Eryn Cutler: The Life Taker

Chapter 12- Liberated

“A void in my chest was beginning to fill with anger. Quiet, defeated anger that guaranteed me the right to my hurt, that believed no one could possibly understand that hurt.” -Rachel Sontag, House Rules

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"For how much?", I asked, looking down on the ground. My fedora had just fallen off my head during the blinding impact and my hair was wet with sweat and grime.

"For two hundred and fifty baseball cards"

I started to burst into tears. I made no effort to cover my tear-streaked face. My life was worth a few hundred baseball cards. I've reduced myself into a puppet, merely doing whatever Death told me to. I trusted him, loved him as I would my comrade. I can't believe he'd do that.

I felt a hand brush against my shoulder. "You don't have to dwell on the past, Eryn. I am to purge all of your sins out of your frail body. You can turn over to a new leaf and start anew again. Look at all the bile you're regurgitating. It's tainted with your blood. Your own body has been poisoning your soul ever since Death reigned over you"

I was vomiting out crimson red bile. A pungent and horrible stench seeped inside my nostrils as I clutched my stomach with both hands. A remnant of blood trickled out of my mouth in a slow steady waterfall.

I started to panic as the mild spasms got worse, overtaking my sanity. I sputtered and coughed out more bile stuck inside me. Each wave burned my throat as it rose up to my mouth in very thin lines. I was interally bleeding. I was dying inside.

"Leave me alone here. Let me suffer under the wings of my Oppressor", I managed to say as my eyes felt like they were being plucked out. The puddles of bile surrounded me, mocking my very Existence. All of them were stained with my red-black blood.

I then felt the Seraphim's eyes wonder around me. "Of course, I have a choice to leave you here, to suffer and writhe in pain. But I don't want to do that. You are special, normal to the eyes of fools but unique in mine. You can write Death sentences to whichever person causes you guilt"

My head hit a sharp rock as I fell face flat on the ground. The pain was unbearable. There was so much dark magic inside my body, wriggling out of each pore in thick wips of smoke. Now, I was a decaying corpse. I hate Death for doing this to me. He transformed me healthy body into a sanctuary for all things Evil. All those times he lashed and whipped me, I thought he was only punishing me so I could be a better person. Now, I could clearly see beyond his intentions that he has always looked down at me as an animal, a slave who'd answer to his every whim.

"But Death has given me that ability. Now, since you're cleansing me of all my impurities, I'm talentless. What skill do I have to prove myself as an indomitable and powerful figure of the Elite? I've been downgraded to a mere woman, desoate, empty, friendless and blessed with a heartless soul?"

 I could clearly see his face right now. I was getting used to the Light again. "Death merely took advantage of your extraordinary ability to write. Who were you before you met him?"

The pain was subsiding but I was still numb with fear. I wanted to shut my eyes and allow myself to die, possibly because of overexposure to heat, but I restrained myself to. His sharp gaze was penetrating through my soul. I felt all Evil and Hatred saturating my heart, draining away like a liquid from pouring down filter paper, leaving the sediments on top.

"I was a pulp fiction writer, employed in a rotten newspaper called "Picturesque Grandeur". the pay wasn't much. I only earned fifteen M.po's a week, barely enough to help maintain my firefly lantern supply and food requirements. I loved Literature, and explored the dark side instead of basking in the bright side. My comrades would call me the mistress of the Devil since I've grown in the light but I've always fascinated myself with everything dark and scary. I've always fantasized about working a permanent partnership with Death. One chilly night in October, three years ago, Death literally knocked on my door. He took the form of a gentleman my age and inquired if I was Eryn Cutler, the proud pulp fiction writer whose false words spread all over Metropolitan like wildfire. He wanted an assistant and said he found me to be very promising. Next thing I knew, he called all the Forces of Darkness inside my humble abode to enter my body. As a child, I always felt that I had a halo of light on my head. The second when those skeletons and grim reapers entered my soul, I felt that halo being extinguished"

I was surprised to see that the Seraphim's big feathery wings were beginning to take flight. I felt the slow trickle of a vile, putrid smelling liquid run down the side of my mouth. My vision was getting clearer and clearer. All the dark magic that came out of my boyd disappeared into a crevice somewhere along the pavement. The puddles of bile were now puddles of crystal clear water as I trudged above them.

I gazed, mesmerized at the face of my savior, my Redeemer, who was smiling at me. I felt warm inside as his smile reached his eyes. As I looked down on my clothes, I realized that I was wearing a white dress. My black shoes still remained with me. I was amazed at how the shape of my body was, since when you're wearing a roquelaire, you wouldn;t be familiar with the curvatures you have.