I guess we'd rather think bad things only happen to bad people because the alternative that there's no cosmic know-it-all entity making our suffering justified scares us. We fear the things we cannot control, and the pain we can't comprehend is the major threat to it. At least if we're bad, we can understand pain as a consequence of our actions. But what if we're good, and we still hurt? Then we know it's still a punishment, if not for our past deed, then a compensation of our future. It's like burning in the eternal flame of Hell isn't enough for such tainted souls that the Reaper must make their lives a particular living Hell, claiming the early pays of an everlasting moral mortgage that will, hopefully, tip our lifetime scale in the right direction. If we suffer enough, if we stand tall through it all, if there's someone watching us, then at least we can show them how stoically willing we are to withstand sickness and death alike to gain our access to Heaven.
Before I saw Mark for the first time, I thought it was impossible to gather so much debt to the afterlife that a thousand lives and an eternity couldn't make up for it. Maybe that's why I remember it so well, the time our paths first crossed. I know good and evil are concepts far too complicated to even be contained in the words that name them, the two halves of a world that make it possible for the other to exist, but I thought, I thought, He must be the worst of monsters. A serial killer perhaps. My grandma used to call these people Bad Omens, and told me to stay away. They're particularly twisted, and they love seers like us, she warned me. Like the unavoidable force that draws magnets to metal, they can't avoid crossing our paths.
I tried so hard to move aside when I saw the boy coming in hot, two mall guards closely tailing him like a pack of wolves. It's not that I was so worried about the boy's safety nor health as I was worried about keeping away from the boy. The aura.
In the end, the effort was unsuccessful, and our bodies crashed. I released a surprised gasp, wobbling back due to the force of impact. The boy looked my way for a tenth of a second as he regained his footing. Strands of his messy black hair fell on his forehead, and his eyes looked like alabaster. It was him, but at the time I barely recognized his face. I had seen him around town, hanging out by the Square with his friends or maybe he had been behind me on the queue to buy bread one day. Of course, his face was the last thing my eyes landed on while I regarded him from head to toes, and I imagine my frowning face wasn't a welcoming sight because he also looked surprised.
He grinned. "Sorry."
I didn't answer. I saw his eyes, an icy blue colder than the winter breeze outside that sent chills down my spine. I didn't acknowledge the apology, my mind still trying to comprehend what my eyes couldn't.
But just as quickly as he had come, the boy was gone, running away from the two guys that chased him. His sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor. I saw him get away. If I had run behind him, would I have been in time to stop his destiny or was it too late by the time we crashed onto each other?
"You dirty scoundrel." The guard shouted, out of breath, when he realized the boy was out of his reach. He stopped to call on his radio. "Chad, he's coming your way. Don't let the bitch get away."
"Fuck you, pigs." The boy screamed as he showed them the middle finger.
I pulled my hood closer to my face as I began walking the opposite way, heading for the exit. I had only seen the boy for a split of a second, and in no way was I going to interfere into his life when I had no way of knowing how he'd react to my presence. I was willing to live with the uncertainty of never being sure if it was real, even if my mind kept replaying our encounter as I stepped into the biting cold.
My breath formed clouds around my mouth. The hoodie didn't hide my skin from the biting cold that was eating away all sensation in my cheeks and nose, and so I quickened my pace to get home.
I had unfortunately met a lot of Bad Omens in my life, and the experience had been everything but nice. Some of them were clients of my grandma, some of them became obsessed when they saw me on a random day on my way to the market. But in all my lifetime, it was the first time I had seen an aura as dark as the abyss surrounding the soul of someone. Neither had I seen a crowd so big of demons following a living person with such intent. There must've been a hundred of them, all clawing at the boy and leaving behind gashes of bloody wounds that no one but seers would be able to see. They would be invisible to everyone else.
I better stay away. If my grandma had been alive, she would've agreed with me. It was in moments like this that I missed her dearly. To my little boy's knowledge—and later to my rebellious teen's mind—, my grandma's distaste of Bad Omens and normies alike made her a bit of a prejudiced fascist. She lived like a recluse in her own house, too spiteful to strike conversation with neighbours, too proud to make friends out of normies, and too paranoid to let anyone inside her life. She didn't let me play with other kids and I hated her for that.
The more I grew, however, the more I came to the realization she was just trying to protect me from a cruel, cruel world. You see, sometimes, bad people don't look like bad people. And when your livelihood can attract the worst kind of monsters your mind can't even fathom, you take precautions to stay alive. I was keen on following my grandma's advice because she'd outlived most of her family (including my parents) while working one of the most dangerous professions, effectively passing the life expectancy of seers like her.
My shoes dug on the fresh snow, leaving behind a trail of holes, and I decided to pop on my earbuds to mute the loud noises in my head. If I could somehow forget about the boy, I'd finally be able to feel calm again. I just needed to shake away the paralyzing fear that still coiled in my insides.
It was a cruel world out there, and I sure as hell wasn't risking my life for someone I didn't know. Besides, I had more pressing issues at hand, like how I'd be able to afford rent and have enough money for the monthly payment due to the debt collector. My brother needed a new uniform, on top of that, and the fridge was almost empty.
I called Mr. Jen to ask for an extra shift tonight.
**********
"I don't understand." I sighed, walking back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. Our flat was small enough that the distance was covered in three big steps.
My brother sat cross legged on the sofa, following my frantic movement with his head. Left and right, like a tennis match. "Maybe it's what you said. A murderer."
"Grandma told me she met Ed Gein. And he was less fucked than this guy. How on Earth do you manage to pick up so much bad karma? It 's impossible."
Silas' mouth dips in own corner. "You think... The Reaper made a mistake?"
I'd never heard of such stories. The Reaper didn't avenge, it only delivered back what people had given the world. If your heart was specially heavier than the feather, you ended up screwing a few lifetimes. A couple dozens, at most. What kind of human being deserved such suffering?
"I don't know... You're the seer. You find out."
I laughed as I opened the fridge. I pulled out a jug of milk and a packet of half-eaten cereals. After filling two bowls, I handed one to my brother. I had forgotten the spoons. "No. No. That's out of the question."
"No. You're not listening to me." Silas said, his voice getting deeper. "The witch is right beside you."
I felt my stomach drop, my hand freezing halfway to the utensil drawer. My heart thumped in my ears as a tear slid down my face.
"It's just a dream," I whispered. But it didn't soothe the panic I felt as a shadow flickered in the corner of my vision.
"The witch is right beside you." Silas repeated. But this time, I didn't recognize his voice.
The shadow moved closer. Slowly leaning in until I felt her hair tickling my cheek. I dared not look in her direction.
"It's a dream," I told myself. The burnt lady is not real.
"Come play with me," the shadow whispered in my ear. Goosebumps ran up my back.
"You're not real," I answered.
"Look at me. Look." Her bumpy hand tried forcing my head towards her. It was warm, as if she had just burned alive. The skin was slimy and wet.
"Fuck you!" I shouted, slinging my body away. To my horrendous surprise, my legs didn't work, and so I slumped to the floor face down. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
The lady towered over me. "Wake up!" She screeched.
I gasped for air, jolting awake. My body shot up like I had a spring in my back and I sat on the bed. But the worst hadn't passed yet. I slowly turned my head to the corner of the room, and surely there she was.
The burn lady.
She smelled like charred chicken and melted plastic. The smell was so intense it made my eyes water.
Through the hazy layer of tears, I didn't take my eyes off her.