Death Becomes Us

Chapter Three (Pt. 1)

Dusk has fallen, slowly and surely so that the change is hardly noticed by those living around me. The light of day and the dark of night collide, creating a band of the deepest blue between them. I greet the moon as she climbs to her post, a thin crescent above the city of Birmingham, England, and the last of the sun sinks below the horizon. Now only the fires of sunset color the lower half of the sky, smoldering beneath the weight of night.

It is a hospital visit that has brought me here; tonight more than one soul must come with me. In most ways it is easier to do it all in one go, but I am still not very fond of hospitals. Their halls reek of sickness and my last visit paid there.

The hospital stands near the center of Birmingham where the sick are surrounded by the bustling life of the city. I wonder what it is like for the patients to sit in bed and watch the city just outside their windows. The disconnection they must feel, being restrained to a bed while the world moves on without you. In some ways I sympathize with their situation. I, more than anyone else, know what it's like to be restrained, but recently I have found a way to cope.

I have arrived early and have found a seat on the edge of Mistry's fountain, The River, a couple miles from the hospital. As much as I try to convince myself otherwise, it isn't an accident that I am here at this time. Deep down I know that she will be here soon and I can indulge in another act of false life.

This is also not the first time that I have purposefully done this sort of thing; it is the thirty-second.

Elizabeth Barrow, what are you doing to me?

It began when I ran across her a third time in San Francisco and after that, if I discover that we are in the same area, I find myself going out of my way to see her. For her it has been nearly a year, but for me only a few thousand fractures. In that time I have watched her career flourish as her name rose to be among some of the greatest and most sought after, whether she wanted it to or not.

The ugly label of obsession towards this mortal girl looms over my guilty head, a label I fight to ignore. Yes, perhaps I have poured over her pages in my book on several occasions and yes, I am often lost in her story, but even her words inspire that feeling of acknowledgement I never knew I craved until now. Could it be said that it is odd I talk with Elizabeth despite the fact no human can hear me? Maybe, but—wait; she is here.

Elizabeth Barrow rolls up on a blue bicycle with handlebars that reflect the shifting dusk. She slides forward off her seat and awkwardly walks her bike over to a low wall to the side. Swiftly she removes her backpack and takes out her camera as she absently scans the fountain.

This is part of Elizabeth's European tour, the sixth stop after Venice, Amsterdam, Berlin, Strasburg, and Edinburgh. The pictures she develops will be featured in her next gallery, a show which her manager has named Evening Romance. Elizabeth has secretly named it Where Roads May Cross. So far Edinburgh has been her favorite location.

I lean forward and cup my chin in a hand, watching her approach with mild anticipation. There is something wrong with me. I shouldn't be doing this or even looking forward to it, but I can't help myself. Just a little closer and I can see the heat of her blood warming her cheeks, the red of her lips, and the vapors of her breath steaming in the cool evening. This is the closest that I can come to life.

Elizabeth wanders around the edge of the fountain, passing close enough that I can reach out and touch her, but I don't, I can't.

She is wearing a brown pea coat dressed with a purple scarf tonight. If I concentrate I can smell the ghost scent of lavender and honey drifting off of her. It is Elizabeth's own unique scent. Everyone has one, some stronger than others. Sometimes I like to imagine that, if I were alive, I would smell like burning wood and autumn leaves. I hear those are pleasant smells for a human.