Undertaker

undertaker

prologue

“I’ll put the baby doll to bed, handheld and spoonfed”

11:38pm.

A dark house. Lace curtains hung at the window, the only light was orange from the sodium lamps that hung in the street. It was quiet, all except from the cars that roared by on the road outside, and shouts and hoots from party goers trekking from one drunken extravaganza to the next.

A woman lay in a bed, the sheets strewn about her body; a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, reflecting the eerie orange light that filtered through the thin curtains. Her brown hair splayed out on her pillow like a halo.

In a chair, in the corner, a boy in a long dark coat sat. His elbows rested on his skinny knees, his long fingers in a steeple at the ends of his forearms. He watched the woman as her breath grew quieter and quieter, and when it had all but stopped, he stood. He brushed down his coat. He took the few short steps to her bedside.

11.45pm.

The boy watched the thin ring of yellow light outlining the woman fade slowly, growing smaller and smaller, and greyer and greyer as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, the last breath drifted from the woman’s lips, her heart stopped beating, and she stopped living.

The boy checked her pulse with his fingers on the inside of her wrist, to confirm what he already knew.  With a deep breath he didn’t really need, he pressed the palm of his hand to the woman’s forehead, whispered a few words, and lifted his hand away. And as he did so, a cloud of what looked like steam followed his hand. He turned it up to the ceiling, and inspected it closely.

With a sigh of relief, he closed his fist, concealing the cloud within it, and pressed the steam into a pouch on his hip.

“Mummy?”

The boy froze. A little girl’s voice drifted in under the door, and the boy stared at it, his eyes wide with horror.

The door creaked open a fraction, and the noise kicked the boy into action. He dived into cupboard, his breath quick and shallow, and a thousand curses running through his head. Reaching into a satchel hanging at his hip, he pulled out a vial of silvery powder. He bit the cork out, and tossed some of the powder up into the air.

“Melchior, when I get back, we are going to have words. You knew the deal - I don’t do orphans! I’ll be damned if I ever pick up any of your work again.” He hissed at the cloud, before dispersing it with a swipe of his hand.

He pressed his ear to the door of the cupboard.

“Mummy? I had a nightmare.” The girl whispered, and the boy heard the springs of the bed creak as she climbed up onto it. He scrunched his eyes up, pressing his head into the palm of his hand, thinking up as many colourful ways of harming Melchior when he got back to the compound.

The boy recovered, and pressed his ear against the door again. He couldn’t hear anything; he guessed that the girl had gone back into her own room.

Good. Leave it for someone else to deal with, he thought miserably, his heart aching for the little girl who would wake up as an orphan.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped silently out into the bedroom. He looked over at the bed - the woman was alone once again, and the boy breathed out, finally taking the steps to lead him to the window.

Just as he reached it, and bent to open the latch, he felt a tug at his coat. His heart squeezed, and began beating erratically, his eyes wide. He spun around and looked down, knowing exactly what he would see.

A little girl, with the same hair and eyes as her mother, looked up at him, her round silver eyes turned gold in the dim orange light. A thin sheen of dark red bubbled around her, with notes of blue fading to purple streaking throughout. She released his coat, and tilted her head to one side.

“Are you a doctor?” she whispered, her eyebrows tilting up in question. The boy groaned inwardly, and crouched down so he was height level with the little girl.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly, placing his fingertips against the wooden floor for balance. The little girl tucked her hands together shyly, looking down at her bare feet.

“I’m Cathy. What’s yours?” she replied, looking back up at him from beneath a wispy fringe.

“Tom. How old are you, Cathy?” he asked again, and this time Cathy counted on her fingers. She stopped at five.

“I’m five years old, and two months.” She said proudly, smiling up at Tom, showing a gap where one of her front teeth was missing. She was about the cutest thing Tom had ever seen in his life. “So, mister Tom, are you a doctor?” she whispered again, clasping her hands together in hope.

The hope in her eyes just about crushed all the air from his lungs, and he bit his bottom lip hard. Slowly, he shook his head.

“No, Cathy, I’m not. I can’t help you, I’m sorry.” He whispered, hating himself more than ever as he watched the hope fall from the little girl’s face. Slowly, he reached back into his satchel, and pulled out a small vial of dark blue powder, smattered with silver so it looked like stars.

This seemed to catch the little girl’s attention, as she reached out her little fingers to take the vial. Tom held it up, letting himself smile at the little girl.

“What’s that?” she asked, awe colouring her voice.

“It’s special glitter powder. Do you want some?” he asked, and she nodded vigorously, the smile returning to her face.

Feeling incredibly guilty, Tom tipped a tiny pile in his hand. It covered up part of a swirling tattoo that sat menacingly on his skin, and he winced as Cathy reached out to touch the powder. He let her get some on her fingertips, and as she inspected them closely, he blew the rest of the powder gently over her head.

Cathy blinked once, twice, and the third time her eyes didn’t reopen - her muscles went limp, and Tom caught her easily, lying her gently on the wooden floor.  

Exhaling shakily, he stood, the hate for himself turning his inside into swirling, dark mush. He turned to go for the window, and took one last look at the sleeping girl and her dead mother. Cathy looked so vulnerable on the floor - he couldn’t just leave her like that.

He flicked the window open, ready, but walked over to the chair he sat in before this whole mess, and took the cushion that rested there. He lifted her head gently, and placed the cushion beneath it. Then he got a blanket from the shelf inside the cupboard he hid in, and draped it over her, his heart less heavy when he saw that she was more comfortable now.

Her aura glowed a steady light blue colour, with sparks of red and pink and purple flashing through it - he envied her dreaming, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a goodnight’s sleep.

Tom finally hopped out of the window, fell two stories, and landed delicately on his feet. Once his feet were on the grass outside the house, he pulled out another vial, this one looked like it was empty, but he tipped the contents over his head. Then, he let himself freak out.

“God fucking damnit!” he screamed, slamming his foot into the fence nearby. It drifted straight through, like it always did, which just made him angrier. He began to wring his wrists, the skin growing more and more red, contrasting greatly with the pale skin of his forearms.

“What can I do? Protection spell? No, because she’s five.” He muttered to himself, pacing next to some rosebushes. A dog in the next garden over watched him through the fence - animals could always see him.

Suddenly, a plan came to him, and he smiled. He a sigh of relief, he strode across the garden, through the fence, and jogged off through the streets.