And now he lay here, somehow, his mangled body barely alive, and him clinging desperately to life as it began to slip its way through his skeletal fingers.
He shouldn't even have lived this long. The boy Letheo had found him somehow, pulled him from the waters, put him in a place of safety in—ironically—the very house Candy Quackenbush had run from before arriving in his world. And then he'd gone back, brought her to him—and as he finally spoke to her, wanted so desperately to beg her forgiveness—
He had seen her plotting even before it happened, seen some turmoil taking place behind her bi-colored eyes: It was as though he could see the two souls conversing in their shared body. And the princess had not been happy. The girl, Candy, she at least had some sort of compassion, but he supposed that the princess (an image of her, smiling, secretly hating him, driving him back with the day-glow all about her radiant face, slipping across his mind and through his hands) knew him too well: Perhaps she knew that he had caused her death. Perhaps she knew that it had been the only way he could claim her, in his roundabout way, and yet it still fed his nightmares and drove him to the tortured depths that no mortal should ever have to face alone.
And the one moment when he had finally been able to reach out—to touch her—to feel her underneath his slender hands in real time, not merely as an image in his tortured dreams—in the one moment where his dead heart had dared a hopeful beat, she had shattered him. She had chosen to reject him utterly, even if it meant she might die in the process. She had chosen to risk her own life rather than chance even a moment of being even touched by him.
And now he lay here, somehow, his mangled body beginning to slip away from his mind, and him clinging not so desperately to life as it slipped its way faster through his skeletal fingers.
He wasn't sure how, but the waters had swept him out of the house—out through one of the many windows that had broken with the force of the tide—and now he lay floating in the shallows of the receding waters, even the fish and the mantizacs afraid to touch him, as though they already knew who he was. Maybe they did. Maybe Mama Izabella herself had told them. The sea was a cruel mistress, to be sure, but for some reason she had decided to cradle him against her bosom now and rock him gently to sleep. Perhaps she took pity on him, poor broken creature that he was, and had decided to afford him the dignity of a peaceful death.
He had seen them departing, from below, as seemed to be fitting of someone who had been cast down so far. They scrambled and pulled her out of the water, their very actions bespeaking their joy—but who had come for Christopher Carrion? No one. Who would mourn his death? Who would speak of his life with sadness? Who would even carry him in their memories as more than just a caricature of a man—who would remember him as he was, the broken and tangled wreck of humanity who had only wanted someone to make him not so lonely?
Perhaps it would never have worked out. The princess, even the Quackenbush girl, they were creatures of the light: bright, airy, free, alive (They could never possibly understand him—not the torment he suffered—maybe he asked too much in even thinking that they could). For everything he had done, everything he had dared pine for, part of him still knew that he could never hold her in his arms, that she would never want to kiss his grinning death's-head lips, even cast a glance in his sad ungodly direction. The princess, she was a light and airy girl who deserved a light and airy life; not his tormenting sorrows; there was no way that she could ever have comprehended him. He had always liked to think that she would. He had always wanted to think that when he awoke in the middle of the night reeling from his nightmares—such thoughts had come to him long before he grew to breathe them in, to revel in their presence, because they wouldn't run from him—that she would be by his side to calm him and soothe him and drive the fears away until he could fall into a peaceful sleep:
But still, and part of him had known this all along, it was never meant to be.
And now he lay here, somehow, his mangled body barely connected to the smear of colors and confusion his mind had become, and him allowing life to slip its way still more quickly through his weakening grasp.
He sighed, and upon inhaling again he still found himself distantly shocked not to drink in the stew of his nightmares; for a moment the shock caused his dead heart, already thumping sickeningly slow, to slow down still further. He could feel himself bleeding out. There was no way to stop this process; he was aware that he was too far gone. And yet he gave himself willingly into the arms of death—for maybe in death he would finally have release.
He had vaguely, stupidly, hoping and yet hating, wished that they would take him with them. But why would they? The girl was the only one who even had an inkling that there was more depth to him than some cardboard devil; the rest were glad to see him dying. For god's sake—and even she had recoiled from him more than once: in the Dead Man's House, and then with such final and forceful ferocity in her own home—
To use a Word of Power on him? Had she loathed him that much? Oh, gods and goddesses, Mama Izabella and every power in the Abarat, dark and light—had she despised him so, been so revolted by him, that she felt compelled to use a Word of Power in order to get away from his grinning death's-head? Had she so reviled him that she couldn't even stand to let him lay a hand on her shoulder? Not even more—he had too much self-control to do anything dishonorable, and yet how she made him want to crush her in his slender hands!—and she was so disgusted by the idea that she used a Word of Power to get away from him? Gods! what a monster he must be.
"But if you did solve the mystery, I'd never have to look at you again?"
"Don't sound so happy about it."
He'd let his guard down with her once, and she'd responded by running in fear and revulsion. She loathed him. He'd let his guard down with her a second time (Stupid! Idiot! Such a lovelorn fool, thinking that she would ever even show such a kindness to you!), and she'd responded by killing him. So that was her final answer.
The shallows of Mama Izabella ebbed gently to and fro underneath him. He could hear voices distantly, decidedly human voices. No doubt they would dispatch him the first chance they got. He was, after all, a monster. And monsters needed to be put down.
And now he lay here, finally, his naked mangled body glistening with blood and seawater and broken glass like diamonds, his dead heart finally slowing to a final pathetic thump as his tortured life at last slipped through his fingers like one of his nightmares. Christopher Carrion took one more nightmareless breath, and the loving arms of Mama Izabella cradled him to sleep.