Monday, February 9, 2015

Antony Neverrest

The funeral parlour was crowded that day. Which meant, of course, that he couldn't go in. Jessica had a lot of friends. She must have grown to be a fine young woman, he thought. It was probably better for her that she didn't know him. Probably better that no one knew he existed- not even his own daughter. Not even now that it was too late. She only would've died sooner, he thought, if she'd known him. He thought. He prayed. He couldn't deal with any more blood on his hands. He flopped down on his bed. Immortality really lost its charm. Well, not quite immortality, he reminded himself. He was more like a lobster. He could die, but he never aged. 

"Are you ready now?" A voice sounded from behind him. So smooth, so soft, that he didn't even start. He just thought to himself, exhaustedly, yes. God, yes. I just want to see my wife again. He looked up, and was surprised to notice a man in a long black coat.

"You're not death," he exclaimed, surprised. "You're... You're just a person."

"Oh, Antony," the stranger laughed, "You are so deluded, aren't you? The years must have clouded your mind. I almost don't want you anymore, but then... When has insanity stopped me before?"

Antony scrambled back a few steps, finally realizing how deeply in trouble he was. "You..." his voice trembled, and his hands scrambled about on the table beside him for something to use as a weapon. He felt something he thought might be heavy, and picked up- an alarm clock. After all these years, he thought to himself, the best you can do is an alarm clock. Then he sighed, and just before he began his last thought, his world went black.

When he woke, he couldn't stop spinning. Every sense was heightened- scents and sounds bombarded him from every direction, and his vision was so acute it almost blinded him. And the screaming... All that screaming... He didn't know if it was his, or someone else's, or maybe... He almost thought that it was both at once... And there were voices, so many voices. His hands were covered in blood, but they weren't his hands- and then he was moving, wielding all sorts of knives like an expert, but it wasn't really him moving, and he thought that maybe he was hurting someone, but he couldn't stop himself. He recognized someone else's laughter in his head. Is there no rest, he cried out, panicked to discover that his voice didn't work, even in death?!

Well, the soothing voice answered, suddenly seeming pained and genuine now that they were on the same plane, You did name yourself Neverrest. He even barely thought he heard I'm sorry.

A/N: Story of the death of one of Niccolò's names.

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