“That’s enough,” my father says. Everything about him, from the slump of his shoulders to how he lumbers away, is bone-dry and exhausted. “Enough talk about salvation and searching. When we deserve to be saved, our time here will end. He told me as much.”
It’s never good whenever Father mentions this He. I don’t know what the figure is, or if He only exists in my father’s head, but I know this… He is the reason why my brother and I were locked in this house for 531 days four years ago. He is the reason our dog mysteriously went missing, why tufts of fur still litter our rooms.
If this is where my father is seeking his counsel, I want nothing to do with it.
Slowly, I stand. Worn, balding carpet threads my toes as my throat burns, but I have no words left for my father. Like our water, they dried up years before, leaving something cracked. Breathless. Ruined.
Without even a huff, I march to the door. As I open it, my brother’s lofty voice follows me out, “Don’t get caught. Don’t get cut. What is stuck will three times stick. Until the phoenix flutters again. Until that endless demise—”
With a clank, I tug the metal slate shut.
I don’t care what anyone says. Everyone around me is dead or dying. Maybe not in a black-and-white way, but one that—as my brother said—sticks. One just as permanent.
But I have not yet been broken.
I am nothing but ice and Novocain.
We have searched for Death for a millennium, though it's normally only the same six that bother. The Cynx, trained in the art of tracking and capturing him. And, with the obvious faults that come with missing our very own Grim Reaper, they Reaper Smiling, they will lean forward and slit their own throats upon his blade.
I always imagined Death's eyes would steam over then, little tears slipping out—slick and smooth as lines of tape. He must care for us, to abandon us so wholly.
Stomping down the street, I keep my eyes level, my stare straight. It’s best not to attract the attention of others, their bore-dom. It’s best to let them