Two segments from my work in progress 'Death Man.' These are pre-workshop and pre-mentor critique, which means they very well may suck. Please enjoy.
The Night Before
Sometimes
when they left the windows open, the apartment felt almost bearable, but on
that day the cross breeze that cut through the living room and into the hallway
was hotter than breath. It seemed to the
boy that after months of slowly baking his meal, here, at last, was the huge
mouth, God’s perhaps, blowing on his food, gusting idly before devouring North City
in a single bite.
Nothing
could break the heat that summer. The Elites enjoyed the luxury of air
conditioning units, but for civilians and servants there was no escape, not
even temporary. Electric fans did
nothing but move sweltering air from one place to another and the lake’s water,
now tepid, left swimmers feeling fatigued rather than refreshed. Everything slowed down. There were hardly any executions, and the few
that did take place were done with little showmanship. It was too hot to do much more than just a
quick beheading, and what was the point?
The heat acted like an honorary Death Man, executing quietly and
efficiently, without the need for an audience.
The boy had
seen it for himself, down in the dungeon with his mentor. It was an elderly woman. She was alone in her cell with no one to comfort
her as she convulsed and sweat herself to death. It seemed to the boy that in the moment she
died, her skin turned transparent revealing the orange and red of the fire
raging through her body, burning her up from the inside out. When she finally cooled the boy wondered if
there was anything but ashes left inside her.
She was but one of many to die this way.
The honorary Death Man worked tirelessly, killing over and over until
there were too many bodies for the crematorium to process. A pyramid of corpses lay in wait for a
different kind of heat to burn them from the outside in, and while they waited for
incineration, they bloated and burst one by one until the perfume of
putrefaction blew through North
City, thick enough to
choke. It was a familiar smell to the
boy, almost like the aroma of the blood fed flowers beneath the stage.
Every day
was bad, but night time was the worst. The
boy had resorted to sleeping naked and even though the digital thermometer in
his room told him the temperature had dropped a little, he didn’t believe
it. Behind his lids the darkness sparked
in ghost images like grease splatters from a sizzling pan. No matter how much water he drank he couldn’t
put out the fire in his skull. He saw
things, he saw Scarlett, and he was never sure if it was dream or fantasy. There were nights he woke himself up
groaning. When that happened, he’d roll
onto his stomach, half in a trance, and thrust his hips into the mattress,
jerkily, until he sweated everything he had, until he trembled and collapsed. Then he’d sleep, because there was nothing
left inside of him for the heat to prey upon.
But in the morning it would start all over again.
Everything
made him sweat, even meditation. He
would sit there – legs crossed and hands placed carefully in his lap, palms
facing upward, one hand on top of the other – and melt. The heat pulled sweat from him the way
ointments pull infection and yet, he thought, he withstood it better than most
people. Most people, citizens and elite
alike, busied themselves with doing nothing, only venturing out to attend the
performances of the Arène, furiously fanning their faces with folded paper
while watching sun burnt little boys grapple with slippery palms. None of the fights could have lasted
long. Most of the casualties of the
Arène that summer were from heat exhaustion.
He didn’t
remember it ever being quite so hot during the years he’d fought in the Arène,
but every second away from the fighting pits felt like a stolen eternity and it
was easy for memories to get lost in the forever ago between then and now. And in the now, all he knew – all it seemed
he’d ever known – was right in front of him.
He blinked sweat from his eyes and looked down at his almost Death Man
hands. Even after wiping his hands on a
rag, he still wore gore up to his elbows.
Blood gathered and congealed under the white of his nails and in the creases
of his palms while perspiration from his arms thinned the remaining red and
kept it from going brown. It had been
maybe ten minutes since he’d executed the killing blow on his last practice
victim and he was still a little giddy.
“Is the
bath ready yet?” The boy stood before
the door wearing nothing but boxers and blood. He didn’t understand why his mentor had closed
the door in the first place, but he knew better than to open it. That had been one of his lessons under the
apprenticeship of the Death Man Roy Kim and repeated failure to respect closed
doors had once cost him riding privileges for a week. It occurred to him that he would be a man in
the morning and no longer subject to his mentor’s rules and regulations, but
for now he was too tired to disobey.
“Roy?” he called.
There was
no answer. Roy might not have heard him over the water. The boy sighed and rapped his knuckles on the
bathroom door. “Let me in already.”
The water
stopped. Roy Kim opened the door and
stepped out into the hall. Steam puffed
out around his frame. “Don’t be
impatient.”
“I’m
filthy,” he said. They looked at each
other a moment. Something was off about Roy’s eyes. The black parts seemed dull and the white
parts were swollen with red and pink spider webs. Had he been crying?
Roy Kim
drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, starting with his
eyes. “I put crushed rose petals in the
water.”
“What
for?”
“For
spiritual cleansing,” he said.
The boy
looked at the bathtub. Shredded flowers
floated back and forth on the crests of frustrated ripples while swirls of oil formed
here and there on the surface. He
stepped back and frowned at his mentor.
“Is this because of tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What
exactly happens at one of these graduations?”
“A lot of
talk,” Roy Kim said.
“Could you elaborate?”
“It’s actually
kind of boring.” He wiped his eyes again
then sighed. “From what I remember of
mine, it starts with the Luminary standing there reciting the usual dogma about
hard work and faith. Then he’ll talk
about you specifically. I don’t know
what he’ll say exactly, but he likes you. It’ll be kind whatever it is.”
“And after that?”
“You’ll
take an oath of service. And then you’ll
be a citizen.”
“No I
won’t.”
“Well,
it’ll seem that way. You’ll have a home
of your own as well as a stipend.”
“What’s a
stipend?” The boy frowned.
“Money,” he
said. “You’ll have your own money as
well as the autonomy to spend it. So my
recommendation is to do so wisely.”
The breeze
must have cooled. Goosebumps prickled
along the boy’s flesh. He felt like he’d
swallowed ice. What would someone like
him do with money?
“I don’t
want all of that. I don’t need all of that.” A sharp twinge near his elbow made him
jerk. He scratched it and realized that
it was just the blood. It had dried and
tugged a hair as it crackled.
“How do you
think you’ll get clothes? Food? Blankets for your bed? You’ll be all on your
own. You’ll need it soon enough.” Roy Kim pointed toward the bath. “Go.”
The boy
glared a moment before marching over to the tub. “You know, Roy, you’re an asshole sometimes.”
“Then, good
news,” his mentor said from the doorway, “after tomorrow you’ll be free of me.”
The boy
stilled. It was really going to
happen. Everything would change
tomorrow. Everything he did tonight, it
would be for the last time as a boy.
Everything happening now would be for the last time as the Death Man’s
apprentice.
It seemed
to him that time worked like a disease, quiet and hidden and waiting. All these terrible, large, adult things –
like the Arène, or that night in the dungeon with a little baby dug out of its
mother’s belly, or even this moment –
had existed like blurred lines laying his life’s road before he was even born. Time took a little boy who didn’t believe in
death and threw him into the fighting pits when he was only ten years old. Time made every wicked thing possible. For the past two years, graduation had only
been an abstract idea, something too far ahead of him to worry about, but his
mentor was right. Tonight would be his
last night in the guest room. Tomorrow
he’d have his own apartment and a new room in which to suffer insomnia. The infection had begun the day Roy brought him home and
tomorrow it came to fruition. Two years
could have been two hundred and it wouldn’t have mattered. Everything would have turned out the
same. Welcome to eternity, money
included. He would be all alone, nothing
but his own death ahead of him and, just as with everything else, it would seem
too far ahead to worry about it now.
“Roy? You’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you?” he
asked.
“No,” Roy
Kim said and grabbed the door handle.
“They won’t let me in to watch.
But I’ll be right outside.” He
swallowed hard, the boy could see his neck move, and then he closed the
door.
Alone now,
the boy pushed his boxers down and stepped out of them and into the rose
water. The steam made his nose run.
Money
“Presents? You got me presents?” He looked down at the kitchen table where a
small package wrapped in cloth and ribbon looked back at him. The boy felt a weird heat rush through him,
not the kind that made him sweat, the kind that sent little tremors up and down
his spine. He’d just gotten out of the
bath. His tank top and shorts stuck to
his damp skin and, even though this was his usual evening attire during summer,
he felt indecent. People who looked like
this didn’t get presents.
“You know
you didn’t have to do that,” he said and sat down across from his mentor. His hair dripped water down his face and
back. At least it wasn’t sweat.
“I
know. That’s what makes it a present,”
Roy Kim said and produced an envelope from his pocket. He set it on the table and slid it toward the
boy.
“I’ve only
ever gotten presents from my mom.” Back
then he’d known what to say to presents.
He’d known how to smile, how to be gracious, how to treasure every
little token. Looking at Roy Kim now, he
was more afraid than thankful.
“It’s not
much. But I thought it might be nice to
have something to take to your apartment tomorrow instead of just the clothes
on your back.”
Reaching
toward the gifts he selected the package first.
His fingers shook as he pulled the ribbon. Red silk fell away and the cloth wrapping
unfurled to reveal a small wooden box.
There were two hinges in the back and a plated keyhole at the
front. It looked like an old trunk only
miniature, small enough to lie across his palms. Carved on the lid was a cat, but it was
unlike any cat the boy had ever seen. It
had a thick body, a large head with an open mouth full of enormous teeth, and
weird gashes, almost like stripes, all over its coat.
“It’s a
tiger.” Roy Kim reached over and tapped
the box, startling the boy as he did so.
“It’s got something inside.”
The boy
pushed up on the lid, but it didn’t budge.
He frowned and tried to manipulate the keyhole, running his fingernail
all around the little plate, looking for a latch or button. When he didn’t find anything, he asked, “Is
there a key?”
“No.”
“So how do
I open it?” He thought of Scarlett. She could open anything.
“You
don’t.” Roy Kim smiled. “That’s where the tiger keeps his secret. He doesn’t give it up easily. You’ll have to break the box.”
“I would
never do that. It’s too pretty.” But someday he might. He never could resist digging his way inside
of things, destroying what he needed to, pulling the pieces apart to uncover
their secrets. Still, he’d try Scarlett
first.
“Pretty
things don’t last forever,” his mentor said.
“Don’t forget about the envelope.”
With a nod,
he set the box down on the table. It was
difficult to pull his fingers away from it.
He liked the way the carved grooves felt, how the smooth parts turned
rough, how the rough parts became sharp.
But he’d have plenty of time to touch it later. Smiling at his mentor he reached forward and
picked up the second gift. It was money.
He laid the
credit notes on the table. Words covered
the page, tiny words, typewritten and perfect and overwhelming. The boy had never seen a note up close and it
took him several seconds to find the credit value. When he did find it, he jerked his face up to
look at his mentor.
“Ten?”
“Well, I did
say it’s not much.” Roy frowned.
“Are they all for ten?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Gathering the notes up into his hands he
examined each one. Four were valued at
ten. The last one was for
twenty-five. He shoved them into the
envelope and pushed it toward his mentor. “I can’t take your money.”
“It’s not a
matter of taking. I’m giving it to
you.”
“But, it’s
too much.”
“It’s a
pittance.” Roy pushed back from the table and
stood. “You have to learn about money
sooner or later.”
The boy
chewed his cheek and stared at the envelope.
“I don’t have a wallet.”
“So go buy
one. Leather if you can manage it. Just don’t let anyone swindle you,” he said.
“I’d help
if I knew what swindling was.” His
stomach tensed.
“You’ll
know it if it happens. Now go get some
clothes on – ”
“Wait,” the
boy stood and nearly knocked his chair over.
“Will you go with me?”
“No. I’m going to bed. We have an early day tomorrow.”
“You say
that like it’s something unusual,” the boy grumbled. He shrugged and pushed in his chair. “I think I’ll just go to bed, too. I don’t want to go out alone.”
“That’s a very
boy thing to say.”
“Well,
that’s what I am,” he said, “a child for one more night at least.”
Roy Kim let
out a deep sigh and set his hands on the boy’s shoulders. With a sudden tug, he pulled the boy into an
embrace and held him. Startled, the boy
stiffened. He’d forgotten all about
hugs, but his arms knew what to do and they wrapped carefully around his
mentor. It didn’t matter that it was a
thousand degrees in the Death Man’s kitchen, neither seemed to want to let
go.
As if he
were apologizing, Roy Kim whispered the boy’s name and said, “You may be a boy,
but you’ve never been a child.” The hug
ended and the intimacy of their connection disappeared as if it had never been.
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