The Lovers of Life

CHAPTER VI - SCARS FROM A STAR

"I'll stare straight into the Sun
And I won't close my eyes
Till I understand or go blind"

Stare at the Sun – The Artist in the Ambulance - Thrice

A little way ahead, I could see the city where I had sent Maryann. I sighed and pulled my gloves off, shoving them impatiently in my pockets before taking off my coat and rolling up the sleeves of my white shirt. It was as I had feared: my skin was badly burned. Always when my father disapproved of my doings in the sunlight, I was burned. He always disapproved of what I did in the night, but the night did not belong to him – it belonged to Wail.

I shoved my hat off and passed my hand on my cheeks. I could feel the dry skin and the raw blisters under my touch and I shuddered. I hated that my skin turned raw and sensible because I couldn't stand in the sun. I hated it that my father punished me with these wounds – or did I simply hate my father?

I sat down at the foot of an ancient willow tree and leaned my head against its soft bark. I sighed and relaxed. I felt sorry for Marguerite. She had been a good woman, in her way. But Anastasia had blabbed to her and I had warned... And from the Heaven where she stood, maybe Marguerite would watch over her beloved daughter. Or maybe she would forget all about her mortal relatives.

I could smell something warm and salty, like a tasty breeze. I knew the smell well enough. It was life and I loved life. But what was it doing here? I opened my eyes and scanned the surrounding. Nothing except dead souls wandering aimlessly nearby. I felt something warm on my lips and licked. Damn it, some blisters must have ruptured and there was no way to stop the flow. My lips had cracked from the drought they suffered, but they weren't spilling my Life out. And I cursed my father. Not because it was his fault that I was bleeding, but because I needed something to be angry against and it's always so much easier to blame someone else for everything that goes wrong in one's life.

I wiped the blood on my face taking great care not to taste anymore of its sweet taste because it would enlighten my everlasting hunger for the warm flowing blood, for the Life I loved so much.

I reckon I eventually dozed off. I did not feel her come near me and lay a blanket on my cold body. There was a pleasant familiar smell and I liked it. There were flowers too, and there she was – but I didn't really care while I slept. When I sleep, I sleep and that's pretty much there is to be said about it.

But she was there when I opened my eyes. For a heartbreaking moment, I thought it was Marguerite who had come to haunt me – already! – but it wasn't Marguerite. She was in Heaven enjoying herself with a handful of sanctified saints no doubt. I blinked and stared at the Wraith. She smiled.

How could she smile when she laid her eyes upon me?

She was holding a basket of flowers, daffodils, lilies and gladioluses, hitched on her hip rather carelessly. Nothing had changed. Neither her old clothing nor her appearance. She was slightly see-through, and she was dead but apart from that, she seemed the same.

"I knew you would come back," she said smiling and twiddling her fingers in her flowers fussily, "you couldn't stay away from your home for ever. And I had all eternity to wait," she added mischieviously. I couldn't help noticing how the way she spoke had improved. "There's nothing much to do around here," she added, "most people are merely bored by the place and they stand and wait for time to waste them away. But I couldn't. I had something to do: I was waiting. This is where you live, isn't it?" she asked gesturing mildly towards the city behind her.

"Yeah, I do own a rather cramped flat or something similar somewhere in that chaotic wretched town," I agreed stretching my arms and pulling faces as my dry rotten skin cracked.