The poet Emily Dickinson once wrote,"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." Apparently Emily Dickinson was not, and did not know any ghosts. If she did, she would know that "life," of sorts, could come again--and that it could be even sweeter than the life you had before you died.
Annie filled the kettle from the tap, and placed it on the cooktop on high heat. In no time, the water was at a full boil. The whistle of the kettle sounding for a scant second, before she removed the kettle, and filled the teapot with boiling water. With the remaining water she warmed two mugs. Now as the tea steeped, she looked out of the window at the world beyond. Two fashionably dressed young women sauntered down the street in clothes and shoes that made Annie envy their ability to wear whatever they liked--heals that were impossibly high, and color--rich, saturated colors. It made Annie look at the drab gray that had become her permanent attire, courtesy of death. And ugg, Uggs? Had she known, she could have worn a beautiful strappy sandal or a platform peeptoe on the day she died. But could she have kicked vampire ass in them? Could she move about effortlessly regardless of footwear, courtesy of death? She didn't know, but the thought made her smile.
Further down the street three boys dribbled a football between them drawing the ire of an elderly woman they passed. The boys were raucous, teasing one another with each pass of the ball. Their language was at once inappropriate for their age, yet typical all the same. The old woman glared as they went by. All of them, even the old woman, were so full of life.
In life, Annie had been only half alive. She'd allowed Owen, the man she loved, and feared, to leach from her life the things that make one truly alive. He'd systematically destroyed her self-confidence and isolated her from the people she loved. She allowed him to steal from her life things she found now in death ... the close camaraderie that she shared with George and Mitchell, the confidence to confront a den of vampires, and to stand with her friends against the vampires' fearsome leader. The irony of what she'd found in death was not lost on Annie.
Now what? she thought. The question was never far from her mind these days. Ever since the day she turned away from the portal to whatever lay beyond her ghostly existence, she wondered now what? Even Mitchell, her de facto guide in the immortal world, did not know what was next for her. Immortal... Annie now understood that there was no such thing as truly immortal. She now understood that all beings, living and dead, were vulnerable.
Mitchell was, in fact, the reason she had not gone through the portal. Annie had never been a big believer in the notion that things happen for a reason, but when Mitchell had been staked by a fellow vampire at the very moment that Annie was to step through the portal, she believed that it was more than coincidence. At least, she wanted desperately to believe that it was more than coincidence, because the alternative, the meaninglessness of it all, was too disturbing to contemplate. Had she turned away from her only chance to pass over? Was there unfinished business yet to be addressed that could reveal another portal? Only time would tell.
In the meantime, she chose to believe that the reason Mitchell had been staked before she went through was that she was somehow meant to stay with him and George. In the days since George had vanquished Herrick, a vampire of great evil and even greater ambition, George had returned to his "normal" life ... whatever normal was for someone whose alter-ego gripped and overturned his life once a month, revealing a feral beast of immense ferocity. Not so for Annie and Mitchell. Mitchell could scarcely return to his life as a hospital porter so soon after being released following a life-threatening attack. And Annie, having discovered new powers, new talents, wanted to stay close by Mitchell, in case one of Herrick's vampire followers sought to avenge him. Perhaps that was the reason for her continued existence. She knew that Mitchell understood this, and yet blamed himself for the fact that Annie had not found "her end."
She saw and sensed the guilt in him, for these days they stayed close by one another ... watching a daily matinee of old movies, sharing meals and cups of tea ... with Annie cooking and Mitchell consuming ... but mostly sitting and talking. Mitchell had seen so much, and there was so much that Annie believed she would now never see. She loved listening to Mitchell's stories of past lives, albeit censored and sanitized of the more disturbing details.
Annie wanted nothing more than to assuage Mitchell's feelings of guilt. She wanted him to know that she had chosen. She had looked at the portal and in that moment, she had made a choice. She chose to stay. Even now, he stood in the doorway and she sensed his presence, watching her, observing her, worrying over her, as he frequently did these days, in silence. She emptied the now warm mugs, and filled them with freshly brewed tea. She turned to look at him, a mug in each hand.
"Tea?" she asked, as if lemon or milk were the greatest dilemma facing them that day.
"Hmmm ..." he took the mug from her and sat at their kitchen table. She followed suit and sat, wrapping her hands around the mug, sensing its warmth, and remembering the spicy fragrance of the tea. Even though she could not drink it, she enjoyed sharing this time with him. "So what are you in the mood for?" he asked, the worry dissipated for now. "Because I was thinking that there are some film noir classics that will really appeal to the new kick ass Annie."
~~the end~~