Don't Fear the Reaper

Don't Fear the Reaper: Chapter Three

Chapter Three

                Laughter of little kids was all around him. Most stumbled, ran around, shouted, pointed fake guns at each other and poked each other with inflated swords.

But little Mark wasn’t one of them. He was at the corner of his kindergarten classroom, balancing himself on a tiny four-legged stool. There was a huge sheet of white paper taped on the wall, a sheet meant for finger painting that was slobbered on with paint and replaced every day.

Today was his chance, before any of the other kids tried out the sheet. When he looked at the sheet, he didn’t see imprints of small, stubby fingers splashed on at awkward angles. What he saw were the colours – so many colours blending with one another, in perfect harmony: colours that were painted on by none other than himself. A true masterpiece.

A tin of blue paint lay at his feet. It was his favourite colour. His knees buckled as he bent forward, dipping his hands in the clear paint. Tongue sticking out in concentration, he swiped his palms across the sheet.

                His balanced faltered, and he slipped. His palms slid down the sheet in the process, as he fell forward, knocking his head against the tin. The stool clattered backwards. When he hit the ground, shock had overcome him, spreading like electricity through his body.

And before he knew it, his tiny heart stopped beating.

His teacher had heard the crash. She sprinted forward, kneeling down at his side, trying to shake him to life.

“Mark?” her voice cracked. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone to dial 911, her free hand frantically trying to search for a pulse of her student.

                He knelt down next to Mark as well, noticing his unseeing, open eyes, which were round, brown and big. A part of him sunk. He hesitated to extend his hand to touch him. The teacher, of course, could not see this, could not see him. She wasn’t witnessing the possible failure of what he was meant to do.

He couldn’t understand it. It was strange, to be overcome with an urge to make an exception, after all these long years. He didn’t know what had brought the change.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t submit to it. He wouldn’t. In that fit, his hand shot forward, touching Mark’s forehead.

A light sprung from the tips of his fingers.

**

                Nex was in an astonishingly bad mood today. I knew he wasn’t a talker, but what was more, he didn’t even smile, not even in that annoyingly “I know something that you don’t” manner.

He just remained quiet, absolutely mute, his eyes ablaze, glowing, with an expression beyond comprehension. 

I was next to the register, as I had been for the last couple of days. Carson had decided to stay a waiter for some time longer, just for the fun of it. He’d love to randomly go into the kitchen and irritate Mark, only to come out, doubled over with laughter, as Mark threw carrot sticks at him, yelling a string of hilarious Texan swear words.

My elbows rested on the counter and I patiently waited for Nex to order his usual bottle of beer. Yes, he’d become as good as a local. The others had befriended him in a matter of time, loving his overly mysterious yet simple character.

Every time he entered through the door, Amanda would deliberately walk by me, serving a customer, and giving a wink at my direction. To her, that routine never got old. I would just sigh and shake my head in exasperation.