Disclaimer
This story has mentions of suicide, self harm, violence, and mental illness
Please listen to Hi Ren by Ren. It was the inspiration to this story.
and
So Long By Magnetic North, It was our song.
It's the same dull routine working at the small diner that you've been work at since high school. Forcing a smile and collecting ink on your palm as you scribble down orders. Your feet are sore, head throbbing, and you can't bring yourself to greet anyone by name.
It's raining when she comes in and sits at the counter. Little older than you, maybe a year or two. She shrugs off her black leather jacket and shakes the rain out of her long dark hair. Wavy and frizzy from the humidity. A gold chain necklace with a pendent around her neck and an old, dulled Rob Zombie/ Ozzy Osbourne concert shirt hangs over her torso. Tattoos are inked into her pale skin.
"Afternoon," You murmur as you come over with a menu. You can hear the tiredness in your voice. You put on the the same phony smile you've had the entire day. "Can I get you started with anything today?"
When you look up from your notepad her hazel eyes lift from the menu to you.
"Coffee, please." Her voice is sweet. None of the grunting roughness of this town residents with voices lost to overwork and over-indulgence.
"Course, one sec." You turn your back to your customer to grab the coffee pot. Coffee steams as you poured it, eyes on the your task as she watches you. "New to town?"
"Damn, that obvious?" She plays with a plastic container of creamer. Chipped purple nail polish colored her nails. "And here I was hoping to blend right in."
"Yeah, well, take it from someone born and raised in this town. It's not easy fitting in." You put the pot back and turn, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Trust me."
"Got any tips for fitting in?" She leans forward and takes a sip of the coffee.
You laugh. It's small and light, the first times you've truly laughed in two years, feeling foreign as it come from your throat. It's ruined by those thoughts that have been plaguing you. Quickly seeping in, a flash of black hair, a laugh forgotten in the wind. A slight chill kicking down your spine as you lean forward on the counter in front of her, your smile softening as old memories swirl in.
"Don't." You look down at your hands on the counter as you lean in. "Fitting in is overrated." You smile, hoping you found a new regular.
Her name is Alicia. She comes through the diner about every other day. Sits at the counter and orders fries, a slice of pie, coffee, or soda. Always something small.
It was two years ago. A drowning accident while walking on the ice. He was alone and the ice wasn't thick enough. It was an "accident". He'd been a close friend growing up, more than a friend. He was your brother.
The nightmares started the first night. A knife scraping along your bare skin until blood is drawn. Pressing into the skin until you're screaming and the drops fall. It smells like the disrupted dirt in the cemetery and rusting metal. The blade continues to press into you as a separate softer voice whispers in your head. Tells you to keep going. It's the only way to live. The only way to survive.
Claws dig into your throat as you jerk awake. You grab at your neck as you gasp for air, lungs empty, body frozen with fear.
You visit his grave that night. Christopher Wyatt. His name etched into the cracked headstone. Grime covers it and dead flowers lay around it. Crisp and crunchy as you step on the petals. They crumble under your shoe.
"Is it you, Chris?" You sound crazy as you kneel in front of his headstone again. Knee bouncing as the cold earth presses through your clothes.
You close your eyes. Over twelve hours have passed since you woke up, but you could still feel the nightmare. The hand blacker than the midnight sky on your neck. Blood-crusted claws grew from the fingers, digging into your skin as it wraps on your neck. The gold chain tore from your neck, the hexagon pendent is dented and flaking. It bounces against the ashy ground as it lands. A pair of thick, wire glasses fall and crack.
"Your flesh is worth nothing to me. It's what's underneath." The voice elicits fear. The voice travels up your spine. "Move or don't move. I will take what is mine."
You woke up with a hand print burned into the base of your neck. Hidden underneath a sweater too hot for the season. The burn stings as you pull the neckline down letting the moonlight shine on it, revealing it to Chris' headstone. Barely there, barely visible, but it burns nonetheless.
"What'd you do, Chris?"
Clutching a box of Chris's things to your chest as you stare at the headstone. Two years and you still couldn't bear to look inside. Keeping box of his things locked away in your washer and dryer room. Hidden high up for you to never touch. Out of sight, out of never opened it, too scared to face what was left of your brought it with you. Pulled it off the shelf with shaky hands, dusting off the top and staring at the thick padlock. The keys are lost and memories hidden inside. Until you broke the lock off with some bolt cutters. Stared at the closed box for days, guilt trickling into your nerves. Brought it with you the last few times you visited him. But you couldn't open yet.
A shiver traveling up your spine as you sit on top his grave. But you can be brave. You need to be brave. You need to do this with him. Like he's sitting in front of you, watching you go through it like he would whenever he gave you a present.
You skim through the barely legible letters first. Speaking out loud what you can read hoping he can hear your voice. Chris wasn't known for his perfect handwriting. And two years sitting in a poorly ventilated room. The lead is faint on the paper.
Mostly it mentions memories. The first time we met. The night club we used to hang out at in our high school years. Going to concerts. Camping near the river. That time we lived together. Spending hours with him at his empty work late at night so he wouldn't be lonely.
After the letter are some small trinkets. An old book. D figurines. All unfamiliar in your hands. But you can feel him in them. A tingle wash over you as you lift a purple cloth. A small knife shines beneath it, crusted with what you hoped was rust in the moonlight.
Your fingers barely touch it as a leaf crunches behind you. Close. Another closer. Heavy like a horse's steps. Clomping hard, slowly and breaking thick sticks beneath each step. Your hands tremble, eyes locked on the blade. A puff of cold, stomach churning air hits your smells like death.
In your ear, soft as a feather against skin, a faraway voice whispers. "Don't look."
You clamp your eyes shut, tears building behind them. Stinging as you try not to move. Each sob wracking your body. You can't breathe as a breath hits your neck. Hits your shoulder, back, head.
"Don't speak." The voice whispers inside your head. "Don't move." A beat of silence. "I'm almost there."
The ground is dry. But as the thing moves, the hooves change to squelching. Like when you and Chris used to run around the pool with bare, wet feet padding on the wet ground. But theirs sound thicker. Footsteps are heavier. The smell of death makes you choke on a sob.
"You smell even better than he did." A voice that feels like nails on a chalkboard crawls around you. A hand snatches the back of your neck, scraping the skin. Cold and burning to the touch. "And I will have you."
The nails pierce your skin and you wince. Biting your lip to keep still.
"It won't kill you," The soft, mysterious voice says. The one in your head. "Don't look. Don't move. Endure."
Endure. Not the most reassuring option. Not as a sob sneaks out and a snicker shakes behind you. It travels over you like the sharp nails against your neck. A trickle of blood drop down the back of your neck as he presses harder. Enough to hurt. Enough to send panic through the fear.
Fight, flight, or endure.
Fight, flight, or endure. You're not a fan of any of those options. Fighting will get you killed. You don't think you can outrun whatever this is. And you can't simply sit there and let it torture you. Whatever it is, it's not going to hold back.
So you go with all three options.
Adrenaline moves your hand. Closing your fingers around the handle of the blade and blindly swinging it. Forcing your eyes to stay closed as the blade digs into a fleshy, hard, part of whatever it is. Fear moves you. The box is left at the grave as an ear-piercing roar leaves its throat.
You endure the scrapes against the passing headstones as you run with your eyes shut, terrified of what you might see. The rough marbles, slates, and granites tear at your clothes and draws blood. You trip, bruise your knees. But you keep running. It's not in the direction of your car. Isn't in the direction of anything except the dense forest. The smell of humidity, wood, and the crunching of fallen branches tell you that's where you are. But you keep running. The sound of wet, clomping steps start to follow and your chest burns with every breath.
You think a vine has you. Wrapping around your wrists and waist. Jerking you against the back of a tree. But it's not bark pressing into your back. It's not thick vines around your waist, covering your mouth. The heartbeat and breathing are steadier than yours and a rough palm is against your mouth.
"Keep your eyes closed." The voice has a body, it seems. And it holds onto you tight. "Breathe but don't look. Not yet."
"Where?" The other voice bellows; traveling through the forest like a storm. "She's mine."
The footsteps get closer and you tremble. Fear s taking over, the feeling of blood warming your neck and back. Tears trickle down your cheeks and the stranger's hold tightens.
"I can smell the two of you, Forgotten," It growls.
"Not so forgotten then, am I?" The stranger speaks with an amused flutter to her voice. But her body is hard and tense behind you. "She's not yours to have, sorry. Move along. Find another plaything, Kester."
"Why should I and not you?"
"I have claim to this one. Back off." There's a growl to her tone.
"You're worth nothing, Forgotten. No claims left to stake."
"Then why haven't you taken her from me?" She scoffs, "Walk away, Kester. She's mine."
"For now," It grumbles. It has to be no more than a few feet away. You can smell it. "But you can't stay by her side forever."
"Try me."
The earth beneath you tremble as do you. The scent of rotting, decaying flesh is back and the temperature rose a dozen degrees before it plummets and makes you shiver. Muted screams crawl over your skin and the stranger's hold twitches.
"The second you're not there, Forgotten, I will be. Mind that."
"Minding it. Bye, Kester."
The wind tears through the trees before the scent is gone. The shiver down your spine is gone. The temperature is returning to normal. The hand falls from your mouth and arm from your waist. You have no energy as you fall to you knees and stagger away, dirt and sticks digging into your hands as you gain a little distance.
You look up at the stranger, eyes dark, jaw set. Long wavy hair caught in the remnants of the breeze. Gold jewelry glinting in the moonlight light as she kneel down in front of you, keeping the gap between you as she takes a slow breath.
No. Not a stranger. Alicia.
"Breathe," She says slowly. She holds up her hands. "Not here to hurt you, Sara."
"W-What is happening?" You swallow hard, voice strained and painful. "Who…how…Chris."
There's blood on your palms that dirt and leaves stick to. It smells like rotten eggs and you feel yourself gagging between rapid breaths.
"I'll go over what I know with you. But you need to breathe."
"Breathe?" You throw your arm back in the direction of the thing that'd been chasing you. "You expect me to breathe after that? Just pretend like that was totally fucking normal? Who are you? What the hell was that thing? What the fuck does it have to do with Chris? What the fuck is happening?"
You sit up and try to wipe your hands off on your jeans, the soreness and aches settling into your bones.
"That was Kester. A demon. Temperamental shit." Alicia spoke nonchalantly as if you were talking over beers. As if you were back at the diner talking about specials.
"Preys on fear and despair and uses them to get what he wants. Most of the time that's souls. You know demons and souls go hand in hand."
"Demon?" The world is getting blurry and uneven. "What does a demon have to do with me? With Chris?"
"Probably something along the lines of despair. I don't know the exact details. I just know what I'm here to do."
"And what could that possibly be?"
She sighs and plays with a rip on your jeans. Pulling away a twig stuck between the material and your leg and blowing off some specks of dirt. You wince on the verge of an panic attack as you try not to cry again.
"To protect you." Her dark eyes meet yours, a seriousness behind them rendering you still.
"P-Protect me?" You laugh. You're not sure why you are laughing. As ridiculous as it sounds, that's not the most ridiculous aspect of the night. "Seriously?"
"Mhm."
She stands up and holds out a hand. One you're meant to take. You hesitate. You've seen enough evidence to know that taking her hand will lead to her helping you. But as your brain still tries to process a literal demon chasing after you, everything feel fucking insane. Nightmarish.
You take her hand and she jerks you to your feet.
"You're really going to protect me from that thing?"
She jerks you close and gives you an annoyed, almost wicked grin. Showing off her white teeth, canines sharp like the vampires in the horror films. Her palm are rough against yours, and you swallow around the thick knot in your throat as she gives your hand a squeeze. You make eye contact. There are a thousand words hidden in her eyes. A pain hidden and deeply buried that reminded you of your own.
She lets go of your hand and her jaw clenches. "That's what angels are for, aren't they?"