King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 1

"I shall write in my diary tonight, that a burnt child loved the fire." - Oscar Wilde

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December, 1976

I am going to tell you a secret.
Death is a choice. Not in the sense that you could avoid it; demise is the only guarantee in this life.
Rather, our preference entirely dictates the way we go.

The chef, with his many sharpened knives, looks upon his attacker in a darkened alley. The cloaked man wields a dagger. There is a familiar glint to the metal, so familiar that the chef falls into it almost willingly.

A mechanic spends his life surrounded by tools. The heart attack is what takes him down, falling into a puddle of slicked oil. However, it is not his dietary choices that decide when he goes, but his attention on that pipe wrench in the corner. An artifact taken from his father's own shop, a reminder that he may have fallen at home instead but didn't wish to upset the wife.

Deep down, the detective knows her late nights in the office will steal the breath from her lungs. A stress-induced stroke, a coroner writes when the secretary finds her sprawled on the floor, case file still clutched in her blue hands.
"She was up for retirement this year," the secretary says.

"Always seems to work out that way," the coroner replies.

Society puts far less emphasis on life than on death. The reminders are subtle yet unforgiving. From the moment we are cast into this world, a clock starts its monotonous tick. It is a yearning for comfort that pushes us in the direction we are meant to go, as a chef attracts the glint of a knife.

I think this is what my older sister, Ana, is pondering when she turns to me in the passenger seat. Her hands grip the wheel of Mom's old Cadillac, the cracked leather parting to welcome her soft fingers. It is my favorite car in the world, despite the worn interior. Beneath the hood is nothing but raw power.

I wish I were driving instead of Ana. But, I lacked the forethought to rip the keys from her grasp in the hospital parking lot.
Ana tends to speed everywhere she goes. A will to get things over with.

"Callan," Ana whispers, "I'm so sorry."

Tears well in her eyes, falling down the freckles on her perfectly oval face. We look alike, but she has always been prettier. It is just another thing that separates us from each other despite our genetic predisposition to be a carbon copy. 

I stare into Ana's green eyes, memorizing them as if I were looking in a mirror.
I stare as she drops her hands from the wheel and presses liberally on the gas. I stare, even when it is evident that a tree is coming up in our peripheral.

It seems I have made a choice.

The woods are lovely and dark. There are no passing cars for miles on this stretch of road that leads us to our childhood home. Not another soul hears the sound of grating metal nor the crash of broken glass. I watch as Ana's head racks against the steering wheel. She is gone before the Cadillac can roll a third time into the gaping ravine.

I am upset, of course. I loved this car. I still love it with a tree branch thrust through the windshield. It still feels like home with Dad's cassette tape playing on a quieting loop.

My sister is dead, and I am trapped in a flattened tin can with the Moody Blues crooning over Nights in White Satin. There is blood dripping down my forehead, but certainly not enough to constitute a mortal wound. We seem to be wedged between two trees and held upward by a large boulder.

I lay against the headrest; there isn't much else to do. The seat and remnants of the dashboard trap my legs.
Smoke billows from the hood, threatening a fire. I have to stifle a laugh; bathed in flame is a perfect description of my mortal life, and thus, my headstone shall have the words carved on it.

I look over at Ana. She isn't here anymore, I can tell. Her auburn hair is a mess, red ribbons cascading down her forehead. She slips quietly into that ever-glowing ether, never one to stick around for a grand finale. Her departing annoys me, as I certainly would have stayed to watch her die if I had gone first. It is selfish, but then again, so is Ana—the evidence of that is a stake through her chest in the form of the steering wheel.

The smoke is billowing faster now. In a last ditch effort, I test the door handle. It is jammed, of course. The top of the car is almost completely gone. If I could get my legs unstuck, I might be able to crawl out.

Then again, it is pretty cold outside, and the fire growing on the hood feels like a comfort.
The car shifts, metal hood grating against tree branches. If the flame doesn't spark properly, the fall into a deep ravine will take the rest of the Cadillac.

"I knew this place was going to kill us," I whisper.
Ana does not laugh, obviously.
They are not the most clever last words. Unfortunately, the adrenaline firing my synapses isn't allowing me to create the best material here.

The car creaks, grating against tree branches. Two bursts of yellow light glow from the tree line. Funny, they almost look like head lights or hiking lamps. Though, I know better than to think anyone would be out here in the middle of the night. They continue to beam, bursting with pale energy.

The boulder shifts against the limb holding it in place. The lights are people; I can see their forms now, stepping out of the underbrush. The light protrudes from two sticks they hold out like weapons. A man and a woman, middle-aged, far too nicely dressed for hiking.

I wave at them through the glass. We're about to burst into flames, and I don't want their last vision of me to be so sullen. I can be very superficial about those things, I must admit.

I reach for Ana's hand and take a deep breath.

-

The "third-man" factor: a phenomenon where individuals in high-stress situations, perceive the presence of a supportive, guiding entity, even though there is no actual person there.

Forty-eight hours in the hospital and two visits from the in-house psychiatrist, and that's the best they can come up with.
Does this third man typically lift a vehicle in the air with nothing but a glow stick? I want to ask, but they already think I'm insane.

The rest of the evening is a blur. My last fully formed memory is being dragged from the interior of the Cadillac and watching from the bank as Ana's metallic grave erupts in flames. Apparently, there was nothing my rescuers could do about that.

I should be grateful, and I think I am in a way. It's just difficult to step away from approaching death and still find something worth living for.