know their history."
A shiver tiptoes down my spine. Somebody up there - or down there - has a file on me? What all do they know, and how do they know it?
"Who... creates these files?" My mind is suddenly buzzing with questions, and the thought of Will is temporarily pushed aside.
Mor snorts. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Yes, I would, actually. That's why I'm asking." I cross my freezing arms, though my eyes stay wide and fearful. "And while you're at it, can you also tell me what exactly you are? And where you live? And how you got into the soul reaping business?"
Mor draws back, shaking his head like he's bewildered. In a dramatic voice, he says, "Oh dear, Lila, I think the cold air is getting to your head."
I glare at him as best I can, given the fact that he intimidates the hell out of me. I didn't even think to ask these questions before; I've no idea if he'll actually give me an answer, or just tell me - in his articulate way - to shut up.
"All right," Mor surrenders. "First, swear you won't react horribly. Or else they'll be forced to wipe your memory and start the whole process over again."
For once, he's not being cheeky. Seriousness blossoms in his dead eyes. I realize he won't tell me the truth until I verbally promise, so I do.
At that, Mor leaps down from the balcony's wooden railing and starts pacing - gliding - back and forth. "Angels, demons, Heaven, and Hell. It's all real. Humans die, and they can go to one place or another if they're satisfied." He pauses, as if waiting for my reaction. I just motion for him to continue. "If they're not satisfied, they'll stay here as spirits, which is a nuisance for everybody. And that's what Reapers are for - they help people go gently into that good night."
That's a reference to a poem. I remember reading it in middle school, in my extremely boring, extremely bleak Language Arts class.
It was a poem about death, and resisting the finality that comes with it. Despite it's morbidity, Will had liked it more than I did, and I never understood why.
"So are you pushed from childhood into the career of collecting people's souls?" I wonder out loud. "Or are you just born fully grown and ready for duty like Athena?"
Mor grins a terrifyingly smug smile. "As I said before, I'm afraid I'm not qualified to tell you that."
"But-"
He puts a hand up, and I'm briefly worried that he'll take away my voice again. I must be growing on him, though, because he does no such thing, just says, "I apologize, but if I told you everything, I'd probably be stripped of my status and punished in one way or another. I'm not risking that."
I frown. Mor shifts and taps his fingers against the railing, that click-click-click crawling its way up my spine once again. I glance at his hand; his long fingers could be the ones of a musician, if it weren't for their ghastly owner.
Looking back at Mor's face, I notice he's now gazing at the lights, no longer caring about my questions or his lacking answers. The glow of the light dances upon his white eyelashes.
He's not going to say anymore. He made that clear. And though I've brought up enough bravery from deep inside my soul to confront him, I have to admit, he does still intimidate me. A walking death omen. Staring at him, I realize what I'm here for.
I turn my sight on the Borealis, more alive in shades of fuschia and emerald than ever. Winds rip at my face, but I've become used to them. I don't move when it starts to gently snow, even as flakes fall upon my head.
I'm going to die, I think to myself once again.
Mor stops tapping his fingers.
I remember when Will first died. Once I got home from the hospital, I couldn't drag myself out of bed. I started out knee-deep in an extreme sadness, always crying. As weeks passed, the only things that changed were my tears drying up and my sadness turning to numbness. I started to not... feel. It was an effort to eat, shower, or move a muscle.
I went to a grief counselor, but it was challenging to get help when I completely disregarded all the stages of grief.
I'm still in the depression stage, I'll admit.
But here, I feel hyper-alive. I'm aware of every snow flake that gently kisses my skin, every stem cell growing deep within my aching bones, every little shift in temperature from the battling gusts of wind.
More than anything, I'm aware I am going to die. And I'm resigned to that.
How hopeless do you have to feel to be okay with your own death?
Hopeless enough, I suppose, to believe that living would be worse.
I don't know how long it is that I stand there and watch the lights. It feels like a lifetime.
When it's all over, Mor takes me back home silently, dropping me at my porch. As my normal clothes come back to me, the snow melts from my hair, and within an instant, there's no sign of my trip to Scandinavia.
But when I blink, my eyelids are painted in views of a fuschia sky on fire, singeing its way into my mind.
"Thank you," I say after a momentary silence, my voice no longer muffled by freezing gusts of wind. "Thank you for taking me to the lights."
"It is my job, dear," Mor replies. He pauses, then says, "You seem vaguely happier now."
"I'm not happy," I retort, "I'm just... resigned."
"To your fate?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's bleak."
I glance away from him, no longer deigning to look at those endless night eyes. Through the windows, I glimpse my mother, sitting on the couch and watching some sitcom while Kat juggles her soccer ball off to the side. I wonder how they'll be without me.
Somewhere within me, I'm swimming in a sea of questions, mostly about this world that Mor so vehemently guards. But my heart... it's somewhere else entirely.
My eyes flicker from the window to the sky. Just like before, there is no light, only wispy clouds and muted hues of blue and black.
Except - there's one star that wasn't there before. It's Polaris, the North Star, the only star Will could ever name. It twinkles in a dim constant high above Ashdown, never hiding behind a passing cloud, never becoming brighter or lower.
Memories flash before me: Kat and I peering through our neighbor's telescope as small children, 10 year old Macy jumping on her trampoline and kissing the sky, Will laying on my bed with stars in his eyes.
It's never going to be like that again, I think to myself.
"Did you have a life before all this?" I ask Mor, waving my hand blindly in what I think is the direction of his scythe.
I don't get a reply. When I turn, I see the porch is completely empty, save for me. Mor is gone, of course, without so much as a goodbye, though I can't say I expected an emotional parting between us.
I wonder what's next on that dreaded bucket list. I wonder when The Reaper will spring up again unannounced.
I wonder how I'm going to die.
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A/N: If you're still reading this, thank you so much!! Please click that vote button and leave a comment! Hit me with a follow or message too if you want to be friends!
Positive vibes! Stay awesome :)
(Edit from future Athena: this chapter is dedicated to MIRACULOUSNESS for all her comments on the first couple chapters! Thank you!)
xoxo, Athena
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