Late-Repentant
A pale door stands before Dana. A thin layer of paint keeps the wood’s texture intact while
betraying any personality it might have had. There are no cracks, no peels, no
scratches. Nothing adorns it but a peephole looking out at his own face. If ever there was a more
joyless description of death, this door would surely be its replacement.
“I…” Kevin’s voice slips into Dana’s ears, “I know you’re probably not feeling well, but… We do need to go inside.”
“Yeah,” Dana responds.
And then he keeps looking at the door. He swears he could see the edge of a shadow between two fibers holding each other closely. Try as they might to be equal and even, one is definitely further out than the other. The real question is which one, and by how far. The lighting overhead isn’t doing Dana any favors; it’s dead-on with the two splinters, making it seem as though they really were just two thin lines drawn across a flat surface.
“Hey, Dana?” Kevin says. More firm this time.
“Yeah,” Dana responds.
“I’m just gonna, um…” Kevin shuffles past, “I’ll just go on ahead.”
The door runs away from Dana, scurrying back to hide behind its frame. Kevin steps through the doorway, his feathers blocking the room before Dana can get a good look at it. Then Kevin’s wings hesitate. One of them twitches as he curls a finger. Then he turns around.
“If you want–”
“I’m fine,” says Dana.
A minute squeak is heard. It takes a moment for Dana to recognize it as a whimper, which Kevin’s stiff face disguises perfectly.
“Oh,” Dana flinches, “I-I’m sor–”
“It’s fine,” says Kevin.
Then nothing. Just a pair of awkward gazes pushing against each other.
“I, um,” Dana looks away, scratching his cheek, “I-I think I’ll come in.”
Kevin nods and makes way for Dana, who steps in to be met again by the commotion of posters and crammed-full shelves on every wall. Random junk litters the floor — mostly throwing stars and bits of garbage — but the clutter has all been swept aside to make a path leading into the room. On the right side is a stained kitchenette, its cabinets blotched by oil and whatever else the valkyries cook with. To the left is a round table devoid of blemishes. No scratches. No chips. Not even a stain. Nothing but a clear glass ashtray lying in the center.
“I like to have a smoke here after a job,”Kevin makes his way to the table, “You can join if you’d like. Or, well… You know where your room is.”
Dana nods, looking to the hall on his left. The door to the bathroom at the end has been left ajar, letting a sliver of abyss taunt him. He shivers and goes for the table.
“I guess I could go for one,” Dana hums. Kevin pulls out a chair for Dana before making his way to sit across from him. Dana returns the favor with a slight nod and slighter smile, then the two sit down.
“Oh yeah!” Kevin perks up, “Were you given a pack while you were out?”
“Uh, yeah,” Dana nods, “I got one.”
Kevin chuckles and draws a pack of Marlboros from his slacks, “Death likes to do that. Think of it as a welcoming gift.”
“And, um…” Dana pulls the pack of American Spirits from his shirt pocket, “He just happened to know what I smoke?”
“He’s the Angel of Death,” Kevin shrugs, “I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
Dana nods and hums. He eyes his own carton, studying the pipe-smoking chieftain printed on its cover. He tries to conjure some kind of opinion on it, but feels nothing in particular.
“So,” Kevin says, “American Spirit.”
“Yeah.”
“Any reason why? I don’t know anything about them, they’re a bit after my time.”
“After your time?” Dana furrows a brow and looks up at Kevin.
“I died in ‘68,” Kevin says, finally pulling out a cigarette, “Didn’t even hear about Spirits until a few years ago.”
Dana’s thoughts halt for a moment. ‘68? As in 1968? Well, he guesses it makes sense. Everyone here is dead already; who’s to say they all died at the same time? Who’s to say none of them even died in the same century?
“Sorry, wait,” Dana’s eyes flutter as he tries to process this, “You died in ‘68? As in, what, fifty years ago?”
“Thirty-one, man!” Kevin chortles.
“S-sorry, sorry.”
“Nah, you’re fine,” Kevin bites into his cigarette and gets a matchbook from his shirt pocket, “Not like anyone else is counting. Might as well have been fifty years. Maybe even a hundred.”
“Hm,” Dana hums. He stays silent for a while as Kevin lights his cigarette and takes a puff. The box of Spirits still rests in Dana’s hand, not demanding any attention but still making itself known. One by one, questions start mounting in his head. Questions that are all too personal, he thinks. But maybe Kevin has enough patience to entertain them.
“You still keep track?” asks Dana.
“I know, it’s stupid,” Kevin sighs, a cloud whirling onto the table in front of him, “It just feels… necessary, you know? Like calling a family member you can’t stand.”
Dana huffs. “Yeah. I get that part.”
“Time of death: 05:12 on the 31st of January,” Kevin says. He puts no meaning behind the numbers. It’s all mumbled in the way a schoolboy would recite when called on by a teacher.
“What-” Dana stops himself before he can ask what happened. The details are probably too much. He can’t imagine recalling one’s own death would be too pleasant an experience— one that he can speak from.
“Lungshot,” Kevin answers, “Bullet went into my back, left a hole the size of Mars.”
“I see,” Dana nods. But he doesn’t really. Not exactly. Kevin doesn’t seem the type to provoke someone else into shooting him, but then again, neither does Dana.
“I’m…” Kevin pauses to take another drag on his cigarette. He lets the smoke settle in his lungs before letting out a slow, even sigh, “...I’m glad to be out of there. It’s just… Well, it’d be nice to be done with killing people for a change.”
“Why’d you have to kill them?” Dana asks bluntly.
Kevin lets a weary smile creep onto his face.
“I was drafted,” he shrugs before leaning forward and dropping ash into the tray, “Tried to be a chaplain, but the best I could get was medic. Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”
And then it clicks.
“Vietnam,” says Dana.
“Mm-hm,” Kevin confirms, “Battle of Huế.”
“Fucking Hell, Malik, lighten up!” Alex’s voice comes in from behind the front door.
And then Malik: “I would, I’d really like to, but that crosses a line for me. Maybe around Drusa you can get away with that shit, but-”
The door opens.
“Drusa‽” Alex interrupts, her outrage ringing clearly, “Don’t compare me to that psycho cunt. She’s killed kids, you know!”
“And somehow, the two of you still get along,” Malik shrugs, “That should speak for itself, honestly.”
Kevin clears his throat and looks at the table, slipping his cigarette back between his lips. Dana finally makes the call to open his own box and take out a stick. Malik and Alex seem to have not noticed them, instead keeping up the back-and-forth about how Alex tortures souls before their judgement. Try as he might, Dana can’t suppress an annoyed wince after lighting his cigarette.
“You know what, fuck this,” Malik raises a hand, “I’m going out.”
“Oh, come on,” says Alex, “We just got back-”
“I’m going out! Fuck!” Malik shouts. His fist slams into the doorframe as he leaves, banging the door shut behind him.
“Ugh,” Alex groans, looking on at the door. Footsteps fade away from it, somehow managing to clack through the hallway’s carpeting. Her blue hair seems to sag as she clicks her tongue in disappointment. After a few seconds, she turns to see Dana and Kevin staring into the ashtray between them.
“Ah shit,” she says, “My bad, I didn’t realize you guys were here.”
“Didn’t think so,” Kevin taps his cigarette over the ashtray, still avoiding eye contact.
Dana leans forward to stand up.
“Dana Armbrust,” Alex leans back against the door.
“Yep,” Dana rises.
“I thought you were familiar,” she chuckles.
Dana groans. He knows exactly what’s coming next.
“You know, I spun a few of your old tracks from back in the day,” says Alex.
“Yeah,” Dana says through pursed lips, “Thanks.”
“And, uh…” Alex clears her throat, “I’m sorry.”
Dana can’t help but let a laugh escape him.
“A lot of people are,” he says.
“No, really,” says Alex, “I don’t know if you remember, but we talked on DOA.”
Dana’s heart stops. His mind stalls, then slowly twists itself backwards. She can’t mean what he thinks she means, can she? There’s no way she was really there. There’s no way she even spoke to him.
“I was Blue Monochrome,” Alex says with a nod.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
“Holy shit!” Dana beams, “There’s no way, that was you? It was really you‽”
“Well…” Alex shrugs.
Kevin looks between the two of them, his brows raised. Whatever they’re on about, he’s not gonna get in the way.
“I was wondering what happened to you!” Dana says. Like a flattened tire, all tension in Dana’s body melts away. For once, his guard falters and excitement takes its place.
“I mean… I could tell you the story, but you can probably guess by now,” Alex laughs.
“Oh God, I mean…” Dana holds a fist up, then splays his fingers, “...you just poofed out of existence. I kept checking every week to see if you’d go back to those online DJ sets, but it was quiet every time.”
“Hard to log on when you’re dead.”
“Eh,” Kevin butts in, “Sorry, but what the Hell are you two on about?”
“This motherfucker…” Alex starts, stepping forward and putting a hand on Dana’s shoulder, “...used to post music online when he was, what, 13 years old?”
“I-” Dana squirms out of Alex’s grip, “I think I was that old, yeah.”
“I thought it was awesome,” Alex grins, “I messaged him myself, saying I was bumping those tracks daily. You know that online radio station I told you about, right?”
“I think so, yeah,” Kevin nods.
“Well, you know, I had that show I did on Thursdays,” Alex continues, “Two-hour set, nonstop music. I started featuring his work, but didn’t bother telling him until, like, three months into it.”
“It was the first time someone else played my music,” Dana chimes in, “And… It felt good. I was glad to have someone else enjoy it.”
“We went back and forth for a couple years,” says Alex, “He’d have something new almost every Wednesday for me to queue. And then, uh… Let me see…”
Alex walks to the smoking table, her tongue in cheek as she tries to gather her memories. She pulls a packet of Black & Milds from her back pocket, drawing the lone cigar left inside.
“God, I got jumped so many times it’s hard to remember which one killed me,” Alex fusses. She fumbles with her pocket before taking out a lighter and flipping it on. As she torches the cigar, a look of pension crosses her face.
“I dunno,” she sighs before the stick can be lit, “Kevin, do you remember?”
“They were all pretty much the same from what I remember you saying,” says Kevin.
Alex frowns and has another go at lighting her cigar. The tip glows as she sucks in, filling her mouth with sweet poison. She leans back and parts her lips slightly, letting the smoke fall out.
“Well, bottom line,” she leans forward, “Some black dudes jumped me and cut my throat open. I don’t know if the cops ever found my body. After that, well… I was kinda too busy with this job to keep track of what anyone else online was doing. But I did see you here and there on magazines and TV, Dana. I thought it was great that you struck it big.”
Dana’s mouth smiles, although he doesn’t really want it to. He feels a knock at the back of his head as his father’s voice echoes: “Say thanks, you ditz.”
“Thanks,” Dana recites.
“And…” Alex rests an elbow on the table, holding her smokestick an inch away from her lips, “...That’s where my confusion came from yesterday.”
Dana looks down. His biggest mistake comes at him like a torrent, washing over his head and drowning him in regret. It wasn’t his fault, though. But it still was. But it wasn’t.
“I thought you were still doing the whole…” Alex waves a hand, “...the whole trans thing-”
“Please stop talking,” says Dana.
Alex obliges.
Kevin has something in his throat. He tries to clear it without making any noise, and does so almost successfully.
“Touchy subject?” Alex asks.
“Yeah,” Dana huffs.
“That’s fine, I won’t badger you. I just, um…” Alex purses her lips, clearly wanting to ask. Dana hears a slight wince from Kevin.
“Any reason why?” Alex finishes.
“No,” says Dana. Alex nods and takes a drag. She opens her mouth to say something, but Kevin butts in first.
“It was the battle of Huế.”
Dana gives a puzzled look.
“When I died,” says Kevin, “Lungshot and all that. I was… It- it took a while.”
His voice trails off. His eye twitches. It’s clear that he regrets bringing it up.
“Drowned in his own blood,” says Alex, “Pretty common when hot lead hits you in the chest.”
Kevin shudders, his free hand moving to his ribcage. He takes a deep breath to reassure himself that his lungs still work. Then he takes another. Alex tilts her head back, displaying the stitched gash across her throat as she cracks her neck. Her head goes back forward, making way for her arms to stretch out behind her.
“All right,” Dana eyes the hallway by the entrance. His cigarette bobs in his mouth as he drawls, “I’m tired.”
“Here,” Kevin stands. He moves to the kitchenette, opens a drawer beside the oven, and pulls out an ashtray. He hands it off to Dana, saying, “Don’t worry about bringing it back here right away. I can take care of it in the morning.”
Dana smiles.
“Thanks,” he says. And he means it. Dana takes the ashtray before heading off to the dark hallway and rounding its corner. He looks at the doors to his right, each one announcing its inhabitants. One for Alex, one for Malik, and then one more for Kevin. Unless Dana wants to crash in the bathroom, it seems his name will later be paired with Kevin’s.
He twists the doorknob and leans forward, letting the door bring him in on its own terms. He’s greeted by one bed on each side, both bathing in the room’s warm shade. Further into the room, on the left side, is a window with its blinds drawn. Past that, at the opposite side of the room, are two drawers. Kevin’s decorated shrine on the right, and Dana’s vacant lot on the left.
Damn. Dana should really consider some decor of his own. As he steps inside and closes the door behind him, Dana tries to think of something that would make the room more comfortable. A computer, for one. And then some posters to match Kevin’s, but nothing about sports. Oblivion comes to mind, or maybe Half-Life. And just as his thoughts pass over to Counter-Strike, the black monolith on Dana’s bedside table catches his eye again.
In the shade of the room around it, Dana’s Glock seems to suck up any light that would be near it. Even as Dana sucks on his cigarette, the faint ember at its tip fails to reflect off the pistol’s noir surface. Without much of a thought, he drops the ashtray beside the gun, picks up the weapon, and crosses the room to get to his dresser. He opens a drawer — nevermind which one — and stows the gun before shutting the bin. No time is wasted in pacing back to the bed, throwing his back on top of it, and moving the ashtray to his chest. Dana remembers that his shoes are still on, but doesn’t bother to do anything about it. His mom would smack him either way.
But she isn’t here, is she?
Dana sighs, throwing a puff of smoke into the air. It rises quickly at first, then slows down as it meets the ceiling. As the cloud splays out against the surface and disappears, Dana takes his cigarette and taps it against the tray on his body. He definitely owes Kevin a favor for being so patient with Dana. Whatever the guy wants, he’ll probably trade it in soon. Dana just hopes it isn’t anything like theft or a private performance. God forbid he has to strip in public again.
Another puff comes out as his jaw tightens. He doesn’t want to fall into this trap again. Why would Kevin be doing this for any reason other than his own gain? Whatever he offers next, Dana ought to just keep saying no. But then he already said “yes” to the ashtray, so it’s not like he has a choice in the matter anymore.
“Fuck,” Dana whispers. He rips the cigarette from his mouth and jams it into the ashtray. He tosses the metal plate onto his table, hoping for it to tumble over the edge and spill ashes to the floor. The tray lands with a clatter and a roll, but doesn’t fall from the table. It just settles in place to mock Dana.
