Cerci has a minion!

Oce the Thanatos

She is awake. The clarity startles her, the inexplicable surety with which she knows it. She is awake, perhaps for the first time or maybe the last, but alone. Slowly her mind seeps back into her body and she can feel her face, her hands, her hips, her toes, the slow press of organs. She is standing at the side of a road, a dirt road with tall grass creeping in on the sides, beaten down in the middle by the tread of many feet. Allowing herself to be drawn in by the rich green, almost oversaturated, she marvels at the tiny drops of dew suspended from single blades. Is it morning? Yes, a pale morning with a hint of peach to the blue, an abstract warmth to the early sun. The grass and sky are connected by trees in the full swing of their autumn glory, gold leaves, deep orange leaves, bright red veined with purple, leaves with a hint of green still at their very tips. So much color.

Stepping carefully into the middle of the road, hands in pockets, she takes a breath and listens, hoping for bird song. There is something, far off, but it may be birds or someone singing, maybe many someones, perhaps wind through trees or chiming bells; it might be a lullaby her grandfather sang when she was small or it might simply be the sound of leaves falling onto other leaves, a breathy rustle. It smells like fall, here, old apples and everything good.

She stays on the road for some time, who can say how long, but there is something around the bend, she knows, something good and somewhere safe. Rounding it, she sees a house just ahead, just down the path. A white house up on short stilts to keep it from the wetlands behind, with their beautiful cattails and singing frogs. As she approaches she can see the house is worn, the paint worn and peeling, weathered, but not forgotten. There are two stories with curtained windows and a brown tiled roof, chairs on the front porch. It feels like the house of a good witch in a fairytale, full of magic baubles and cooling bread, the kind without children in the oven.

There is no hesitation in her stride as she mounts the stairs, hearing them creak beneath her feet. The front door has a window for peeking in, just enough to show the bookcases and hardwood floors. Just enough to stop her in her tracks: there is a face in the door, someone standing on the other side. She opens her mouth to apologize, but stops when they do as well. It is her own face, her own mouth. Somehow she forgot or never realized or didn't care, but this is her face. A firm face, maybe pretty but always strong. Crows feet around the dark eyes and the beginning of wrinkles on her cheekbones, around her mouth. She has hair, she realizes, long dark hair in a wild tangle and a thin neck; she looks to her hands and is startled by their elegance, the length of the nails. She knows she is not well dressed by any means, not even things she likes. Was it necessity? There is the ghost impression of a ring on her left hand but she knows she hasn't lost it, no, she threw it somewhere, she pulled her arm back and flung it hard.

Looking up she blinks; there is another face behind the door and this time it really is someone else. The door swings open with a friendly squeak and there is a man, a beautiful man with dark skin and golden eyes. She's never seen eyes like that, or hair so perfectly silver on someone so young. Or is he old? She knows she's staring at him searchingly, but she realizes she's forgotten something but its here, at arm's length. It's somewhere in his face, in that crooked smile and the gold ring tattooed across his collarbones. He steps back and holds the door, gesturing for her to come in. Mutely, she does.

Smiling kindly, he holds out a large hand. "I'm Llywellyn. Please, come in. There's space at the table for you." She shakes his hand, more out of habit than anything but finds herself responding to that smile.

"I'm Cerci." That's her name, isn't it? "I don't - I'm not sure where my ring is." It is dawning on her that she's not sure about a lot of things, especially where she is. But he nods seriously and waves her toward the kitchen. They walk together, and she wonders at the coziness of this house, the slightly threadbare woven carpets and way the light comes through the windows.

They step over the threshold into the large kitchen where the large old fashioned stove gives off a warm glow. There are herbs hanging from the rafters and copper pots on the walls. In the middle of the room a broad butcher block table with chairs around it, some already full. There are seven other people, watching them silently. Taking a seat in the nearest chair, she glances between them, unsure of what to do. Llywellyn goes to the stove and fills a kettle, putting it to boil before leaning on the back of a chair.

"Please keep talking, Oliver, I didn't mean to interrupt you." Llywellyn nods to a man with droopy eyelids and brown hair going grey at the temples. Oliver shrugs, clearly uncomfortable.

"Oh, you know, just the normal stuff you probably hear. I wish I'd done some things differently but there isn't anything I can do about it now." His voice is nonchalant but the end is bitter and he can't seem to look anyone in the eye. The woman next to him, too thin by far, puts a bony hand on his and squeezes.

"Please." Her voice is nasal, a little obnoxious, but her tone is tender. "Don't worry about how it sounds. Just say it."

Cerci looks between them; what was this? What strange meeting had she wandered into, what lost-soul-anonymous was this? The man clears his throat, some indefinable emotion choking him. They wait. He sighs, and raises his head slightly. "Well, uh, I don't know if I want to say it. I'm really ashamed."

Llywellyn steps back from the chair and takes the kettle off the stove, pouring the steaming water into a large earthenware teapot. He sets it on the table and turns to grab cups. "You don't have to, Oliver, but you can't stay here forever."

Oliver thrusts his shoulders forward and nods once. "I get it. Its just tough." Clearing his throat one more time, he looks up and straight at Llywellyn, who has taken his own place at the table. "I - I'm going to talk. I am. Now." Seconds elapse in silence and he makes a quiet moaning sound. "Um, I just - I'm ju- I'm just glad my daughter wasn't in the car with me. She's only seven. She's going to remember me as her dad, the one who got drunk and drove a car through a highway guardrail." He wipes tears from his face and swallows, his mouth set in an angry grimace. "It was so stupid. I don't know what to do."

No one speaks. Llywellyn is calmly pouring tea and passing the cups around, as if this happens every day. Maybe it does. As Oliver speaks Cerci slowly remembers what was nagging at her; she is dead. She feels like it should shock her more, shake her more deeply, but instead it feels like remembering where you've left your keys after looking for them for a while. Irritating, but relieving.

Everyone sips their tea. Oliver sits with hands clenched but takes a drink now and then. It is silent for another length of time before a beautiful Asian woman clears her throat quietly. Turning their attention to her, she tells them all about the time she was studying abroad in France and how she was so lonely, so unsure of how to connect to people. She tells them about the day spent on the beach with a man who had never seen the sea before, and how as soon as his shoes came off he started to laugh, and he didn't stop until they were back on the bus. She had picked up a couple of whole shells but he picked up every single one in sight. She thinks, maybe, he cried a little, too. His joy was so intense and beautiful she cried too, but later, when she was alone. She tells them about friends, lovers, places she went, things she saw. An outpouring of memories. In the end she takes another sip of tea, now cold, and smiles shakily at Llywellyn. She has not mentioned how she died, but it doesn't seem to matter. "I think I'll be going now." He nods, and pushes the chair back, smiling faintly, and walks her to the front door.

They spend the rest of the day at the table, drinking tea and talking. Sometimes it devolves into simple conversation. Did you ever go here? Yes, I knew him too, what a coincidence. I'm sorry that happened to you, but it wasn't your fault. Did you ever find out what happened? Where are you from? How is your family? There is laughter and awkward silence and tears and jokes told through them, too good to stop just because it hurts. Others leave the table, some to leave the house and other likes Oliver to go back to the room that has been set aside for them.

Through all of it she is silent, sometimes crying sympathetically but never voicing her own thoughts. She remembers, now, the life she left and what happened when she died. There had been so much blood. She isn't sure she could adequately express the fear, the nauseating panic, the inane thoughts that went through her mind as it happened. She finds herself staring out the windows, lost in her own mind, only to come back to herself and find Llywellyn regarding her steadily with his chin propped in his hand, fingers over his lips. He hardly speaks but to encourage others, sometimes giving a sharp word to someone who seems to be pitying themselves. She finds him attractive, but disconcerting.

She remembers now, the life she had. Not bad, but never good. Nothing quite according to plan. Firmly a B student, buying clothes because they were cheap instead of because she liked them. Saving up for that car she wanted but instead buying an old used one so she could pay the bills. Marrying a decent man, but not a great one. There is no reason to feel so wounded, but that won't make it stop. Sometimes, she considers, perhaps inexplicable emotions are the most important.

One by one the others leave until it is just Cerci and Llywellyn sitting in the gloaming, staring at each other. In the past she found it difficult to speak while looking someone in the eye, somehow too personal, too intimate. But they sit in silence, simply looking. There has been a feeling growing in her chest for several hours now, something she is finding difficult to quantify. Is it grief? Perhaps, but it feels more like excitement, that moment where its impossible to tell if your heart is pounding from fear or wonder. Allowing it to fill her, a smile begins at the corners of her lips and spreads of its own accord, transforming her face. "I... don't think I need to be here."

An answering smile cracks Llywellyn's face and he sits back in his chair, palms on the table. "I agree."

She almost laughs, an exultant bubble in her throat. "I'm dead. I'm dead." It isn't joy because she wanted to die, but something more. "Llywellyn... what happens when I leave the house? Can I go somewhere, be someone? Is it, like, reincarnation or am I still me?"

He tilts his head, the smile taking on a coy edge. "You don't really expect me to tell you, do you? Just go see. Think of it as an adventure." There is a hint of wistfulness under his sweet voice, and for a moment she feels she can see beyond his face to something so much grander, but still with its own desires.

She does laugh then, in awe and joy and a thousand other things. "You know, the only thing I don't remember is why I threw the ring away. He wasn't a bad man, you know. Maybe its for the best." She stands, pushing the chair in and walking toward the door, Llywellyn behind her. Up the stairs she can hear the sound of people walking from room to room, the boarders who aren't quite ready to step outside. She hopes Oliver can go, in time, but she isn't betting on when.

Stopping at the door, she turns back. "Thank you. For whatever it is you do, whoever you are." Opening the door and hesitating, she looks back one more time, a hint of a laugh in her voice. "I've got to ask - are you God?"

He rolls his eyes, a tired but good humored tone to his voice as he says, "No, of course not. Go on, get gone." He winks a golden eye and leans forward, placing a light kiss on her forehead. "Good luck."

Smiling broadly, she steps from the house.