Death's Song

Colder than a witch’s tit, Deacon thought. Despite the fact that it was late May, the wintry breeze defied the calendar and Deacon huddled in his thin clothes. If he concentrated, he’d be able to see his breath puffing into the air. But he had other things to focus on right now. 1

Like survival. 2

He was tired, but he didn’t dare stop now. He continued trudging forward, sticking to the shadowy alleyways and deserted streets, determination the only thing making one foot move in front of the other. Every time his mind tried to wander, straying towards thoughts of hot food and a warm bed, he would ruthlessly stomp on them. He didn’t have time for dreaming.3

The park that he marched into was dark despite the early evening hour. He finally stopped, feeling safer and more comfortable in the cold patch of darkness under a footbridge. 4

The park was deserted, and after a moment of looking around to be sure, Deacon finally heaved himself to the ground, unsure whether his cold toes bothered him more than his aching feet. He huddled and leaned his head back against brick that was cold, damp, and oily with a substance he didn’t even want to think about.5

He let his eyes slip shot and instantly saw flashes of brilliant crimson splashed across the backdrop of his mind. The phantom scent of hot copper and salt accompanied the Technicolor images, as visceral as a punch to the gut. He shuddered and opened his eyes again. 6

He let his eyes focus on the opposite wall of the bridge’s underside, trying to decipher his shudder. Not one of fear, he thought fiercely. No, the shudder had to be from the cold getting to him. And the hunger. Not because he was scared.7

All the stupid old fuck had to do was give him his wallet and none of this would have even happened. Now he was on the run, all for a few crumpled, bloody twenties. 8

He took a deep breath, trying to straighten out his thoughts. He had to decide on a plan of action. Keep on heading for the outskirts of town? He was pretty sure the old man would’ve been discovered by now. The cops might even be on his tail . . . he stood up, rubbing his hands on his dirty jeans to warm them. He should keep moving.9

As he made his way to the end of the footbridge, he peered out into the park, watching the trees sway to the whistle of the wind. Just as he stepped out from under cover, the sky grumbled and let loose a torrent of cold rain. Scowling, Deacon stepped quickly back. The night was bad enough that he was not going around drenched to the bone.10

“Fuck!” 11

Deacon spun around, heart pounding, his fingers reaching into his pocket to touch the familiar curves of his switchblade. Visions of himself fleeing from cops through the rain, possible routes through the park and places to hide all flashed through his head. 12

Tense, he bent slightly as the skinny figure ducked out of the rain and into his haven.13

The stranger slid to a stop on the cobblestones, obviously surprised by the sight of Deacon, his face hidden in the hood of a dirty hoodie. “Oh, um ... didn’t know somebody was duckin in here.”14

Deacon scowled and stood straight. By the soft, husky voice and skinny frame, he was guessing just a kid. He wasn’t going to act afraid of a kid. He shrugged an answer.15

The kid hesitated, watching him, then shrugged too. “Okay, man. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be chillin’ til the rain stops, aw’ight? S’fuckin’ cold.”16

Deacon turned and glared out at the rain. He really didn’t want to pass the time with some stupid kid, nor was he interested in walking out there. The night was bad enough as it was. He’d give it a few minutes to see if the rain would let up, then make his move.17

“Hey, buddy, you wanna smoke?”18

Deacon turned and glared at the kid as he patted his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of smokes. He held one up to Deacon, moving a few steps closer. “You know, peace offering for squattin’ in your spot.”19

“S’not my spot,” Deacon growled, but he took a proffered cigarette and tucked the tip into his mouth. He almost dropped it as the kid yanked back his hood, searching for a lighter in his pocket to reveal that he was actually a she.20

A street kid, Deacon guessed, eyeing the girl. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, with unruly dark hair and dusky skin. She wore cast-down clothes, dirty but still in some good shape, and had a nice enough face. Dark eyes, a mouth a touch too wide and a too-sharp chin, but certainly not hard on the eyes. 21

Probably earned her keep on the streets with some not so nice gentlemen judging by the yellowing bruise across her left cheek. Too young for his tastes.22

She finally found the lighter and flicked it, holding it up for him. He watched her as she evaluated him, appraising, sharp eyes roaming swiftly over his face and down his body with the meager flame’s light. 23

He pictured what she’d see- his craggy, lined face, once handsome but now just weathered architecture over his still-strong bones. A wide-shouldered, big-handed body that had seen better days. Salt and pepper hair, windswept and wild, intense blue eyes glinting in sunburnt skin. A down-and-out guy, fallen on hard times. 24

She gave him a cool once over and was apparently okay with what she saw.25

“Never seen you in these parts, mister.” She had a rough voice for a girl, easy to see why he mistook her for a boy.26

Deacon pulled a long drag on the cigarette and said nothing, turning back to look out into the rain. This skinny girl wasn’t a danger to him, but he was anxious to be on his way.27

“Not even gonna say thanks, buddy? For the smoke. I didn’t have to share, you know.”28

He turned back, eyed her as he deliberately sucked another long drag. “You wanna medal?”29

She tipped back her head and laughed and he stared. She had a great laugh, a face designed for smiles more than the sure smirk she’d worn before. “Just starting to wonder if you know how to talk.”30

She plopped to a seat against the clammy wall, lighting a cigarette for herself. “These things’ll kill ya, you know. My grandma used to say that shit all the time, then light up herself. Hypocrite. World's full of em, ain't it?” 31

She barked a laugh again. “She used to wear these stupid-ass . . . whatchu call em? Knickers or something. And she smelled like– get this– smelled like french fries all the time. Woulda thought that be nasty, like all oily and shit. But it was, like, homey, you know?”32

“Do you ever shut up, kid?” Deacon muttered, staring out into the rain. He crossed his arms.33

She ignored him. “Haven’t thought about her in a long time,” she murmured. “So, what brings you out on this pleasant night, buddy?”34

Deacon glared out at the offending rain. When was it going to stop?35

"Not very chatty, are you, man? That's cool." She was quiet for just a beat, listening to the rain fall. "I had to get out. I live in this crappy little hole with a bunch of freaks and it was just too loud and aggravating in there. I needed some air."3636

Deacon sighed. Loudly.37

"My name's Song."38

This earned a raised eyebrow as Deacon looked back at her skeptically. "You kiddin' me? What are you- a freakin' Indian chick? You sure don't look like one."39

She smirked as she shrugged. "It's a nickname. Better than the stupid ass name my mama planted on me. They call me that because they say when I sing, I can pour my heart into it. Like, I'm gonna be famous one day and shit."40

"Really."41

"Yeah. I love to sing. I sing all the time. In the shower, when I'm watching tv, hell- even when I'm sleeping probably."42

"Well, I can believe that. You don't seem to be able to shut up."43

Another shrug. "The world's quiet enough as it is. Figured I'd give it a voice, you know. You're a crabby guy, aren't you?"44

"You're a weird kid."45

She grinned. "You call me weird? You're out here on this icky night with barely nothin on."46

"Same as you."47

"True, but like you said; I'm weird." She grinned. "It's not polite to just label people, you know. You ever think about stuff like that, how labels categorize people when they probably shouldn't. You could classify something as harmless or small or weak and not even realize the true dangers."48

He shook his head, unsure how they'd stumbled into this strange conversation. "Whatever, kid."49

"Take you, for instance. If I were to label you ... Well, you're not dirty enough to be a street bum and you ain't a crazy. So what's the deal? You just out taking a stroll in this dark and dangerous neighborhood? Like me?"50

He gritted his teeth, wondered why he even opened his mouth in the first place.51

She laughed, gaily, and he shivered. Such an odd, lilting, cheerful laugh despite their dark, cold surroundings. It didn't sound quite right and it bothered him but he didn't know why.52

"Wait, wait. I'm actually pretty good at this." She squinted at him, crossing her skinny arms across her chest. "You're not too hard on the eyes, even for an old guy."53

"Thanks," he muttered, dropping the cigarette and stomping on the butt.54

"You don't seem like you're on a mission. You know, like with somewhere to go, but you seem awfully antsy to get moving. So this ain't know run to the store for the missus or something. You runnin', buddy?"55

He went still, turning to glare at her. he raked a careful eye over her and once again, just saw the odd street kid. But his skin was crawling, his mouth dry, and he wasn't sure why.56

She stared back, still smiling, not at all frightened of him. "I'm right, right?" she asked coolly, sucking on her cigarette. "You're escapin' from something. Running from somewhere."57

"Thanks for the cigarette," he snarled, before stomping out into the icy rain. It pelted his head, instantly soaking his clothes.58

It was between the third step and the fourth that something hit him from behind. At first he didn't understand why he was suddenly on his knees on the cold, wet pathway, swaying and lightheaded.59

The girl appeared, grinning even as she stood in the cold rain. "Hey buddy, I wasn't done talking. That was rude."60

He tried to speak and gurgled instead. He managed to lift a finger to his lips and was shocked to see brilliant red on his fingertips. Pain came, an echoing scream from far away. He stared at her, uncomprehending.61

"I told you," she whispered, leaning close. "People label people wrong all the time. If someone had walked by, they woulda thought you were more dangerous than me, right?"62

She casually reached down and slid her knife out of his side where it had seemed to magically stick itself. Damn, she's quick, Deacon thought.63

He pitched forward, his head roaring and his mouth numb and dry. How had this happened? He wasn't sure.64

The girl hummed a soft song as she plucked nimbly through his pockets. "It was nice talking to you, buddy. Have a nice night."65

The last sight Deacon has was of her Converse sneakers at his eyeline as she strolled through the park. 66

Cold, he thought sluggishly as he lay, pelted by rain. It was colder than a witch's tit.67