geist zerah

Most Sin-Eaters know well the shock of death, how quickly it came to them. For many, it was something very sudden, hitting them out of nowhere. But there are others, like Zerah, where it was merely the culmination of a short lifetime of self-destruction. Not because of self-hatred or a lack of care, but because they simply couldn't see any other path.

He started much like any other child. It didn't matter that his mother worked herself to the bone to support him, how she told him to stay inside after a certain hour at night because that was when the bad people came out to roam the streets. How food never seemed to come easily to their tiny family and how it was always a little too cold in the winter. When he was small, everything was so fascinating, so beautiful. He would marvel at the bright burst of yellow of the dandelion that grew in the cracks of the sidewalk, carefully plucking it free from between the broken brown glass that surrounded it.

It would have been so nice, he thought often, if it could have stayed that way, but the weight of poverty couldn't be ignored. The lines in his mother's face became clearer to him, even as she tried to hide them. He couldn't stand to see her like that, so sad. So what if they were poor? Just because he could see the world for what it was didn't mean that was any excuse to give up, right? He poured himself into everything he did, into schoolwork and music, in hopes that she would at least never have to worry about him again.

No matter what, it was never enough. The teachers moved too fast for him to catch up, and when he had trouble understanding there was a sick feeling in his stomach. He wasn't dumb, he knew that much, but there was something humiliating about being left behind like that. He tried playing guitar, but he was always passed over for the smaller, prettier boys. He wasn't the type they wanted to give a chance anyway. Too slow, too dirty. A big, thuggish boy that was an embarrassment to the rest of the school. The only place that he would end up is prison, he overheard one day.

It broke his heart, and it was that moment that the innocence sputtered and faded, existing merely as a tiny ember in his chest. If a big thug was all anyone ever thought he would be, he might as well get it over with. He immersed himself in that world, blowing through every night with parties and drugs until he could no longer feel anything, much less any pain from what he'd lost. Hell, even through this he could make the money to support himself and his mother, since his massive size and strength let him win fights at the clubs easily. For a while, things seemed like they might be alright. Maybe those who doubted him before was right. In some way, he felt like he belonged.

It couldn't last. It took a while, but being no longer able to feel was wearing on him, and that last little spark refused to die. At that point, though, the only way to feel anything at all was to take more and more subtances, hoping one of them would finally break through the fog and get a reaction. Even men his size have a breaking point, and he didn't realize just how much his body had been worn down until it was too late. One night, he took his doses and everything started to grow dark. His heart slowed, further and further until he barely had a pulse, a roiling, distant nausea in his stomach as his functions gradually shut down, unable to handle the cocktail of poisons being forced into them. It was quiet. It was painless. It was just like falling asleep.

--

But some part realized what was happening. Abruptly the spark rose once more into a roaring flame, refusing to let its body just roll over and give up. When he opened his eyes once more he looked out into the filthy room with more lucidity than he'd had in years. What was he doing? He didn't belong here, on a dirty floor, surrounded by needles and pills and bottles of God-knows what. He knew what he'd been doing, and he'd make his peace with that. But for now, he had to leave, follow that fire in his heart and go home.

It was only when he got up did he notice that that wasn't the only fire present. Something floated in front of his eyes, something bright and beautiful. When he reached for it, his hand phased right through it, but it whispered to him, telling him that it was very real. It had a form like fire, a shifting ball of what looked almost like wings, hundreds of flickering feathers in red and orange and yellow. They rubbed together, filling the air around him with soft, indistinct whispers, words too quiet for him to understand but words all the same.

Quietly, reverently, he asked it what it was. He blinked and the answer was splayed out on the inside of his eyelids, which startled him. He saw his limp body lying on the ground, skin already a horrible, pallid gray. He saw an image of himself, eyes a brighter blue than he'd ever seen, in some dark place talking to the creature. He saw the two of them make an agreement, and then himself returning to life. It was all he needed to know.

Whatever this thing was, it saved his life. And already it was urging him to use the gift it had given him to make things better. It burned in time with his inner fire. And he was more determined than ever to make it a reality.