The Third Death

I roll over and wrap an arm around my pillow. It feels comforting; I tug it tight against my body. In a half-dream state, I feel like it nestles closer. My right hand grows cold, and I pull it back under the blanket. It doesn’t help. Something warm and soft presses against my lips. I open my eyes and squint into the darkness.

“Good morning,” a quiet voice whispers, “Well, not quite yet.” She grins. I jolt and jump backward out of bed.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Through the darkness, I can’t see a thing, but I hear the body in my bed as it stretches. The woman there laughs softly and leans up on an elbow. I hear a lazy finger as it traces along the sheets, and my eyes are barely adjusted as she raises her finger and points to my side. I look down and notice the katar I was unconsciously gripping tightly in my right hand. I immediately drop it to the floor.

“I could’ve stabbed you!” I shriek.

“No, you couldn’t have,” she says.

“I want you to leave,” I say.

“Fortunately, you don’t make the rules.”

“Don’t I have to invite you in or something?”

“What kind of fantasy bullshit have you been reading?”

“Well, I–“

“This isn’t Lost Boys,” she says, almost laughing. “Fuck, don’t they teach you kids anything these days?”

“Will you, please, leave, Persephone?” I ask. She smiles.

“Since you asked so nicely, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re coming with me.”

“No. It’s a week night. And my parents are in the other room.”

“I’m going to file both of those under ‘Not My Fucking Problem’ and drag you on out of here.”

“I can’t,” I say. She sits up in my bed and examines her nails.

“When did I lead you to believe this was up for debate?” she asks, without looking up.

The room grows quiet except for my breathing. My chest rises slowly and falls rapidly. My blood beats in circles around my temples. Through the closed door, across the hallway, I can hear my dad’s loud snoring. He coughs and immediately falls back asleep. I can almost hear my mom stop breathing, stop blinking, as she lies silently through the length of dad’s cough. Manson is silent in the adjacent room; he never makes a peep.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hanging my head.

“This is why I love you, Charon. So agreeable,” Persephone says, looking up. I can’t see them, but I know her eyes are solid black.

I crouch down and grab the katar. I’ve toyed with it plenty. I keep it in the drawer of my nightstand, and it’s it a nightly ritual: running my finger along its edge, watching the blood line forming across my skin, the searing sound it makes as it burns the flesh back together. Yeah, I’ve played with Hell.

Persephone stands and grabs my left hand. She slides the katar off my right hand and hides it in her purse. She opens my door and leads me down the hallway.

“Why do you sleep with your clothes on?” Persephone asks at the base of the stairs.

“I don’t know. I just do.”

She opens the front door, and we walk out. She turns around and places a hand over the deadbolt from outside. I hear it click into place. She drags me down the steps of the porch and to my car. She lets go of my hand in front of it and walks over to the passenger seat. I unlock the driver side and crawl inside. I insert the key, turn it, and the car rumbles to life. Persephone unlocks her own door and climbs into the car.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Do you know the bar Paradiso?” she asks.

“Isn’t that in Evans?”

“Close.”

I back out of the driveway. It’s a quiet ride. Persephone snaps her purse open and closed over and over. She stares out the window. I think about calling Luke again, but I have no idea what I’ll tell him. The first time, I knew the plan, I knew what was going on. This time and the last, I had no clue. But I’ve got a pretty good idea how this night is going to end.

I drive down Highway 25 for half an hour before turning onto Bobby Jones. The interstate comes to an end at a red light at Washington Road. I wait patiently in the red glow as cars zip east and west. A police officer drives by, and I see his head turn in my direction. I think of the time I got pulled over for going 75 in a 45 on my way back home from an ex’s place. The light turns green, and I make a left.

A few miles later, Persephone tells me to slow down and turn right into a parking lot. An auto dealership that was converted into a bar sends neon signals into the night. The sign outside declares: “Paradiso”

“Now what?” I ask.

“Now, we wait,” she says.

Several minutes pass. Persephone reaches into the backseat and grabs my CD case. She flips through the pages, frowning at each and every one.

“Why do you have so much Christian music?” she asks.

“Because I like it,” I reply. She sighs.

“You and I have so much work to do,” she says.

“Well, what do you like?” I ask.

“Definitely none of this.” She throws the case in the backseat again, and the silence resumes. From the bar, I can hear some music thumping, but it only lasts for a few more minutes before it grows quiet, too, and the car stops shaking. Persephone leans forward as if anticipating something. I lean back further, sinking into my seat.

“You expecting someone?” I ask.

“Shh!” she hisses.

A few minutes later, and some guy stumbles out of the bar. He’s practically carrying another dude, dragging him along. The second guy looks drunk as hell. The sober guy hoists an arm onto the other guy’s lower back and practically hurls him into the bed of a truck. The first dude dashes to the driver seat, and the engine turns before the door even closes. They tear off into the night, the door swaying open for a quarter mile before a hand stretches out and yanks it closed. The truck speeds through a red light. Persephone is practically salivating in my passenger seat.

A man runs out of the bar, chasing after the truck. He gives up at the edge of the parking lot, shaking his fist. He stands there, staring after the retreating men.

“Let’s go,” Persephone says.

She smacks me hard in the arm. I jump out of the driver side, and she’s already halfway to the front door. I make it into the bar a few seconds behind, and nobody questions her when she screams, “I’m a doctor,” at the top of her lungs.

And nobody questions her as she reaches over the counter and grabs a sharp knife and stabs it right into a bloodied man’s jugular, making a small incision. It looks like the guy has already been beaten within an inch of his life.

Somebody even volunteers to help Persephone carry to man out of the bar, as straight and still as possible. She demands that I open my car door, which I do. And the guy helping her carry the injured man doesn’t even bat an eye as Persephone says she’ll get the man to a hospital as quickly as possible. No one asks a single question as warm bodies, horrified eyes crowd around, watching me back out of the parking lot, watching me drive down the road and past the billboard for the local hospital.

****

Persephone paces back and forth. The man we rescued from the bar is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His head dangles limply, bobbing up and down. He mumbles occasionally.

“Persephone,” I say, “he really needs to go to a doctor.”

She continues pacing. She doesn’t answer me. The man grumbles and raises his head. Persephone stops in mid-stride and watches him. Her lower lip quivers, her mouth just barely open. I tense.

“Where am I?” the man asks. Persephone grins, walking over to the wall and retrieving her purse. She grabs it and walks back over to me; the purse is stretched wide open in her hands.

“Where am I?” the man asks again. Persephone thrusts the purse into my chest. The katar smacks against my chest from inside. The weight of it feels like a punch to my conscience.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Do it.” Persephone leans in close and bites my earlobe.

“Persephone, I can’t,” I say. The man groans.

“You use that phrase a lot,” she says, nibbling at my earlobe again. She pulls the katar out and drops the purse to the floor. Persephone walks over to the bound man. He groans, leaning back in the chair.

“It’s easy,” she says. She grips the katar and slides it along his chest, slicing his shirt. She cuts it to pieces, until it falls away. Then, she looks back at me and, grinning, runs it along his bare chest. The man flinches as his flesh sears. His eyes open wide, and he jounces in his chair.

“Stop it!” I say. Persephone looks up at me and runs the blade along the man’s cheek.

I rush over and grab her wrist to try to slap the katar away. Persephone pushes back against me, crushing my forearm with her free hand. I wince in pain and drop to my knees. She squeezes harder and then moves her right hand, still holding the katar, along the side of my neck.

“Charon, Charon…live up to your name.”

“I wasn’t made for this,” I say.

“Well you should have thought of that before making the deal, now, shouldn’t you?”

I wince, hearing something snapping in my arm as her fingers dig in. Her normally blue eyes are solid black. A heavy crease snakes along her brow, and her two incisors gleam as the streetlights sneak through the cracks of the boarded up windows. Outside, I hear a car occasionally drive past, ignoring the dilapidated building we’re inside.

“It’s now or never, Charon,” Persephone says. She jabs the point of the katar into my rib cage, and I gasp. I try to say something but can barely breathe. She slides the blade down the length of my chest and then drops it to the floor.

“Your turn,” she whispers, crushing my left arm. I hear it snap and wince in pain. I try to jerk free, and she crushes it more, twisting my forearm around. I fight back the urge to scream.

Slowly, I kneel and grab the katar. I wrap my fingers around the grip. The metal is cold. I lick my lips.

“Do it,” she says, releasing me and stepping backward.

The bound man groans. Persephone watches me, waiting for me to hesitate. I curl my lips in, bite the insides of my cheeks, and dive toward the man.

The gurgling sound is nauseating as the blood spills from the hole in his chest and into his lungs. I twist the blade, feeling the cracking of his sternum. He gasps, and I slowly pull the blade back. He chokes for a few seconds. Half a minute passes. I crouch down, curling in on myself. What have I done?

“Again,” Persephone says.

“What?”

She swoops in and slaps me hard. A strong hand grabs mine and snatches me up on top of him. Persephone slams my body down onto his. The chair topples over, and my knees hit the concrete floor hard. I wince again. Trying to stand, I feel resistance when I pull my right arm. I try again and hear gasping. I pull my hand free, and then the gurgling is loud underneath me. Looking down, I see the man’s blood gushing out of his chest.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. I take a few steps back.

A full minute passes. I watch the man bleed out, afraid to cover my eyes. He convulses at first and then is still. The blood pumps onto the concrete. I can’t move my eyes from the hole in his chest–the one I put there.

Gentle fingers slip around my clenched fist. I hear the metal katar clatter loudly in the corner as it is cast away. I can’t look away from the dead man. His body begins to disintegrate. A warm hand slides under my shirt and slowly peels it off. I’m forced down onto my knees.

Persephone’s lips crush against mine. She slowly leans me backward. For a second, I want to run. I want to dash out of the building and leave her and the katar and the dead man’s body as he deteriorates into ash. I want to forget.

My tongue lashes into Persephone’s mouth. My fingers dig into her back, and I pull her down on top of me. I bite her lower lip, and she laughs. I bite harder, until I taste salty blood. Her fingernails drive into my lower back. I roll on top of her and reach down, popping the button on her jeans. I tear the zipper downward and move my hand back up to her hip, digging into the bone. She writhes underneath me.

Blue lights flash through the cracks of boarded-up windows. Persephone cackles, rolling back on top of me and pulling my pants off. She plants herself over me. Outside, I hear a police officer giving someone a sobriety test.

Persephone grinds her hips into mine. Her pure black eyes flicker with every flash of blue light as it bathes over us.