Death Angel

Another thing. When she looked at these people, she could sense what they had been before, and that was confusing as all hell because some of them hadn’t been the same sex they were now. The woman who had spoken first was the least confusing, because her image was somehow more solid, less blurred by the overlay of a recent carnation, as if it had been a very long time since she had been anything other than exactly what she was now. Drea concentrated on her, because that gave her mind and eyes a rest. She was tired, and dealing with conflicting layers was more than she could handle right now.

"You see them," the woman said, faint surprise in her tone, and by "them" she didn’t mean just the other people, but all their other layers of existence.

"Yeah," said Drea. There was a wealth of communication going on here, things understood beyond what was actually said.

"So soon. You’re very observant."

She’d had to be, to survive. All of her life she’d watched and studied, judging the best approach to take to get, first, what she needed to live-food. Later, when she was older, she’d studied people more deliberately, to decide how she might manipulate them to get what she wanted.

"Why is she here?" a man asked, not in a nasty tone but in true puzzlement. "She shouldn’t be here. Look at her."

Drea looked down at herself, though she couldn’t honestly tell what she was wearing. Clothes, yes, but the details were so vague she knew only that they were there. Or, was he seeing the stains of her life layered over her the same way she saw their lives? The details of her life reeled through her mind and she saw them as a film of dirt overlying everything she was and did. Anger flared; she’d done the best she could to survive, and if he didn’t like it-

Just as abruptly as it had flared, her anger died and was replaced by a wash of shame. She’d never done the best she could do. She’d been very skilled at manipulating men to get what she wanted, she’d been a damn good lay, she’d used sex as a weapon, she’d lied, she’d stolen, and though she’d been very good at all of those things, none of her decisions had been based on the best of anything, except maybe the best of two bad choices. She had certainly never looked for a good choice.

She looked squarely at the man, reading him. He’d been an undertaker, she saw; he’d made a living from death, helping families through the grieving process by walking them through the traditional steps. He’d seen everything; he’d prepared bodies ranging in age from babies to the very old. He’d taken care of people whom hundreds had loved and mourned, and those no one had mourned. Death held no surprises for him, and no fear. Death was part of the natural order of things.

Because he’d seen so much, he’d long ago lost any blinders he might have had. He saw people as they were, not as they wished they had been.

He saw what she was, and he knew she was worthless. Worthless. Without worth. She had no excuses, no defense. She bowed her head, accepting that she shouldn’t be in this place of peace. She didn’t deserve it. Everything she’d ever done, everything she’d touched, was poisoned by her lack of regard for anyone except herself.

"She’s here for a reason," said the woman, though she looked just as puzzled as the man. "Who brought her here?"

They all looked at one another, searching for answers, but there didn’t seem to be any. This was a…a tribunal of sorts, Drea thought, though not a formal one. Perhaps a better description was "gatekeeper." Today was their turn at the gates, to guide people to their correct places.

Except this wasn’t her correct place, she thought miserably. She’d never done anything to earn this place. The ignominy of being unwelcome made her ache with embarrassment. This was the good place, and she didn’t belong here because she wasn’t good. Yet, she hadn’t come here on purpose. Maybe it was stupid of her, but she didn’t know how she’d gotten here, and she didn’t know how to leave.

It stood to reason that, if this was the good place and she didn’t belong here, then she belonged at the bad place. Perhaps the great nothing she’d expected was the bad place, the true end with no form of continuing life, but perhaps that was wishful thinking and there was a really bad place, the way the fire and brimstone preachers always said there was. She wasn’t religious, never had been. Even as a child she’d thought, Yeah, right, because her own life was proof that no compassionate spirit was holding her safe.

And maybe this wasn’t heaven the way it was traditionally imagined, maybe the setup wasn’t the same, but there was definitely goodness, and peace, so maybe this really was heaven. Or maybe this was the next life, and only those who had proven themselves worthy got to go on. For the others, like her, there was no going on, no continuity of her spirit or soul or mind.

She looked at her life again, weighed it, and found herself wanting.

"If you’ll show me how to leave," she whispered wretchedly, "I will."

"I would," said the woman with some sympathy, "but someone evidently brought you here and we need to find out-"

"I did," said a man, striding up to the group and joining the loose circle, with Drea standing in the middle. "Sorry to be late. Things happened very fast."

The others turned to look at him. "Alban," said the woman. "Yes, they did." Drea wondered if Alban was his name, or a greeting. "There are extenuating circumstances?"

"There are," he said gravely, but he smiled at Drea with piercing sweetness, and his serious dark eyes searched every detail of her face as if committing it to memory, or reaffirming some old memories.

She stared at him, knowing she’d never seen him before, but there was something so achingly familiar about him that she felt she should know him. Like everyone else there, he seemed to be about thirty, as if prime adulthood was the oldest anyone ever got. She looked for those layers that would tell her about him, but like the woman, he was mostly free of the blurring overlay of past lives. He drew her, somehow. She wanted to be close to him, wanted to touch him, yet there was nothing carnal about her longing. Pure love welled in her, poignant in its simplicity, and unconsciously she held out her hand to him.