Nothing Perpetual but Death

[Dogs231]

S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED FROM "From Dusk..."

It didn't take long to rouse Claire from her slumber. Of course, there was the performative awakening—the body language that silently asked for five more minutes—but, in truth, she had only begun to drift. On an average day, she'd have started to sleep around three or four. Four hours of sleep would've been generous; eight hours was a distant dream.

She raised a hand, rubbed the rheum from her eyes, and let out a small yawn. In a more pleasant place, she would've joked about having "sleepy bitch disease," as like as not. It wasn't as funny when their lives were on the line. Claire felt an exhaustive melancholy—as she often did in her worst moments. Humor was the furthest thing from her mind.

She flashed a look at Evie. Not friendly or unfriendly per se, but an acknowledgment. The equivalent of voting "present" as opposed to "yes" or "no." A sign of recognition that the two of them did indeed exist at this moment in time and space. Then, she returned to the status quo, her default state of being; an empty frown, no teeth showing.

Claire, for a moment, stared out the windows—into the darkness. There was nothing in the air, no snow falling from the skies, no white tracers dancing in the wind. It was empty, it was dark, and it was cold. Now, she, in her heart of hearts, was a writer. To put letters on a page was a sublime feeling. This place embodied only one word, as far as she could see.

Misery. Sheerest misery—the knife's edge as it cleaved through the frostbite.

It reminded her of something: the ninth circle, the place of the utmost damned, the apostates and the renegades. Never religious, to her, it seemed a literary construct. Still, they were here. If this island was the final abode of turncoats, what did that make her? Her greatest perfidy had been that of herself, she knew.

The announcements began and drew Claire from her contemplative lull. Thus, she set to work on a plan she'd concocted during her restless night. The terrorists had confiscated everything she had before; all her notes and notebooks, the pens and pencils in her pockets. Still, she had something left to give, a way around their information blockade.

An act of war, perhaps—or an act of self-destruction. A distinction without a difference.

Claire tossed her weapon's guide on her lap and moved her index finger to her mouth. Her teeth caught the corner of the nail and tore down and away. The pain was there, dulled beyond comprehension and, above all, familiar. She'd drawn blood. Using the red, iron ink, Claire marked down the names, a crimson scrawl—a doctor's obituary.

For the spirits, those lost and forgotten, the dead, Claire crossed out their names. A single line was enough to strike their names from the page. It was so unbelievably easy to remove them from the equation of life; first knocked over like a piece in a game of chess, then effortlessly swept from the board.

ROBIN VALENTI

TRISTANA BLANCO OSUNA

ETHAN KEMP

OAKLEY YORK

ILIYA POLARIS

PIPER PUNCHEON

SPIKE HAVIGHURST

MALLORY VALDEZ

CONSTANCE BLANCHET

STEVEN DODDS

KIERA HAYES

For those who had killed their fellow man, regardless of circumstances, Claire added a line below. A single, indiscriminate mark below their names, a notch on their record. This scar on the page symbolized a warning sign. It was an ominous prophecy—a sign of things that may yet come to be. Not yet a condemnation.

PRZEMYSLAW ZIEMIAK

BETTY QUINN

JACOB LANG

JESSICA ROMERO

ARACELIS FUENTES

JEZZIE STARK

SHU HAWTHORNE

For the raven-hearted, those unquestionable executioners and slayers, Claire pressed down. A dot to the right of their name was enough. This sign was the black spot—a mark of death. It was a summons. Their names were black as soot and drenched in blood; not just the literal blood Claire used to write, but the literary blood of their victims.

KATELYN GRAVES •

JANICE CRESNER •

Claire squinted. Something was absent but not forgotten. Missing, but not lost. She mulled for a moment, then bit her finger again. With the new blood, she wrote one last name. It was crystal clear compared to the rest—a sign of vendetta. The four letters were charged with hatred, convicted, and sentenced to the bottom of the page.

ALEX •

In response to Evie's question, Claire hung her head low. Her eyes darted to her worn sneakers. For a moment, that remained, and then she tilted her head back up and looked at Evie. No, not just looked—stared at her, dead in the eyes. In her gaze was conviction. She did not know the destination, but she knew the path they would walk.

"This is real, Evie. There's no sense in denying that," her words were mechanical, regulated, but not cold—the verbal equivalent of a monospaced Courier font. "We can't bring them back, the dead. They're gone—forever."

Claire, a month or so before, had experienced a terrible loss. Her grandmother had become very sick. The rest of the family gathered in New Hampshire to attend, her mom included; Claire, though, had been left in Massachusetts to watch the house. A few days later, she awoke to a ringing phone and dozens of messages.

Her grandmother had died.

Claire had been asleep. Those had been the final moments of one of the best people in her life, and she had been a state away, knowing nothing. It took some time for the grief to hit her, but, of course, it did. Later, Claire was in the kitchen downstairs. In a sudden burst of emotion, she wailed and screamed like a banshee, crying until she couldn't anymore.

Her greatest regret was that she hadn't been there—hadn't had the chance to say goodbye.

"The only thing to do, I think, is to try and find our friends. Say our last farewells. And, if it comes down to it, we might have to stop people in their tracks—to draw lines that they can't cross," her breaths were quick and shallow. There was fear in her voice but also assurance. The implication, of course, was left unsaid.

Some said that it was impossible to stop the reaper when the time came for him to collect. Mythology, generally, agreed, but with a caveat; you couldn't defeat death, only defer it. Sisyphus chained up Tartaros and locked him in a chest. People only began, once more, to fall in their graves when conflict came prosaic, and Ares, the god of war, came down to intervene.

Perhaps the same concept could be applied to this game.

S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "Playtime"