Gifted to Xbertyx and WereCamel.
Challenge prompt number two: Any fandom. Write a one shot written in E-prime (written without the use of the verb "to be" and any of its conjugations). Response may be written in a language other than English, but may not contain the verb "to be" written in ANY language at all. Minimum 1000 words.
To read the first challenge piece (a one shot written without the word 'the') click here: s/11385917/1/An-Indefinite-Episode
He lies passed out the tile floor, curled up around the foot of the toilet when I find him, the only way the two of us meet nowadays. He and I, a human and a reaper. What an odd pair we make.
The same ugly patterned paper covers the walls; the same half-broken soap dispenser rests on the counter. His can of generic shaving cream stands beside it, right where it belongs—next to a tooth brush, a tube of tooth paste, a razor, a comb, and bottle of hair gel. The same sharp scent of oxidized iron fills the air. The grout between the tiles has become stained, along with the shag rug under the sink. What a strange thing, thinking of two pints as a large quantity of anything before you see it spread out around you, pooling under your feet.
I swallow. The familiarity gets to me. It disgusts me that I've grown so accustomed to seeing him like this that I've come to expect it.
I rest my death scythe against the frame of the door and open the cabinet on the lower left of the vanity. The bottle of iodine hasn't moved since I returned it there last time. Not much remains in it, again. I'll have to buy him another bottle for the next time this happens.
I take the bottle out, along with a pack of sterile gauze from another drawer. I stoop down to kneel by his side, not caring that his blood ruins my trousers. My hand presses to his flush, clammy cheek, gently rousing him.
He wakes groggily, limply rolling over to his back, still delirious. Long lashes flutter open to reveal terrified brown eyes that dart frantically around the room, settling only when his mind functions well enough to recognize me.
He relaxes into the floor, his strength depleted. He smiles, softly. The shadow of the expression I missed so much.
You, he says, his single dimple appearing briefly at the side of his mouth.
I nod, taking him into my arms, hating myself for any further discomfort I might cause.
He doesn't wince. He doesn't pull away. He lets me manipulate his defeated body so his weight rests on my chest, my arms free to reach for the butterfly closures in my pocket. I've brought a whole pack of them, and I set them down beside us.
You've come to take me, right? he asks, hopeful. I don't respond. Instead, I hold him closer,
His forearm fits too easily into the palm of my hand. I rotate the limb carefully, exposing his most recent acts of destruction.
Why, Alan? Why have I become the piece that … when missing … breaks you?
I touch his skin gingerly, skirting around the abused edges. My hand goes to the bottle and unscrews the cap, pouring what remains of it on to his injuries: the shallow set of transverse cuts marking his hesitation, the deeper ones when he built up the courage, the beginning of a longitudinal incision…
His flesh absorbs the vibrant copper hue of the iodine and I blot the excess off with the wad of gauze. His blood has already begun to coagulate on the less severe ones, and I sop up as much of the mess of it as I can without disturbing the clots.
I-I don't understand, he whispers to break my heart. Why won't you ever take me, angel? I don't want to stay here … I don't belong … not here … n-nothing feels right.
I separate the backing from the first butterfly strip and allow the paper to fall to the floor.
How did I even get here? I don't even know … I feel lost and … please … I don't understand. I have these … these holes in my mind and it drives me crazy … and I can't keep on living because NOTHING makes sense to me anymore …
I didn't think he had tears left to shed, but they trickle down his face. Mine I hold back, for his sake.
…because I don't remember things! I-I don't remember THINGS that I should remember … like why I live here and why I never feel like I belong in my body … like someone took something from me that I NEED to survive and I don't know what … and I can't continue like this … and … and…
I stick the end of the strip across his wrist, pushing the sides of his skin back together. I do another, stitching his body back into a facade of sound repair.
…and wh-what kind of angel m-makes a person beg for death? he stutters out.
I don't respond again, focusing my attention on applying the closures on to the arm in my hand, then switching to the other one.
He gulps down his tears and his voice drops to a softer level.
You come here every time, and I ask you the same thing … and you never give me an answer. Please … just tell me what I've done wrong … why won't you let me die?
His back shudders against my chest, and I think myself fortunate that he can't see my face. That he can't see the shame I have from my inability to help him.
He can't know the real reason. Of course he can't.
He didn't recognize me after he reincarnated. After all, what would a mortal know of reapers, or collections, or the thorns of death? What would he know of the way a man could love another man, and love him to such an extent that all rules of common morality would break for the inkling of a chance to spend little while longer with him?
I've taken thousand souls and waited a hundred years for him … and I'd do it all over again if I had to.
Anything for him.
But I can do nothing right now to ease his suffering. His name has yet to appear on my death list. He will have to bear with it for a few more years.
…I thought angels ought to have mercy for someone like me.
Sorry, Al. I didn't become an angel. I became dead, and then reaper, and then a lover, and then widow, and then a shell. You remain the only grace I ever had.
I stand, my work here finished. He stares at me and I look away from him. His wounds will heal with time … they always do. I turn for the door, grabbing my death scythe and setting it over my shoulder.
N-no no no please … please don't leave! Don't leave me … p-please!
I try to keep my tone even, but my voice betrays me and cracks at the end. "You didn't cut deep enough for me to take you," I say.
With that, I disappear.
One day I'll hold him, and he'll die in my arms for a third time. I'll kiss him farewell on the lips, smile, gaze into his beautiful brown eyes for the last time. And when he wakes at the academy, William, and Grell, and Ronald, and I will surround him, welcoming him home.