Hector awoke with a cringe. A bolt of pain ran through him, but it vanished after a moment. He blinked away the haze in his vision and sat up.
It was the bathroom, he saw, remembering. This was where he had died, in this little, not-so-white-tiled bathroom. At least, that’s what he thought. Obviously, he wasn’t dead.
The fan in the ceiling buzzed, still, just as before. He remembered that sound, remembered thinking about how it would be the last thing he ever heard, remembered how it had made him feel all the more pitiful in his final moments.
But now, hearing the sound again, the droning hum, he wasn’t sure what to think. It seemed almost like a different noise even though he knew it hadn’t changed.
His shirt was wet, Hector realized, and he looked down at the crimson stains in its thin white cloth. He stood and saw the floor, a pool of his own blood.
He scratched his head. “Huh...”
A mirror greeted him next, his face reflected through a slight cloud of soapy fog. Everything looked the same. The black skin, the shaved head, the somber brown gaze--all his. Somehow, part of him expected to see someone else. Part of him wanted to.
His eyes fell to the sink, to the razor blade in it. It seemed a strange way to die, suddenly, by way of such a small thing, a tiny strip of sharpened metal. But then, he supposed it hadn’t really been the razor so much as the long, vertical gashes along his arms, which were still there, though they didn’t seem to hurt at all. In fact, he couldn’t even feel them. He seemed capable of moving them just fine, but they were completely numb.
‘Hello, again,’ came a voice, and he turned to see a figure appear next to him, sitting there... floating there. A skeleton, it seemed to be, its bones emanating white from behind a shroud of the pitchest black he had ever seen. A scythe sat in its grip, the blade hanging low beneath its body.
Hector just kind of stared, wide-eyed.
‘No return greeting, huh? Well, fine.’ The skeleton’s jaw moved with its words, though Hector couldn’t understand how.
After a moment, he managed to conjure up a word of his own. “You’re...”
‘The reaper you were just talking to, yes. Nice to meet you. Officially, that is.’
“You look... you look just like I imagined you would.” He blinked a few times. “Is this really happening...?”
‘Ah, right. My appearance.’ It gave a skeletal shrug. ‘Whatever you’re seeing, right now, it’s not really what I look like. In truth, I don’t actually look like anything.’
“...What?”
‘Your brain forms an image of what I should look like and projects it onto my presence. Appearance is something for your physical reality, where I do not exist.’
“I... don’t understand...”
‘Ah, well, it’s no big deal. Oh, and before I forget...’ The reaper hovered closer and reached a gangly hand toward him.
Hector recoiled a little, but the hand still found his shoulder. And suddenly, he felt his arms begin to burn. He looked down to see the bloody gashes bulge and tighten. A groan escaped his lips as he watched the wounds close themselves, leaving only streaks of blood behind, both still wet and already dried. The pain subsided after a few moments.
“What the hell...?” He traced over his arm where one of the slits had been, brushing away the blood. Not even a scar remained. What’s more, his arms were no longer numb.
‘Might want to clean up all this blood,’ said the reaper, motioning to the floor. ‘I can restore your body, but once the blood leaves, I can’t put it back. Same goes for your limbs, if they get chopped off or something. I don’t reattach things. I just regrow them.’
He squinted a little. “Regrow...?”
‘I can revive you, no matter how bad your injuries are,’ it said. ‘Even if your whole body is destroyed, I can recreate it again. That’s how my power works. As long as I maintain a link to your soul, I can resurrect the physical body that accompanies it. Without the soul, though, I can’t do anything.’
He wasn’t sure what to say.
‘It’s too bad, really. If I could create a body from scratch, then I wouldn’t need anyone’s help. I could just make a body for myself and go be a superhero or something.’
“Uh... I-I see... I think.”
‘But there’s a lot more I should explain before we start trying to save the world and whatnot, and you should probably clean up this mess before someone sees. Unless you plan on starting things off by revealing your secret to someone.’
“Er, right...” He moved toward the door and then paused awkwardly. “Uh...”
‘Maybe a mop would be useful?’
“R-right...” He opened the door and left. A narrow hallway awaited, and he couldn’t help staring at it for a moment. Such a simple place. Creamy white walls and plain brown carpeting. He must have seen it thousands of times, but it seemed somehow different. Everything did, in fact. His scuffed sneakers, his baggy black trousers, even the hallway light over his head and the moth fluttering around it; everything was a reminder of himself, of who he was, of his sudden uncertainty as to whether or not he was still that same person.
He made sure to close the bathroom door behind him and went downstairs. His parents sat together in the den, watching television in the dim light of a tall lamp. They didn’t bother to look at him as he crossed into the kitchen, though he was sure they must have heard his footsteps. But then, he supposed it was better that they didn’t see him. Explaining all the blood on his shirt would have been difficult. Quickly, he grabbed the mop by the refrigerator.
‘Don’t forget a bucket,’ came the reaper’s soundless voice, and Hector nearly dropped his mop, juggling it between hands for a few moments. ‘Some towels would probably be good, too.’
He looked around, blinking. The kitchen was empty, still. He chanced a whisper. “Where are you...?”
‘Still in the bathroom,’ came the reply. ‘I can talk to you, no matter how far apart we are. Has to do with the fact that I’m tapped directly into your brain, rather than talking with a physical voice.’
There was a pause, and Hector just kind of squinted as he waited.
‘It works both ways, you know. Say something in your head, and I’ll hear you.’ Another pause. ‘You have to actually think something explicitly, though. Concentration is what solidifies the thoughts in our minds and makes them understandable.’
“Uh... Oh.” ‘...Like this?’ he thought, letting his gaze wander toward the ceiling.
‘Yeah. Easy, right?’
‘Er... sure...’ He grabbed the other accouterments that the reaper had mentioned, made his way back upstairs without drawing the attention of his parents, and began mopping up the bathroom floor. With each stroke, the crimson ebbed away, leaving behind a pinkish residue as the pool of blood crowded back in on itself.
He wasn’t sure how long the blood had been there, but it had begun staining the tile, so he guessed a few hours must have passed, at least.
‘You’ve gotten quiet,’ said the reaper, making Hector look up from his work. ‘I thought you’d have more questions for me.’
He stared at the blood for a bit. “...They didn’t notice.”
‘What?’
“My parents,” he said, wringing the mop out over the bucket. “They didn’t notice I was dead.”
There was a noticeable pause. ‘You were locked in a bathroom, you know. It probably would have been a while before they discovered your body.’
“I wonder how long it would’ve taken...”
The reaper fell quiet after that. It wasn’t until after Hector had nearly finished cleaning that the conversation resumed.
‘I’m Garovel, by the way. Garovel is my name, that is.’
Hector took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and looked at the floating skeleton again. “Okay,” was all he said.
Garovel tilted his head. ‘Not much for conversation, eh? You talked more when you were dead.’
“...Sorry. I don’t... I mean... yeah.”
‘Well, don’t worry about it. There’s no need to rush things.’ Garovel drifted nearer the mirror, and Hector realized suddenly that the reaper had no reflection. ‘You don’t seem to be the very curious type, so I guess I’ll just explain. Stop me if you have a question.’
Hector waited.
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