Look, I really don’t belong here. I’m just a normal guy who likes and does normal things. I go people watching at the mall. I peaked in high school. Hell, I even work as a greeter for Walmart! And don’t try to tell me that isn’t normal, because the internet said it was.
I’m guessing there’s only one thing you want to hear from me right now. And I’m guessing that it’d be the only thing you publish even if I told about other parts of my life. Really, your entire project seems to be a way to take average, normal people like me and make them out to be freaks or something. I don’t appreciate it.
But you did offer me food, and you promised to hide me from the cops for a bit, so fine.
It’d only be right to tell you a bit about James before I talk about this. It’s really his story, after all, and he isn’t here to talk about himself. How to describe him without it sounding like an insult… Not that I’d mean to insult him. He doesn’t have ambition, drive, or anything else that would get him a gold star at work, but he’s just a nice, genuine guy, ya know? He was a good man. Please remember that.
I was supposed to meet up with him for lunch at the mall. It’s a weekly thing—lunch, a walk, and pointing out anyone interesting. The moment I stepped out of my car, though, I could feel my neck prickle and squirm. It was that sort of prickling that made you want to turn around and just look to see who was there. I didn’t, though. It took all my self control, but I kept walking as though nothing had happened. I thought maybe if I pretended nothing was happening, I would be right. But the smell. God, the smell. The moment I stepped inside, the smell of carrion scratched its way into my lungs. I could feel it as I breathed, like a rotting insect crawling into my nose and through my sinuses. I coughed and retched, and my head swirled. That’s one of my least favorite smells.
As I was wiping the last of the stomach acid onto my sleeve, someone grabbed my collar and hauled me back to my feet. Naturally, it was James. If he sees something bad happen to someone, and he’ll usually laugh a little before helping. Keeps some levity and perspective. But not when things are this bad. I think he would have driven me to the hospital, no questions asked, if I told him to; with the amount I was sweating, I at least hope so. I assured him I was okay, with the caveat that I wasn’t eating anything that day. I was sad that James didn’t seem to smell the stench, but I can’t say I was surprised. I’ve always been more sensitive than most to that sort of thing.
I got over the smell as we walked; it had just caught me off guard. Pretty soon, I was actually having a good time. James rambled on about some show of his that just got another season. I don’t remember which one, but I don’t think it was important. Had to be some comic book thing. I tried to engage, I really did, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t quite stop smelling the rot, and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling I was being watched.
We stopped at the third-floor food court so James could pick up a sandwich and I could rinse out my mouth. You’d expect a bathroom to smell bad, but you wouldn’t expect it to smell like goddamn death. It was worse than at the entrance. I was supposed to be used to it, but I could feel my saliva thickening in my mouth like warm grease. I had to lean over the sink just to know I wouldn’t get sick on my pants.
That’s when I heard my name. It was muffled, but it was there. It was like I was being called to through a thick oak door, or a very shallow grave. Then I could see the reflection of the man standing behind me. He was tall. He was skeletal. His tattered gray clothes hung limply off his atrophied frame as he swayed back and forth. He wore a gas mask over his face; its shattered eyepiece trickled blood that dripped and joined the red-brown and pale yellow stains on his coat. And I recognized him instantly.
“Fatum?” I remember saying.
He glared at me. “Don’t call your father by his name, boy.”
I felt like a kid again—cowering against the counter as my dad loomed over me. That warm, sticky smell of disease clinging onto my clothes and burrowing into my eyes, my ears, and my nose. I slumped to the ground, closed my eyes, and held my breath. Maybe he’d just go away; maybe he wouldn’t try to make me end up like him.
When I breathed in again, he really was gone. It had worked somehow. I opened my eyes and there was just some teenager giving me a funny look on his way to wash his hands. A part of me was embarrassed about the whole situation, so I pulled myself to my feet and brushed myself off in the most dignified way I could.
It could have all been a nasty episode of stress. Things happen, and sometimes our nerves get the better of us. I might have even been able to convince myself if that faint smell didn’t follow me out of the bathroom. I tried to listen to James, I was too preoccupied scanning the crowd to hear him. I only realized he said something when I saw his expectant look.
“Oh, yeah! Totally,” I said.
He shook his head. “You didn’t hear me, did you?” I couldn’t answer, so he repeated himself. “What’s wrong?”
I told him about the incident in the bathroom. I told him I thought I had seen my father. I didn’t include all the details, of course. James didn’t know my father was a god, but he knew what he had done to me. He definitely knew. That’s why I was so angry at what he said next.
“Do you think maybe you should visit your father?”
There was no way I thought that. He kept telling me that I could get some closure or something, but he should have known better. I raised my voice at him, but he just kept pressing the issue. I gave him a good push to make my point. I pushed him hard. I needed him to know I was serious. But I pushed him harder than I meant to. He stumbled towards the railing; the metal gave way under him. I didn’t push him towards the rail, and the metal was new. I swear. I really didn’t mean to. But James’s body didn’t care what I meant to do. It didn’t care about anything anymore.
Of course Fatum was standing at the far end of the floor opening. I could feel the smile on his face, and I could hear his old refrain pound in my head: “Join the family business, kid.” I don’t want to. I didn’t want to kill anyone, I don’t want to go to prison, I don’t want to die. What happens when I get to the Underworld?
Do you think James will forgive me?