Hanon Dansab Sayphe
A creak.
A slight one; not enough to wake Dana completely, but enough to lull him away from
sleep. A pillow of plumes against his face reminds him of what he’s become, rejecting the idea
that becoming a Valkyrie was a dream. An off-white glow reaches between his eyelids, brushing
them aside to give way to blobs smeared across his vision. The blurred colors shrink to form borders, which
then become posters, autographed baseballs, covered windows, crosses… Dana pulls his eyes shut again,
letting his wings cuddle him back to sleep.
But then he remembers the creak.
Dana’s eyes flick open, and he sits up for a better view of the room. His gaze is snagged right away on the bed across from him, where Kevin sits with a plate of pancakes in his hands. Kevin gives a smile and sets the plate on a table just beside him.
“Hey, Dana,” he says with a warm voice. It’s soft yet dry, like a cotton ball being pulled apart.
Dana grumbles as he sits up. He smiles back; not out of habit, but not out of amiability either.
“Hungry?” Kevin asks.
“Mm-mm,” Dana shakes his head, not wanting to take anything away from Kevin.
“Well, you might want to eat anyways,” Kevin leans back, “Not that you need to. It’s just a good way to clear your head.”
Dana shakes his head again, letting his wings creep up to either side of his body. He flexes his back to control them, bringing the left one up to brush his cheek while his right hand rubs his eye. Kevin lets out an amused huff, freezing Dana’s movements.
“Technically, we do have all day,” says Kevin, “But I’d rather not put things off.”
Kevin rises to his feet and nods to one side of the room.
“There should be some clothes for you in the drawer,” he continues, “The bathroom’s down the hall to your right if you want a shower.”
Dana nods, avoiding eye contact. Kevin steps towards the door and lingers for a moment, eyeing the plate left behind. He opens his mouth to ask if Dana wants to eat here, but instead closes his mouth, nods, and slips out through the doorway.
A still minute passes through the room, morphing the surroundings into a statue. Dust motes hang in the air, suspended by sunbeams gracing their presence. Nothing moves save for the fluid in Dana’s veins. Anxious from the freeze in time, he lets out a sigh and the room wakes up. The dust wheels back into motion, and a branch shuffles somewhere behind the shaded windows. He lifts his hands above his head, fingers locked together, and straightens his arms for a stretch. His wings reflexively follow suit, splaying themselves to work out the knots in their muscles. He yawns, then brings his arms and wings back towards him. As he rises to stand, his eyes are caught by a detail to their left.
On his bedside table lies a small black monolith; one slim rectangle with a handle jutting out at its base. A curve juts out of the corner where they meet, boxed in by two planks forming a right angle. The figure’s stark noir cuts perfectly into the birch surface, leaving a distinct boundary between where it is and where it isn’t.
There, on his own bedside table, is the pistol Dana used to kill himself.
Dana thinks about looking away from it. He thinks about instead focusing on the posters across the room, wondering if he’d recognize the athletes. He thinks about the baseballs, wondering how many signatures must have been accrued over the years. He thinks about the crosses, wondering why there would be so many. He thinks about the statues of Mary, wondering where her child went. He wants to count them all to see exactly how many of everything there is in the room. The collection can’t be any greater than his imagination is making it out to be. It’s easy to think that there are dozens of everything in one’s peripheral view, but the illusion could be shattered easily just by tearing his gaze from the gun in front of him.
But he can’t do that.
The memory of a cigarette burn makes his forearm twitch. A hole grows inside Dana’s head, becoming more and more real by the second. It really is there, he realizes. The vacancy in his skull is just as vivid as the lukewarm air draped around him.
Dana closes his eyes and swallows. He crosses an arm to feel his feathers. They’re soft. He keeps his eyes closed as he clutches his wing and steps out of bed. He keeps his other hand on the headboard, holding his arm straight as he circles around the bedside table. He opens his eyes.
Two dressers stand side-by-side. The right one decorated, the left one vacant. Two posters: Frank Robinson and Babe Ruth. Four baseballs, each one covered in scribbles and older than the previous. Three crosses; one hung on the wall, where a rosary hangs to sport the second cross, and one stood on the dresser in front of him. Two statues of Mary, identical in appearance and perched on either side of the dresser.
Dana expects some kind of repulsion at the sight of so many crosses, but nothing surfaces. Perhaps in the past he’d seen them as signs of aggression. As false beacons of hope to fixate on while cigarettes burn his arm, or as protest slogans lit by the flame of his own effigy. But no love nor hatred enters the mind. Each crucifix is matter-of-fact, present only to state the obvious that his roommate is a Christian.
Dana moves to his blank dresser, absentmindedly opening a drawer. An assortment of graphic tees greets him, all segregated into stacks sitting side-by-side in colorful arrays. One stack, however, is a stark white in contrast to the others, consisting of white button-ups similar to the ones he’d wear in concert. As if to welcome him — or maybe to mock him — the top three buttons of the uppermost shirt are undone in the same way he’d fashion them. As he’s about to close the drawer, he notices a white note blending in with the fabric. His fingers make a reach for it, falling into the parchment-like material as he lifts it and reads the thick black lettering.
Today’s attire! Your purge for today is the kind to let Mormons in, so take advantage of it.
Feel no remorse. Show no contempt.
ܣܡܐܝܠ —
(Samael)
Dana’s eyes fall to the button-ups, and his shoulders follow suit with a sigh. He lets the note slip from his hand before picking up a shirt. The cloth rustles between his fingers, its paper-like texture just the same as it was in life. His fingers curl, wrinkling the fabric and threatening to ruin it. His lower lip tucks itself between his teeth as his jaw tightens.
Just the same as it was in life.
“All right,” Kevin pulls a notecard from his shirt pocket, “502 Maple St. Dickson, TN 37055. The time is 14:22 on Monday, 23rd of April, 2009.”
Dana listens with half an ear, observing the house in front of him. It’s a Victorian-style home, freshly painted and ostensibly in full repair. It’s a little on the small side, though; Dana can tell that in spite of its height, the width of the home doesn’t leave much floor space. He can’t help but wonder why an architect would prioritize head space over standing room, but to each their own, he supposes. It isn’t a bad house, just not one he’d choose to live in. Whoever owns it certainly takes good care.
“This one’s you,” Kevin says to Dana, “First day, first blood.”
Dana’s gaze absentmindedly enters a window.
“I don’t know,” he says, “I’d rather see how it’s done before I do it myself.”
Kevin nods, “I think you’ll want to take over once you see this guy.”
Dana looks down at the Book of Mormon in his hand. “You really think he’ll let us in like this?” he asks.
“Definitely,” Kevin nods, “According to the files, he really enjoys talking about God with door-to-door missionaries. Doesn’t matter what religion they are, he just enjoys the philosophy. You know, you should definitely take a look at the files before going out to these.”
“Right,” Dana mutters, “Sorry.”
On instinct, Dana bows and puts his feet together. He hugs his book like a demure schoolgirl, disguising the tome’s intention to be used as a shield. Kevin just gives a concerned look.
“Um… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scold you,” Kevin says, reaching for Dana’s shoulder. Dana flinches on instinct, halting his partner’s hand.
“I just meant for future reference,” Kevin clarifies.
Dana clenches his book for a few more seconds, taking a few deep breaths once his partner pulls away. Kevin steps forward, opening the gate that leads to the house, and looks back. He tries to wear a patient mask, but his twitching fingers and shifting feet make it obvious to Dana that he’d rather hurry things along. Not wanting to test his Kevin’s temperance, Dana blows past for a sudden rush through the gate.
The two Valkyries cross the lush front yard, squeezing between a couple bushes guarding the home’s porch. Dana stops at the landing, stepping aside for Kevin to pass and give the front door a hearty knock. From inside, the Valkyries can hear someone walk through a flight of stairs and close a door. Footsteps approach the Valkyries before the door flings open to reveal a tall, bald man in a white tee shirt and blue jeans. Despite his appearance, the man’s demeanor is friendly; docile, even. With an amiable grin, he looks the Valkyries up and down and steps back.
“New missionaries?” he asks them.
“Oh, no Sir,” Kevin says, “We’ve been doing this for a few months now. I take it you’ve heard the good news?”
“Oh, I have,” the man steps aside, “Come on in, I’d love to talk about Jesus!”
“I thought so,” Kevin chuckles, “We’ve been told you’re quite the treat. Always on board, but never joining.”
“You’ll get me one of these days, just you wait,” the man jokes as Dana and Kevin pass him. He eyes Dana, clearly a bit puzzled by his effeminate physique, but to the Valkyrie’s relief he doesn’t question it. Before Dana can take in the foyer’s appearance, he and Kevin are ushered into a simple living room. It’s none too spacious, but the bay window on one wall makes it feel much more open. Floral wallpaper adorns the surrounding walls, showing no sign of wear or tear. The man sits in a kelly green armchair on one side of the room, gesturing to a plush, mint-colored sofa in front of the window. The Valkyries nod and sink into it, Kevin making a sigh of relief as he settles in.
“George O’Neill,” the man says.
“Robert Schuhart,” Kevin nods. Dana flinches as George looks over at him.
“Sid,” he says, “Uh, Sid Barret.”
A slight sigh from Kevin – or “Robert,” Dana guesses. He definitely would have come up with something better if he thought about it beforehand.
“Pink Floyd?” George cracks a smile.
“N-No relation, my parents were just big fans,” Dana smiles back, “And, well, you know, the last name and everything.”
George gives a hearty laugh and a nod.
“Oh!” the host puts his hands together, “Where are my manners? Do you guys want some water? Soda? Snacks?”
“A Sprite would be nice, if you have any,” Kevin nods.
“Some coffee, please,” Dana says. George furrows a brow.
“I thought you guys couldn’t have hot drinks?” he asks.
“And we can’t!” Kevin jumps in, “We came up with that earlier to test you. A-plus, by the way.”
“Ah, I gotcha,” George points a finger gun, “Follow me, we can talk in the kitchen.”
The Valkyries stand, once again moving through the house to another quaint space. The wallpaper here is different, covered in broad leaves hanging from a jungle of vines. Cupboards line the tops of each wall, while counters go around the room to reflect them. Nothing out of the ordinary stands on the countertops; just a coffeemaker, a toaster, and a plate with some crumbs left on it. At the center of it all is a dining table with two chairs, salt and pepper shakers, and a canister of sugar.
“It’s just you living here, I take it?” Kevin asks as George opens the fridge.
“Well, no,” George rummages through his stock, “My wife left me a long time ago, but gave me full custody of our daughter, Elizabeth. She’s at school right now, gets off at 3.”
Dana isn’t sure how, but he knows George is lying about his daughter being at school. He looks over at Kevin, who returns the favor with a knowing nod.
“Shame we can’t meet her,” Kevin says, taking a can of Sprite from George, “Elizabeth, I mean.”
“A shame indeed,” George nods, “She’s plenty of fun, a real blessing to be around.”
George means this, but in a different way than most would read. Dana shifts uncomfortably, glancing once again at Kevin. Kevin doesn’t look back this time, instead clenching his jaw as he stares forward. Before Dana knows it, a green soda can is stuck in front of his face.
“Want one?” George asks.
“Ah, yes please,” Dana takes the can and pulls the tab. A shrill hiss springs up at Dana, freezing him. His lungs halt for a moment. The room goes still just long enough for his muscles to relax and put the drink to his lips. He tilts the can back, letting its sweet and bubbly contents spill into his mouth.
From the corner of his eye, a door on one side of the room catches Dana’s attention. Instinct grips his stomach and makes a knot of it once his eyes shift over to it. As far as he can tell, it doesn’t seem to lead outside. There’s no window to let light in, nor does any brightness slip through the cracks. Dana tries to lie to himself with thoughts of a closet. He pictures the door swinging open, nothing behind it but canned food and pasta boxes. Wishful thinking, he knows, but he has no reason to suspect it.
“I hate to do this to you,” Kevin cuts through Dana’s thoughts, “But we’ve been walking a long while and… Well, if you wouldn’t mind showing me the bathroom…”
“Of course!” George gestures towards the living room, “Right this way, I’ll show you where it is.”
“I-I’ll stay here,” Dana says. George pauses, a nearly imperceptible twitch in his eye, before nodding. Kevin passes Dana, meeting his eyes and nodding ever-so-slightly towards the door. He and George slip into the living room, leaving Dana behind.
God damn it, why’d I have to go in alone? Dana thinks. He sets his drink down on the table and steps to the door. In spite of his reluctance, Dana’s hand latches onto the doorknob within a second. He knows George will be back just as soon as Kevin steps into the bathroom, and no amount of small talk before using it will ever be natural enough to keep George from suspicion. With no time to waste, Dana has the door open before he can think, and meets a series of splintered stairs leading into an abyss. A dimly lit spot of concrete is visible where the stairs end, but beyond that Dana sees nothing.
Something shuffles down below. Not a scuttle. Not a scratch. Not anything that could be an animal. A shuffle. A distinctly human shuffle.
Dana’s feet guide him forward, although he already knows what’s down there. His eyes insist that nothing needs to be seen, but his feet make an active protest. He descends, stepping carefully to keep the wooden boards silent. By the time he meets the concrete, he’s able to see it.
He turns his head away as soon as he does. But it’s too late, the sight was seen. A nude girl, long-haired and still prepubescent, tied to a post. The shortness of time spent looking spares Dana the details. He doesn’t guess her age, he just knows she’s too young. He doesn’t guess why she’s tied, he just knows who made the bindings. He turns away, climbs the stairs, and ignores the whimpers behind him. The light of the kitchen meets him again, urging Dana to block entry to the cellar. He complies, shutting the door and strafing to the kitchen table. George enters just as Dana picks up his drink for a swig. It isn’t visible on his face, but he doesn’t trust Dana at all.
“How, uh…” Dana speaks before George has the chance to, “How about that nature? Uh, up front. The garden. Nice garden. Did you plant it?”
George eyes the door. Dana keeps his attention on George for a moment before following his gaze.
“Something wrong?” Dana asks. He relaxes a bit, his control of the conversation starting to sink in.
“No, sorry,” George shakes his head, “I thought I saw a bug on the wall.”
“Ah,” Dana chuckles, “Happens to me, too.”
Then his thoughts skip.
A split-second photo of Elizabeth cuts into Dana’s vision, then breaks away for his emotions to follow. His thighs flash back to bruises left on them, his arms remember their burns and cuts, his cheeks recall his father’s knuckles, and his ribs relive his mother’s kicks. A flurry of break out over his body, cracking his bones and ruining his skin. A spear is felt through the hole in his head, pouring rust-colored mist into his vision. Shadows creep into view, surrounding everything but a pin in Dana’s sight. His muscles spasm. Someone says something. They shout something else. His right palm grips something smooth. He throws it forward like a shot put, but it jolts to a stop before he can let go. He pulls it back, deciding he’d rather crack it open than hurl it away. He pushes forward, the ball careening into the edge of something, then reels it back to examine the damage. No, still not broken. He pushes forth again, then pulls back. Still in one piece. Forward and back. One piece. Forward and back, forward and back, forward and back. Still one piece. Forward, back, forward, back, forward back… He realizes he’s forgotten to check on it, but pushes on just to be sure. His chest heaves, his arm tires out, and eventually the vignette over his sight retreats. Dana blinks to clear out the blur, now seeing his hand held tightly to the top of George’s scalp.
Before him is the kitchen counter, now splattered with red fluid and bits of grey jelly. The rest of George’s head lies at Dana’s feet, its skull shattered and grey matter mushed. Red cruor still clots from the lower half of his head– or what used to be. Dana drops the scalp and steps away, the floor’s slickness almost yanking his foot from beneath him. Something disrupts the base of his throat. The feeling shifts down to his stomach, then slowly builds up. He has just enough time to realize what’s happening to race for the front door and shove it open. He stumbles across the porch, trips down its steps, and spills vomit into the lawn. His gut, still unsated, sends more bile through his throat. The emission pushes against the back of his teeth, eroding them and sending bits of chewed pancake between them. Disgusted by the thought, Dana tries to put his mind somewhere else, but finds nothing more comfortable than the taste of vomit clearing out of his belly.
By the time it’s all done, Dana is left sputtering into the soil below. His stomach feels better at least, but remnants of acid-soaked breakfast still linger between his teeth. Kevin’s voice sounds out behind him.
“You feeling OK?” he asks. Dana shakes his head.
“That was, uh… pretty hardcore,” Kevin admits.
“Fuck this!” Dana spins around, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “That’s my alternative to Hell? That is Hell! I’d rather be sent to the fucking– the sodomy layer or whatever it is! Please, Christ, anything but this!”
“Well,” Kevin is careful to keep his voice soft, “It’s a lot easier on the psyche if you put a hole in their head and leave right away.”
Dana huffs and swats the air in Kevin’s direction. Kevin puts a nearly-finished cigarette to his lips and drags it to the base. He holds the smoke in as Dana hunches to catch his breath.
“I’d rather be here than in Hell,” Kevin says through smoke, “The torture’s eternal down there. Up here, it only lasts as long as the reaping. Mm, speaking of which…”
Kevin flicks away the butt, then reaches behind him to pull a sickle from his belt. Dana shakes his head, holding a palm out to keep the tool away.
“Relax, relax,” Kevin says, “I’ll do it myself, no need to go back in there. Just get some fresh air, I’ll be right out.”
Relieved, Dana nods and walks over to the porch while Kevin goes inside to reap George’s soul. As his companion disappears behind the front door, Dana straightens himself and makes a beeline for the porch. He sits down on one step, wraps his arms around his shins, and drops his head onto his knees. A moment passes, Dana’s mind completely still save for a sudden craving. On impulse, one hand curls away from his shin and behind his thighs, reaching into his shirt pocket. It takes hold of a small box, pulling it out while Dana unfolds his legs and examines it.
A box of American Spirits with a note taped on.
Thought you’d want a pick-me-up. They may have been killers in life, but they’re good for you now!
ܣܡܐܝܠ —
Dana isn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. All the same, some kind of huff escapes him as he flips the top and finds a matchbook nestled between two rows of cigarettes. He pulls out the book along with a cigarette and lets the stick nestle between his lips. He folds one match over, twisting and pulling it away with a slight crack. He squeezes it between the matchbook’s folds, pulls away to ignite the flame, and torches his cigarette. As he inhales, a sudden kind of mist soaks into his lungs. It’s not the kind of smoke that set his mind abuzz in the past, but a splash of water poured into his mouth and sliding through his throat. There is no buzz or stimulation. Only rejuvenation settling into his body.
Dana hums, letting the match burn out before flicking it away. He keeps the cigarette between his lips as he puts the matchbook back into the cigarette pack. As he slips the box back into his shirt, he lets his eyes fall skywards where they meet a group of clouds showing off their own sculptures. His eyes soften as they take stock of what there is to enjoy. A one-eared rabbit. A ship beside a palm tree. A floating island. An angel.
Dana sighs, having had enough of clouds now.
