[Geist] Tearing the Caul

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

He was still alive when the car hit the slope and began to roll.

A dozen stab wounds had done a lot of damage, but it was nothing that a Sin-Eater could not have recovered from in time. It was the sudden stop when the car hit the lower level of road, the collapsing metal driving into his body, that went beyond what he could endure. His legs were crushed by the impact; the crumpling door twisted and buckled, trapping and severing his right arm. The windscreen shattered – stupid old rattle-trap, no safety glass, no airbag – driving blades sharper than razors through his chest and throat.

Inbetween. Darkness. Shadows and cold. Creeping fingers in my mind, eating memories as they form. Crawling voice; 'this is not for you, not for the living'.

She enters the flat without fear. It is a safe place, away from the madness; away from the family. The flat is their place, separate from that world, decorated by their own hands; fine art and beautiful antiques. It is the only home she has known that feels entirely protected from that violence; where the door won't burst open and the police storm in.

Nothing bad comes there, until today.

By chance, the car missed the river. It hit the road too directly, slid across and caught on a tree. By chance also, someone was passing at that moment and saw. It wasn't enough to save him; just enough to be sure that they found him fast. It was just after dusk as the light faded from his eyes and the firemen began to cut him free.

Fear churning; thoughts flying away. Living? But I am dead. This time actually dead. Aren't I? No deal this time; no last minute reprieve. Right?

They are waiting for her, and she fights. She fights like a cornered cat. Perhaps if she had not, they would not have struck her so hard. Perhaps if she had stopped struggling, they would have stopped hitting her. Perhaps it would have been better. Perhaps worse. Perhaps.

They dragged the body out of the car in four pieces; the legs wouldn't come loose and he was dead anyway, and so they cut them off and then cracked them out one at a time with the jaws of life.

They bagged him up, put him in an ambulance and took him to the morgue. They laid him on the slab and the pathologist came. It was her, Alma, that recognised him.

Dark on dark; blanketed by hard, coarse cloth. I feel the Puritan with me, dragging me back. Darkness explodes into light.

She retreats into her own mind, fearing that the pain will never end. She tries to tell herself that at least it is only death, but the comfort is cold indeed; as cold as her flesh by the time the sun rises.

As the sun rose, the Underworld yawned open and plasm spilled forth, wrapping the corpse in a bloody caul. Before Alma's eyes the plasm reformed the shattered legs and severed arm.

As the light fades, I see... Oh God, I see!

He woke, tearing away the caul, trying to deny what he had seen. He sat, fell, his right arm too weak to support him, his legs still twisted and broken. His gaze fell on the next table and he knew that what he had seen was only the truth.