Chapter One [CYRUS]

A Chapter by katie

As Cyrus is sent of into the mortal world, day after day, he feels himself growing more human. He comes to realize maybe his realm isn't what life had in store for him.

CHAPTER ONE

CYRUS.

What they don’t tell you is that it’s going to hurt, a lot. There’s going to be a great deal of grief and agony. And for what? For absolutely nothing, for more hatred and self-loathing. There’s a s**t ton of misery weaved in there, too.

I have this mantra which is more like a spoken placebo. It doesn’t work more often than it does, but it’s nice having something to believe in�"even if falsity. I know it’s not good to cry over spilled milk, but at this point in my life I don’t think there’s any use in cleaning it up.

My mantra is that today is going to be over by tomorrow, so make the most of it. It’s becoming more and more difficult to convince myself of this daily. Having something to believe in is very important to me, considering the fact that there isn’t much left that I’ve invested my genuine faith into. It might be silly, or a waste of time, but it gets me through the day and that’s all that really matters.

Upon my eyes opening this morning, nothing but, “You’ve got this,” rings in my head. It works today, only taking five or six chants to be in full effect.

It’s only taken me countless mornings for me to face this fact, but now that I have come to this realization I feel as if the days will be less grueling. I’m not sure what about it will make this a lot more tolerable, but when you’ve come to terms with your entire life being laid out for you―it’s a hell of a lot easier to live it.

I look over to the clock that reads 7:35AM. I’m already running late. If I want to finish my work by midnight, I have to leave now. I sigh and shrug my shoulders, I don’t mind staying out late, if anything I prefer it. I find myself intentionally sleeping past 7 every day.

I guess one thing you should know about me from the get-go is that I ramble, a lot. I find myself planning out scenarios that most-likely will never happen in my head and going from topic to topic. I’d say I’m quite a reserved person on the outside, but inside my head I’m a damn mess who thinks about too much. My subconscious has a subconscious and it never shuts up.

I hardly ever say what I’m truly feeling, which gives off this mysterious vibe that I don’t mind all too much. Maybe it’s a good thing, especially in my line of work. I don’t want to be readable upon a first impression. As far as anyones concerned, I’m a normal teenage boy.

I have no interest in intending work today, or any day, for that matter. It’s a lot worse than a 9-5, or working at a greasy fast-food restaurant. It’s not like I can quit and move on to a different profession, this is my life.

I stop myself from going on any further with drowning in my own self pity and I leave my shared room. My roommate leaves quarter to seven and I hardly see him often. He does his own thing and I do my own, that’s how things work here.

When I leave the comfort of my own home, the constant sky, it greets me with the same “hello” I’ve seen everyday for the past lifetime. Every time the sky stares back at me I feel as if it’s giving me condolences and I wave back and thank it for the attempt to make me feel better.

I shove my hands into my pockets and attempt to mentally prepare myself for today’s events. No preparation could ever be enough though, I’ll never get used to this.

One half of me wants to leave, to get as far away from this place as legally possible. The other half (somehow the dominant one), wants to lock myself up in a tower and watch the world change from afar. I wouldn’t mind hiding away if that meant I didn’t have to weigh in on it.

No matter how much I prolong the day starting, I can’t come home even when the clock strikes midnight unless what needs to be done is done. I hope the person who created me is enjoying themselves, wherever they are, because recently I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never be normal (or mundane at least.)

I don’t know what it’s like to be happy anymore. At first, I was oblivious and benighted. It’s a lot easier to be emotionally intact when you don’t ask questions. In the beginning, I did what needed to be done because it was bestowed upon me. Ignorance truly is bliss.

The streets are empty. I like it better this way. I hate to be reminded of who I am by looking at the others. Everybody is gone, either at school or at work.

There’s the people in the middle. We call them “wanderers.” They don’t seem to be going anywhere particular. I envy them, in a sense.

My roommate and I have come to the conclusion that they’re not exactly doing nothing, they’re taking intel and sending it to the Elders. If anything goes wrong, they’ll take action.

Nothing ever goes wrong; I think people are too afraid of the Elders. I’m not. I know they can’t make my life any worse than it already is.

Humans have always puzzled me.

With their genuine emotions and attachments to seemingly unappealing things, their bad habits and lies, their bad days�"and their good ones.

Despite a human’s first instinct to act horribly and make terrible choices that influence others poorly, I’m moved to believe their race can’t be as bad as mine. Nothing close to mine. Nothing can be as bad as we are.

We are nothing.

We are the scum of this universe and I won’t be the only one to admit it.

All of this internal rambling has left me totally unaware of my surroundings. I’m wedged between two brick buildings and it’s all too familiar.

Something that will never get old is whatever is behind this wall and what it has to offer. I see it everyday, but it’s always new, always fresh, always changing.

I interlock my fingers and widen my stance. I use my index fingers to draw the doorway to the other world. My fingertip brushes against the caved-in brick, leaving a faint trace of purple with every stroke. When the ends touch and I’ve made a perfect circle, the faded color shines brightly and illuminates my face. I tap the direct center of it with my palm, the enclosed brick falls to ash and light from the other side shines brightly on my face like the gates to Heaven have just opened.

This isn’t Heaven, this is something better.

This is New York, twenty first century.

It’s magnetic. People draw towards this city like it’s got its own gravitational pull. It is bustling, but I don’t mind the headcount. I appreciate all of these people and it provides me with the fun activity of trying to figure it out. Most importantly.

It is home.

This is my true home. This is the place I know I was meant to be and I know where I had to be once.

The vibrant colors blind me, but only for an instant. I take it all in at once and try to push it down past my throat. It settles in my stomach and I step through the entryway I have just created.

The sun shines proudly in the sky and I glance up to it and let it seep deeply into my skin and bones. I appreciate the way this place makes me feel.

I am sick and this place is my medicine, my only hope in ever feeling better. I need to up my dosage because a couple hours isn’t enough anymore. I need this to be permanent.

Like most things, it never will be.

I decide to roam around for a few hours to smoothly transition into my desired mindset. Right now I’m too fragile and emotional to do much, other than lurk and attempt to hold a conversation with a few mortals.

Hardly anyone ever sees me. It’s like they’re looking through a piece of glass and their own reflection is missing. They see nothing but thin air and that’s what hurts the most. Maybe this wouldn’t be so overwhelming and vile if I was treated as a human.

They might not see me, but I see them. I see every single one of them. I see their emotions mushing together in the atmosphere and radiating off their bodies, I see their bad intentions and impulses in their sluggish eyes, and I see who they truly are. Just with a single glance.

A touch? Now that’s a different story.

With a touch, I can see so much more than what meets the eye. I can see their past, all the memories laying out in front of my like an updated scrapbook. And I can see their future, even though it’s distant and vague, it’s always there somehow.

Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.

I shove my hands into my pockets and kick around a rock unenthusiastically, sprinting to where it lands and repeating. To my surprise, I get it kicked back to me like we’re playing the worlds saddest game of soccer.

A child half my size looks up to me and smiles a grin that displays several missing teeth. He seems somewhat proud of this, so he stretches it further across his face like it’s a prize he has won.

“I’m James!” he exclaims, pushing the rock towards me with the tip of his foot.

He’s seven, maybe eight years old. His face is covered in chocolate from the pancakes he had for lunch and he tells me he’s a monster truck enthusiast. I like James.

“What’s your name?” He asks in the absence of my reply.

Somehow, I forget. I never use my name so it’s like some mathematical equation I learned in eleventh grade that I never really use anymore. It’s taboo, I’m not allowed to have a name. I’m not a human, only a pawn of what I do for a living.

“Cyrus,” I say after searching my head for a couple dozen seconds.

“Cyrus,” I think. I like the name.

I want to grab a hold of his rosy cheeks and give them a pinch, but I know that will give me unwanted images.

It warms my heart he’s able to see me, it’s almost flattering. He’s staring right at me, Jesus Christ! He’s (somewhat) looking me in the eyes like I’m a normal person.

“James?!” a frantic woman’s voice calls and she comes sprinting in our direction. She’s got her hands full of bags and it reminds me that it’s Christmas season.

She sees him and the worried glaze over her eyes quickly washes out and they’re filled with relief. A bead of sweat trickles down her profile and she scolds him in a very unconvincing voice.

“Do you need help?” Her hands are full so I offer my services. I feel on top of the world right now, more human than ever. I feel solid and alive.

She looks right past me.

James protests, ”�"�" but my friend!”

She piles the bags into one hand and grabs his little arm into the palm of her other. She exhales heavily and blows a piece of her tousled hair out of her face.

“I’ve told you about your friends, James. They’re all imaginary.”

Ouch. I feel a physical pain in my chest as she says that. I try to plaster a smile onto my face as I wave goodbye to James and his misunderstanding mother.

I’ve come to a realization that I’ll never be anything more than the imaginary friend.

I sulk around for a few more hours, thinking about nothing in particular. Thinking about everything, yet nothing at the same time. Thinking about my realm and the people inside of it and how I want to distance myself from them. Thinking about how coming home is inevitable.

I get lost in my thoughts and only notice the time when I see the streetlights being flickered on. As I walk down the pavement of the park they illuminate my steps and guide me where I need to be.

Along with the street lamps, a faint dark purple trail coils around benches and swing sets and weaves throughout the park, letting me know that she is near.

My wretched thoughts are joined with her own and I see our minds fabricate together and get sewn at the seams, so I can’t tell who I am anymore.

“Who is she?” is another important question, along with the abundance of others.

I follow her train of thoughts after seeking the difference between mine and her own.

I brush shoulders with strangers but they don’t react in any way, I’m sure they felt nothing more than a gust of air blowing in their direction.

As I approach the streets I feel her thoughts fighting for dominance with my own. It’s kind of a spit in the face that my own mind can’t differentiate between the two.

Her thoughts overcome mine as I draw near the city. Along with the hasty thoughts that clutter my mind, the strings of lights that hang from the buildings put me in a further state of paralyzation.

I stand there, in the midst of it all.

Everything is swirling around me and I feel as if I’m stuck inside of a wormhole comprised of kaleidoscopes that won’t stop spinning.

I see a herd of teenagers wrapping around the corner of a club. I can feel the bass in my bones and it wrapping around my spinal cord, making it vibrate to the rhythm of this month’s new hit.

In an attempt to further blend, I put on my “party-goer” facade. It succeeds, I assume. I’m not stopped by the bouncer or any females in skin tight dresses.

As soon as I step a foot into the joint, a puff of smoke suffocates me and burns my lungs. I can smell marijuana and literally taste alcohol on my own breath. Yet, I haven’t had a single drop.

I take a seat in a booth, intentionally distancing myself away from the liquor. I know I’m keen to temptation, that’s one thing me and these mundanes have in common.

Everything else is a black and white obscure blur, everything but her. She’s the only apparent thing, in the middle of it all. As she twists her body to the beat of the music, the space around her warps and molds itself to her silhouette.

I gawk at her and try to understand what game she’s playing. I don’t find what she’s doing very appealing or attractive, or the least bit sensual. She just looks like a pathetic book, begging to be opened and read.

To be fair, I hardly have any true emotions, anyways.

In a sense, I’m a psychopath, minus the insanity. One thing we have in common is that it’s definitely not a choice. If I could have feelings, I would. There’s no emotion light switch that I can flick on and off when convenient. And if there is, I sure as hell wasn’t notified of it.

Sometimes, I wish it would be that easy.

It’s constant emptiness. Nothing more than a singe of pain in my heart once in a while, but I’m sure that’s guilt. Even the emotionless must feel a pang of regret now and again.

I intertwine my fingers on top of the round table and exhale deeply. The waitress, surprisingly, notices me and takes my order.

When she returns with my drink, her fingertips brush my own and I know this is intentional. I feel the sickness emitting from her skin. With a quick touch, I can tell she’s going to be gone within the next couple years. It’s uncertain, but I know some form of cancer is going to grow within the next few months.

This might be my instinct, or the fact she reeks of cigarettes.

The fact that she noticed me might have to do with her untimely death, but it adds to the fact that I feel more and more human as the days go by. I might be gaining back my mortality and I’m being rewarded for not resisting.

Probably not.

I’m hesitant to take a sip from the beverage, seeing as it’s one of the laws in my realm. I figure, hey, if it’s going to help this teenage boy facade, go for it.

After observing just about everybody in the room, I take a swig and down my shot in one gulp. It lights my throat on fire as it trickles down my esophagus and settles unpleasantly in my stomach.

A couple minutes pass and I realize alcohol has no effect on me, it must be yet another thing I’ve been cursed with. I’m not even allowed to have a good time, no matter how many shots I take, none of it phases me.

I see her hammer down one after another and she becomes more loose. Her hair falls down past her shoulders and she tosses it carelessly through the air. I can see literal beads of sweat dribbling down her profile and rolling down her arms, off her fingertips with every motion she creates.

As time drags on the club fills with cigarette smoke that fills my lungs and pumps through my bloodstream. Ironically, I’ve never felt more alive.

It’s probably the environment, being surrounded by teenagers in their rebellious phase does give you a rush of adrenaline.

I take a dip back into the reality of things, the purpose of me being here seeps into my brain.

I’m not here for fun and games, like the rest of these people who could easily be my peers. At the end of their day, they go home and peel off their facade and fake eyelashes and they slide off their uncomfortable shoes, and they sleep. They have dreams because they’re allowed to ponder about the future and have fantasies. I’m a somewhat living fantasy in the flesh, all wrapped up in a ruthless, blood stained bow.

I’m nothing more than a half empty shell. I’m aware of the emotions I’m lacking and I can mimic them perfectly, but none of it is ever actually real. It’s all a task I must complete daily, or I will face ultimate punishment.

I fixate on the drinks wavering on the bar, I know it’s not time yet. I’m not sure when it will be, but I’ll just know.

Trying to fight off her thoughts is extremely difficult, considering the fact that we’re polar opposites. She’s a loose cannon and I’m a caged bird, Heaven knows how we’ve got this far.

Every second that passed is just one second closer to her untimely death. As the minute hand overlaps the hour hand I grow weary, she just becomes more obnoxious. She’s a ticking time bomb and when she’ll explode no one knows, so I wait until the wait is over and she disappears from my vision.

I notice her absence only seconds after she steps outside into the alleyway wedged between one club and the next, maybe it’s because the multicolored fluorescents aren’t shining off her hair and blinding me, or that her thoughts are becoming slowly trailing off into the distance.

I follow them, weaving throughout desperate teenage girls far too young for this scene and teenage boys with dirty, dirty thoughts. (I don’t have to be able to read their mind to know this.) The music becomes a low rhythm as I step outdoors into the harsh New York weather. The cold nips at my nose and forces me to sink deeply into my coat that I usually use as a form of camouflage.

I distance myself from the scene, not wanting to be caught in the middle of it. I feel like a glorified stalker at this point, watching her every move. Her gaze switches from the telephone in her frail hands, to a quick panning of the entire environment around her.

A second figure joins her minutes after I have and her train of thought consists of drugs, I can almost feel the effect they have on her, causing my memory to go vague for a few moments.

I attempt to pull myself together, but everything is just too much. Her and the dark figure next to her become a blur, but only for a moment. Sadly, that’s all it takes.

Suddenly, I feel as if I’m squeezing through the doors of perception and awakening some sort of third eye that’s always kind of been there. Everything is the same, yet so different. Everything is clear, clearer than usual.

When I glance back to the figures, they’ve both disappeared. It takes me less than a moment to realize it had happened and I missed it. I notice her sprawled across the ground from a hundred feet away and I sprint towards her, not wanting this night to fall out of place.

I hear her thoughts, they’re screaming at me for help. She can finally see me.

Her eyes are stained black and bloodshot like she’s bleeding out of them. I know this not to be true because she’s drenched, blood seeping through her skintight dress. Her chest is caving in as the seconds lug on, I can practically see her bone structure. X-ray vision definitely isn't one of my super powers, but I don’t need them to see she’s got food deprivation.

I can feel her eating disorder, that’s as clear as day. I can also sense future diseases coming her way, most of them deadly. I feel kidney failure from the alcohol, lung cancer from the cigarettes, and even her certain depression.

“Help,” she whines.

“I’m here.” I attempt to comfort her.

My presence sends sparkles flying in her wet eyes, she’s just happy to not be alone in this situation. No one deserves to die alone.

“Who are you?” She asks, weakly tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, trying to protect her good looks even on the brink of death.

In my head I imagine myself saying something like “your worst nightmare” and then disappearing into the night forever. I conclude that I’m an absolute idiot and decide to just ignore her question.

She doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve the name of the person who’s going to take her soul and give it to the authorities to make her into a product of what we are.

Nobody deserves that, yet there’s thousands of us, hiding out in a different realm like f*****g cowards. Never to show our faces in the face of life, only in certain death.

I don’t coo her words full of falsity, that would be beyond morbid. I situate myself next to her and offer kind eyes to ease the pain, I’m not too sure if it works. It sure as Hell doesn’t stop the bleeding.

I keep a safe distance from her as she bleeds out. I don’t want to touch her and grow attached because I might try to save her.

I’m the dumb boy who took a sneak peak at the first page in order to read her…

Her dilated pupils stare back at me and I see years and years of misery without a single touch.

Here I am, on her final page. I opened her, skimmed through and now I’m here. Her last page is full of blood stains and runny letters.

She coughs up blood into her hands and winces at the pain. Her thoughts are screaming to me, begging me to call an ambulance.

She thinks I’m beautiful and I think she is too.

Even while her hair is tousled into a greasy mess and her long eyelashes are damp and glued together. Her face is stained red because of her squirming.

I want to leave her, but I can’t find the strength. Watching someone get murdered is tiring, especially when at least a quarter of it takes a toll on you. There’s consequences for our actions and mine are inward expressions of her untimely death.

“Don’t leave me,” I think she sees it in my eyes. I occasionally flicker from the scene to the closest evacuation route.

“I won’t,” I say, letting her finally hear the sincerity in my voice.

The corners of her mouth fold upward in an attempt to smile. She reaches over and grabs my hand, causing her unwanted memories to flood my mind.

Dozens of them take me by surprise as she guides my hand towards her open wound and presses my palm against it. Her warm blood seeks through the fabric and paints my hands the deep color. She does this in an pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding.

I see photographs of her as a child play out like a telepathic scrapbook. This only causes me to furthermore feel sympathy towards her. This is one of the only genuine emotions I can feel, but it’s only because for the time being, I’m emotionally attached to her and I feel the slightest bit of what she feels.

For a short instant, I feel everything. Not just her agony, but every single short-lived happy memory she experienced. It fades in with every other past I’ve seen quickly, only letting me taste it for a brief moment.

When her body falls limp, I know that I’m going home soon. Despite the fact she had a daring personality and a tough past, she just couldn’t play fates game and win.

I wipe away the tears that could never come with my sleeve as a force of habit, I’ve seen thousands of dramas and human interactions to know of what’s supposed to happen in this situation. Yet, all I can feel is the slightest bit of sadness. I know I can’t waste my time on false emotions and guilt tripping because if I don’t move fast enough, her soul will leave her body without a trace.

Her soul is already aching to escape her body, as if it knows what my true motives are. It wouldn’t be a surprise if it was aware.

I use my crimson red hand to squeeze her cheeks together to part her lips, and I shakily raise my other hand to reach inside her mouth to get a grip on it.

It’s strange how a soul has a texture, it’s softer than the most delicate silk you could ever find and amplified. It’s transparent to the naked, mortal eye. To me, it’s like a thousand particles weaved together intricately without a namable color.

I make sure to be careful, I don’t want to break her. Which at this point is ironic, I’m sure I already have.

I begin to wrap my fingers around her soul and tug at it like we’re playing tug of war and I don't know who’s winning.

I distance myself from her and prop up against the opposing wall, preparing myself for the fight I know she’s going to put up.

As soon as it begins to slither out of her mouth, I latch on to it and begin to pull backwards, propping my feet up against the wall behind her for leverage.

I coil it around my hand several times, tugging with one hand and wrapping with the other.

Once I’ve finished, I feel as if my body is going to give out any second now. My ribs feel shattered and my arms are already growing sore.

I place her soul into the canteen I retrieved from the secret lining of my inner coat pocket and I shove it back quickly, wanting to flee the seen as soon as possible.

I scramble to my feet and walk away, not turning back to look at her.

Everyday, I can’t believe what I’m capable of, and everyday, I surprise myself as I grow more and more indifferent and accepting towards this.

As I’ve found myself at the park I enjoyed myself in this morning, I hear a blood-curdling scream. I assume some half-drunk, love crazed couple has found her and can’t believe her eyes. They’re probably shaking violently and calling the police with blurry eyes.

As much as I hate to admit this, the thought pleases me. The image of them feeling vulnerable and frightened, seeing the image I’ve just created makes me feel like I’m a virtuoso.

I feel like a psychopath for letting this thought cross my mind, but when it’s the only thing that’s been engraved into your brain since you were a child, it’s hard to have any other beliefs. I’m surprised I can manage stop myself from thinking those thought, it means I have some sort of restraint.

I shove my hands in my pockets, keeping my head tilted downward. I do not care to see this city at night at its lowest point, my mood has drastically changed from when I first entered this morning.

I do not want to leave, I want to watch the sunrise in the horizon and fall asleep on the park bench. I want to not feel like I’m the murderer, when I’m only completing a task that’s been forcefully bestowed upon me. I’m only the garbage man, I only take what’s probably going to wither away anyways.

What bothers me most is I did not know her name, she spent her last moments with a man who she didn’t even know, with a man who took everything from her in an instant.

I sluggishly reopen the portal that closed behind me this morning and step back through it.

There are a few of my people crowding the streets, bustling to get home by first call. I take my time, walking slowly and sheepishly. The events of today have somehow physically drained me and I can’t find it in my power to walk with the slightest bit of energy in my step.

Unlike me, my peers crave this feeling. Their bad thoughts come to no end and they feel not even the smallest bit of guilt. They’re the monsters, not me. I like to call myself the silver lining of this place, splashing a bit of contrasting colors to this dark realm.