He threw his empty beer can to the ground and I watched it roll, the thin scratch of it against the concrete floor crackling against the still air. We were both silent watching the can finish its roll and then, without ceremony, Doc stood offering me his hand, walked me out of the room and back into the warmth of his color filled house. I noticed the large sweat stains on the back of his shirt as I followed him down the hallway stopping when he stopped in the foyer.
He pulled a small bag from the floor. I looked inside at the clothes from the closet neatly folded and stacked at the bottom. On top of the clothes were the grey chuck taylor sneakers and he let me balance a hand on his shoulder as I slide the shoes on my feet.
Doc opened the front door and the complete darkness outside was disorienting. I focused on the sounds of the night. The steady rumble of people living their life knowing I would try and be one of them.
Before I had a chance to reason why I was hugging him, my arms wrapped tight around his neck. He only chuckled his arms folding around me, his mouth lightly brushing the top of my hair.
“Good luck to you.” He kissed my cheek pulling away. “I do believe this will be the last time we’ll ever see each other.”
I nodded knowing intuitively he was right….(there are a few sentences here that I can’t make out, sorry)…
I walked out into the darkness. The door clicked shut behind me. I never looked back and I never saw him again.
My head was throbbing as I walked through Doc’s stale yard towards my car. I wasn’t sure if it was the aftermath of the cleansing, the effects of guzzling two beers or the combination of both. I rubbed my forehead gently with my fingers and thought how quickly everything can change. How quickly your life can be something so different than anything you could have ever imagined.
I remembered how I used to believe in fantasy things, devour books about vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, witches, fairies and everything in-between. How I had lullabyed myself with ideas of how much easier life would be if I wasn’t human. It had been romantic, enticing. Now it was aggravating. I would throw all those books away, burn them if I could. I would pass them in bookstores and hide the new releases behind cookbooks or accounting software. I shook my head gently, trying to steady the pulsing there, and wondered if the people writing those books had any idea how very wrong they were.
I rememberd the truth as Sara had told it on the night I’d made my choice. The reality of the balance, like a giant scale controlling everything. The existence of those fighting to tilt the scale in one direction and the others fighting for the opposite. She’d explained the control of the balance and the work of Persuasion – the art of swaying a soul – as the result of every decision, thought, and choice. Enough activity and a soul is marked. A mark cannot be changed. That will determine the end of everything.
I remembered coming to the frightening realization that the apocalypse will have nothing to do with mythic beings or anything make-believe. It will come down to a counting of regular people. Of marks. Of souls.
My Josh was born a Taram. He was bred to work in Persuasion and to be a cloaked. He always said I must have been too. I don’t know if I believe him or if it even matters. I’d met him on the third day of training. He’d been simultaneously eating an apple and an ice cream cone and I couldn’t help but stare as he orchestrated the two. My eyes had continued to follow him as he’d looked up and without the slightest hesitation walked over and sat beside me. Tossing the apple core so it arched high in the air before landing with a thump into the trash he said he’d never been stared at by such a beautiful girl before. I didn’t believe him. Both the beautiful part and the never been stared at part. He seemed like the type very used to being stared at, midnight and smooth, impossibly tall, hair falling just past his shoulders in thick velvet locs, eyes dark and clear, smile easy and genuine with dimples so deep they’d seemed branded into his face.
He’d become my first true friend. He was gorgeous but the idea of making it more seemed cheap, seemed too easy for what we were meant to be to each other. He became a reflection of the best parts of me. Beyond silly things held together by flowers, love songs, plans of everything just right that crumble when they inevitably aren’t. We were destined. We were forever. We fell into an easy ritual. At lunch he would bring me an ice cream cone to share. At night we stayed up practicing training sequences and talking about everything. His girlfriends. My lack of boyfriends. The lives we had before ending up where we were.
He’d made me laugh imitating Sara during class or the girls who lined up to watch when he walked from the shower. When I first got to Essex and the memories of my past were sneaky and resilient he would sleep near me at night, wrapping his arms around me to keep me from floating away. He would recite Pablo Neruda in my ear or play Outkast through his portable ipod speaker and I would find reason to smile. I thought he was perfection in every way. That he was truth.
We’d sparred frequently. Some would say too frequently. Training required an equal emphasis on combat and persuasion but we were drawn to fighting. He was impossibly crisp in his movements, inventive and ridiculously fast. He’d been my choice for the Kachina. He was a birthright. His fighting skills rivaled my own and he seemed to know more of the teachings than the elders themselves. It became an inside joke. The two of us best friends doomed to battle for the fate of the world. We’d joked while we sparred teasing that a failed move had just cost the universe. We’d called each other Armageddon laughing between bites of ice cream and apples.