Chambers
By Mia Salvano
FamePaperTrail
"My eyes feast upon the willow, but my heart goes out to the ginkgo."
-Emily Dickinson
The room was still.
The dimly lit atmosphere made dust particles visible and shadows stretch in the corners. His back was against the wall. The cool condensation stuck to his frozen skin, causing his troubled breaths to hitch. Sweat rolled down his arms that were tucked in between his knees, which were pulled up to his chest.
At the end of the room was a big, metal vault door, glowing with a silver-orange hue from the lantern burning next to hit. The wick didn't waver; instead it stood in a burning hot line, the red tip leading to the white base. The flame as the only source of light in the entire chamber, but it stretched to the opposite wall where Kid sat curled in his jeans. The hinges of this vault door were jammed with large bolts, securing it to the wall.
Kid sighed, the room's stillness calming his burning lungs, making ever breath ever so tedious. Every breath seemed to evaporate, every trace of oxygen diminishing inside him.
The room was all stone. Stone walls, floor, ceiling. Murky water pooled in little puddles along the floor, algae forming on the base of each. The air smelled of rusted metal and mold. This room was a venting chamber, a barren, empty place made for stress release deep inside the basements of Gallows Manor.
Plink.
Kid opened his eyes, half-lidded but hyper aware. His reaper senses could pick up the slightest sound from the steps of the weapon partners coming down the stairs, to his heart pumping furiously in his own chest to the plink of water sliding down the stone walls onto awaiting puddles below.
His thoughts quickly trailed off to what Liz and Patti could possibly be doing. The rambunctious youngest, and the sophisticated but troubled older pistol were on his mind every day. He often thought back of their life before, making them who they are now. His life was definitely more prestigious than theirs, but nonetheless not much easier.
The Thompson sisters had grown up on the merciless streets of Brooklyn, famous for their robberies and badass attitudes. Patti had transformed into a pistol while Liz held her, threatening every rich pedestrian that dared to enter their turf. Even former Brooklyn menaces never matched the Thompson sisters, giving Liz and Patti the title 'Devils of Brooklyn.'
Patti was young and mischievous, never really understanding the concept of her street life. Liz, however, remembered nearly everything. The terrorizing criminal had her own background, behind all this seemingly cold-blooded crimes. This was all for her sister Patti, so she could eat, and possibly have the life Liz had always wanted to provide. Patti had managed to stay safe as Liz had done everything imaginable to get the money. Searching grew to begging, and that grew to more desperate and gruesome measures; robberies, drug-selling, and even whoring herself away to give Patti what she needed. Through all this, it's what made Liz who she was.
And Kid liked that.
He realized a slight smirk replaced the blank expression he wore before. The thought of the woman she is now, the woman she has become, amazed him. She had lived through a hellacious battle and won. She still has spouts of anger and explodes at certain times, but she hasn't given up.
Kid, however, behind this pristine veil of riches and wealth, was in his own personal fight. He had finally become a death god, replacing his father. The responsibilities that went along with this role had nearly tripled, as did pressure and stress. The standards and expectations that followed worried him, that he wouldn't live up to the man he was supposed to be. The thought of failing as a Grim Reaper frightened him. Sickened him. Punishments could be critical, and so could the consequences he would face emotionally. Being a death god could ruin him. It was already beginning to tear him away from the inside. Death the Kid had grown, grown from a slender, 12 year old boy to an 18 year old Reaper. His body type was still thin, but he had become much taller, to the point where his older weapon Liz was eye level with his lips. He was muscular, toned. The Sanzu lines now wrapped all the way around his silky black hair, his alabaster skin nearly as white as the stripes. He was how he liked now.
Symmetrical.
He smiled at the thought. He was symmetrical, now. Since then, his OCD fits were minimal, his cooperation growing with his toleration. He no longer lost sleep over little things like a picture frame's tilt or grapes arranged on a plate, as those were replaced with bigger worries. Accomplishing every mission, saving human souls, collecting every Kishin egg. These factors determined his success. He wanted to make his father proud. The death-scythes shall also be impressed, his superiors, and more importantly, himself. His own standards were so high. Too high. It made him wonder if being a Grim Reaper would make him stronger or just rip him from the inside out. He was destroying himself; placing so much emotional pain on himself he could break…
He took a deep breath and placed his back against the wall, his hands over his chest in an attempt to soothe his burning lungs.
This reflection was taking a toll on him.
He took a deep breath, making a sudden pain shoot up his chest.
"I can't do this…"
No.
He shook his head.
I can. I can. I am Death.
He slammed his hands against the sides of his head and groaned in frustration. It was obvious this wasn't a battle he was going to win against himself. The pessimist side of him was too strong.
The biggest enemy right now is myself.
He gritted his teeth, the strain in building in his shoulders.
His ears perked at the sound of gentle footsteps coming down the chamber stairs. They continued for awhile, the sound becoming more and more audible. He stayed perfectly still, knowing the slightest noise he made would echo and make it hard to hear.
The sound vanished.
He jumped violently as the lever on the vault door began to slide, rust grinding in the locks. He froze as the entire door opened, the hinges squealing like nails on a chalkboard. He cringed, until he saw the figure that appeared on the other side of the door.
Her soft, caramel hair was draped on her feminine shoulders, random locks laying delicately on her bamboo skin. She was wearing a sheer, pale pink top, revealing her black bandeau. Skin tight black leggings were wrinkle-free, but the most shocking part was the tears.
Not many, not a sobbing rainstorm, but they were water droplets building on her lower eyelashes. The small lantern hanging on the door illuminated the glistening stream that had rolled halfway down her cheeks.
Kid's hard gaze had softened at the sight of the way the tough Elizabeth Thompson looked when she cried.
It looked foreign.
Kid didn't want to look stressed over his previous hour of reflection, and didn't want to look to concerned either. Liz paused, staring at Kid curled on the wall across from her.
"Kid?" she attempted to ask like there were no tears on her face, but her voice ended up wobbly.
"What happened?" Kid was immediately shocked at how dark and careless he sounded. He cleared his throat and licked his lips. "You look upset."
"Well duh, I'm crying!" Liz yelled, her voice echoing through the barren stone walls. Kid's eyes widened, surprised at the tension in her. "Liz…" he began, stressing for her to calm down. She slammed the door shut, flakes of rust falling to the wet stone floor like crimson snow.
Silence enveloped the room between the two. Liz stared at the floor, another blink sending a tear off her chin. Kid's golden-hued eyes began to wobble, his mouth slightly parted.
The silence continued to drag on until Kid broke it.
"I'm not going to let you stand there and cry."
Liz slowly lifted her puffy eyes up to Kid, who was sitting on his knees now. She bit her lip and turned to face the wall.
Squishsqueaksquishsqueaksqui shsqueak
Liz froze as Kid's shoes squished on the wet stone, becoming louder and louder at each step.
"Look at me, Liz," he said coldly, nearly a demand. Liz let out a sob and dug her face into her hands, spreading her tears all over her face. Her ignorance bothered Kid, and made him wonder why she went into the Gallows Manor Chamber in the first place. Was she here for Kid's comfort? Or was she here because she thought he wouldn't be here? But why was she ignoring him?
"Elizabeth, turn around and look at me."
Liz paused, her breath ceasing, and she looked over her shoulder. Kid was hovering over her, his breathing loud in her ears. Liz squeezed her eyes shut and faced the wall again, beginning to inspect every detail on the stone in front of her to keep her mind off the tawny amber eyes of her meister.
The stone is gray, cracks and crevices filled with mold. They are glossy, shiny, slick with water. Darker gray splotches dot the surface like sunspots, as if they were branded with a burning, white-hot iron.
"It looks kind of like my heart right now, doesn't it?"
Her voice was meek and quiet, but aural enough to be heard.
Kid squinted, his brow furrowed in confusion. His persistence to know what she was thinking was being to bore holes in his soul, the frustration building rapidly.
Kid swallowed the lump in his throat. "What do you mean?"
Liz bit her lip and reached a hand out to the wall, stroking its asperous surface. Kid frowned. "Your heart doesn't look like this wall, if this is what you are referring too."
She brushed the wall again before stopping, her fingertips still touching the rigid rock. "It does."
"Do you mind explaining it to me?"
Liz sighed, a puff of air escaping her moist lips.
"It's gray and bumpy, like this stone. From everything I've done before coming to this manor."
"On the streets?"
She nodded, another tear sliding down her cheek. "The mold, the water damage, all of this is on my heart, from what I was before. It's affecting me too much now…" she opened her mouth to continue, but her voice became stuck in her throat. "I…I don't have the prettiest past like you did…"
Kid snorted.
Liz's shoulders sunk and she turned around to face him.
"Prettiest past?" Kid asked, amused. "I may have had any material item I asked for. I may have lived in a huge house and had a father, BUT the process of becoming a reaper was degrading. It's stressful. We may have been on opposite ends of the economical spectrum, but I knew we could collide somehow." His cold palms clasped her shoulders. "Being rich, I can be stereotyped."
As fortunate as Death the Kid was to be wealthy, none of the money mattered. He was a Grim Reaper, a Shinigami, the role of death god. He had responsibilities.
Kid sighed and looked down at Liz, his face stern and serious.
"Is there more to what I know?"