Hidden Meanings

untitled.

Once upon a time, they told you that power can't be taken away or given, merely exchanged.

They were wrong.

The Grim Reaper has no power anymore. They can't reach into our world anymore, it's only when you are purposefully killed by someone else.

The only remnant of their power is the mark that appears on your body when your time of living has ended. It covers your entire body- marks almost like inked tattoos that cover your face, arms, hands, legs, back- everywhere. 

That... those marks are a sign of everyone around you, anyone who saw you- it's a sign to kill you. 

"Papa," I call,  tossing my things into the backseat. "Are you ready?"

My father throws me a weary smile, and takes the arm I offer to him. "Thank you, my dear," his chuckle rumbles deep in the back of his throat. 

"Have fun!" Mother calls from the kitchen. I catch a hint of her baking, the smell drifting through the air. 

Helping my father out of the house, I led him carefully down the steps and aid him into the side seat of the car. Going back around, I ease myself into the driver's seat. 

"And where did you say this man's place was?"

"I didn't," he replies. "But it's Downard's Street, 241."

Scrapping my foot alongside the pedal, the car starts underneath my fingers and vibrates. It coughs once, inhales, then clears its throat. I pat the side of it carefully, feeling it hum, then ease the pedal.

As we ride down the street, I don't take my eyes off the road, and instead speak out of the side of my mouth. "Why are we going to this place, again?"

"He has a very old relic that he wishes for me to see," he responds, lifting one hand to rest on the cane he holds between his legs. "He said that once I'm fifty-two, I should see it."

"And your birthday was yesterday, so yes, it makes sense. Any idea of what this relic could be?"

"N- Rize, watch out!"

SCREECH!

The entire car jerks, and I hit my forehead on the steering wheel, fingers scrabbling to grasp it and whip it towards the left.

My foot slams into the pedal, and god, does it grate my ears, but I know I will never forget the burn marks I see the other car in front of us makes. It swerves and tips, tires screaming against the ground before it flips, glass shattering. 

Something slices across my thigh as glass spills from the window, and I grit my teeth.

For a moment, it goes eerily silent. 

There's blood on my pants, but I pay it no heed. Instead, my eyes dart towards my father, searching for the warmth of worn grey irises.

No.

No, no, no, no.

The mark.

The mark's there.

It's creeping across his hand,  swirling and printing itself onto his skin. I watch in fascination as it slithers up his arm, creeping under his sleeve until the reality hits me: that's a mark to die.

I'm supposed to kill him. It's everyone's duty to kill someone with that mark. 

He's gone unconscious. 

In my stomach, the blood rolls and bubbles. 

It's my job to kill my father.

No. No. No. That's not right. I can't, I can't...

My stomach drops. My hands tremble, and I feel an itch draw itself across my palm. As I look down at it, I feel bile rising in my throat and blood scraping across my tongue as I bit deep into it. 

The mark curls across my palm. 

My fingers twitch. 

I spare a look at the sudden cars around us that come to a stop, my breathing increasing.

No, no, no.

I'm nineteen. I'm young. I still had to find love. I wanted to survive and explore.

I'm not supposed to have the mark of death.

There's sand in my throat. I can just barely swallow through it

I can't leave my father here.

You have to.

The door to the car flies open as I slam one foot into it, opening it with my hand as I do so. Without any look towards the crowd that is starting to gather, I sprint.

"CATCH HER!" Someone screams. 

I don't look back. My legs ache already- I'm a former softball player, not a long-distance running. Breaths slam out of me without restraint. A screech rises in the air, a shout of someone against my back. 

Skidding over the road, I duck. Lights flash in my eyes, flares of a bleached, yellow-white color searing itself into my eyes, but I keep going. I keep running, keep moving. I can't stop moving. 

I don't want to die.

The selfish thought curls up in my throat, and in my mind's eye, I see my father, Andrew, on his side, head rolled back and still passed out in the passenger side of the car. After a moment in the vision, a gun is pointed at his slack face and the finger pulls the trigger.

I choke, just on the verge of tripping over my own feet from the sudden image. Instead, I dive towards grass, rolling onto my back and into the shadows of the bush.

The mark sweep across my hand, and I press my fingertips to my forehead, throat growing dry. 

I'm supposed to be dead.

Screams rise in the distance. 

A gunshot rings out.

Papa.

Papa.

Papa, Papa, Papa. He has to be okay. That mark has to be a disillusion of my own eyes. 

I'm supposed to be dead.