Imposter

Chapter 12

When Wesley was a little boy, he had always feared the dark.

Now, living in permanent darkness, he had to face that fear.

As a child, he was always looking for new ways to brighten his room come bedtime. He had once tried a jar of fireflies—that hardly did a thing.

Because their house at the time didn't have any electricity, he was hard-pressed and running out of options.

It was always the most frightening when he was alone.

Whenever Gracie had a sleepover, he would crawl into an older sibling's bed or sleep with his parents.

They all soon tired of that and when they decided he was too old and needed to face his fear, Wesley came up with what he thought to be a good idea.

He stole a small candle and a matchbox from the kitchen early in the morning, stuffing them beneath his pillow.

When night fell and Gracie was away, he listened to the sounds of his family moving around the house.

He lay there in the dark, clutching his blankets, hyperventilating, while he tried to contain his fear.

When at long last the house was silent, he drew out the candle and the match.

One candle simply didn't provide enough light that he would have liked, but it would have to do.

The tiny flame brought him peace and he finally drifted off into sleep.

Sometime during the night, the family cat knocked the candle over and Wesley woke up to the smell of smoke and fire licking at his blankets.

Fire.

The memory jolted him now, and he ached to curl into a ball.

His entire body hurt. He could feel it from where he was, even though he had no body in this world he was trapped in.

Death hovered over him, giggling with delight and rubbing its hands together as it waited for him to relinquish his hold on life.

The dark would consume him one day.

One day, he would have to let go.

Where those his thoughts, or was Death projecting them onto him?

No matter.

Once again, he told himself, not today.

********

The cries of the dying surrounded him, day and night.

Wesley had never known Death consumed so many souls, had never known how many souls had been lost.

Death was so rare, some people refused to believe in it.

So how was this possible?

Because this is not my doing.

This is only a taste of the things to come.

Open your eyes, Wesley.

Tell me you want it. Admit you want it.

Wesley made himself deaf to its taunts.

You will only wake up when you stop denying the truth.

No, that wasn't true.

He just. . .he just wasn't ready to face the severity of what he had done.

Of what he had become.

It had been a long time since he had felt hands all over his broken body, and he wondered if that was a good thing.

Maybe he was too far gone. Maybe it wasn't just his body that was broken.

He still heard Gracie reading to him.

Sometimes she just spoke to him, carrying on a one-sided conversation.

Other times, she just cried.

Wesley hated himself more than ever when he heard her sobbing.

All he had to do was wake up and open his eyes.

What was so hard about that?

I guess I get to win. Again.

Ghostly fingers tickled his chin, and a wild laugh echoed through his head.

Wesley's incorporeal form drew back.

He was going to lose his sanity.

So, wake up. Just wake up.

Jamie, Ivana, Gracie, and Andy.

The thought of family was not enough to wake his body, nor was the thought of the threat that lingered over their heads every hour he remained in his coma.

That was what it was, wasn't it?

As long as he remained comatose, Death stayed at his bedside.

In his head.

Still, it wasn't enough to pull himself from his slumber.

Was he selfish?

No, he was terrified.

Scared of having to face what he had done, scared of having to live with himself.

His body was too weak. His mind was too weak.

His heart was. . .

It had been ruined.

It would be better if he never woke up.

Wesley let himself drift over burnt landscapes.

Death guided him, chuckling in his ear and whispering of the atrocities to come.

He couldn't hear what it said to him, but he knew none of it was good.

Dying people cried out. Some, for Death to finally take them. Others, begging Life for a second chance.

They reached with bloodied fingers, trying to grasp at them as they floated by, begging Death, while the others fell back in terror when they got too close.

With a start, Wesley realized none of them were crying out to Death, none of them were afraid of Death.

They were afraid of him.

They were begging him to let them go.