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The Death of Jordan Hart

inspired by the last episode of Angel and Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day.

They let me go back into the Outer Realm for the last day. Because they are compassionate. And generous. Of course.

I didn't know what to do, at first. I stood in my apartment dumbly, not seeing anything, hearing nothing. I knew escape wasn't a grade-A plan. I couldn't do anything about anything. That was obvious.

I tried to think of what I liked to do, but couldn't come up with anything that seemed meaningful enough for a day like this.

I didn't leave the apartment until maybe eleven. It was hot out, sunny, sweaty, bright. People were hurrying to their whatevers, and I was still aimless and uncertain. I was having trouble accepting everything. How had they caught me, anyway?

I still don't know. I'm sure it was something terribly clever that I will never be able to appreciate. I guess I'm like that.

This became a day of "I passed". Because that's how I found the restaurant. Pho 87. One of the numerous Vietnamese food places named Pho [insert number]. I walked in, got a table, and ate two of the biggest fucking bowls of pho anyone can imagine.

It didn't take long. I wasn't too interested in chewing, and pho is never a dish that you have to wait more than ten minutes for. When I had finished, I paid, left, back into the sun and the real day.

I didn't want to see anyone. I wasn't exactly resigned to my fate, but I was pretty much aware of what was going to happen. I tried forming a magnificent plan that involved some very impressive maneuvers, then stopped. I wasn't fooling myself. There was no way I could get out of this. Not this time. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to. After awhile, the body gets tired, but I wasn't ready to let go of everything, nor was I prepared to acknowledge what "letting go of everything" meant.

I passed a church, and I walked up the stone steps. There was a heavy, dark wood door, and just as I put my hand against it to push it open, something said Just wait. I'll see you soon anyway. So I left.

And then I passed the bar. It looked cool inside, and getting drunk seemed like a stereotypical yet fun activity for a day like this, so I went in. I ordered an entire bottle and a tiny little shot glass that looked a little dirty, kind of cloudy on the sides. I poured one shot. Drank it. It burned a little, but the next one didn't, nor the next after the next after the next. Three-fourths of the way into the bottle, I was beginning to sincerely wish I was capable of getting drunk. Mother always said it was an asset, a positive ability in that we could keep our wits about us, but I wasn't in any real need of this.

So I decided to get into a fight. Some life-affirming physical activity and pain before there was the possibility of none.

It wasn't hard to initiate. There was an asshole sitting next to me who may have started something himself had I not beaten him to it. About five other guys joined the fight in seconds, and we had a regular good time.

I wanted to go to the Christian heaven. I wanted to go somewhere where someone would be there to greet me and love me the way I was not able to recall ever having experienced. I wanted a Savior who would smile at me and let me know that somebody had been waiting for me.

I didn't get hurt a lot; they were totally addled from their liquor, and I ducked out feeling cheerful from the adrenaline. But I was dirty, and sweaty.

Back at my apartment, I took one of the longest showers I had ever taken. I turned the water up hot and just stood on the shining tile and let the water run down my body. I breathed in the steam.

Twenty minutes in, I threw up. I was on my knees, vomiting again and again, and the sick substance swirled slowly into the metal drain and away. I watched it go as I continued to dry heave, thinking how stupid this all was, how ridiculous and absurd that I was waiting for it to happen, just standing in the shower as though it wasn't as real as I kept saying.

My stomach was hollow and my throat stung as I got dressed. I still felt stupid. Something in me was pointing everything back at me, saying the only thing that was stupid was me, the only thing that made no sense was me. I picked a grey dress shirt, my Converse, and black slacks. I toyed with the idea of adding a tie, but it seemed a little much.

The Fae came to get me as I was tying my shoes. They weren't in any hurry, and they let me finish. It was very kind of them, but I still think that they are shitheads.

We went straight back to the Queen of Silk's court, the beautiful room, exotic and colorful and absolutely ugly and miserable.

She said, in her two-toned, sultry voice that she had always expected it would be she who finally got me. I didn't say anything because it would have been humoring her. I wanted to avoid that.

But we were going to carry the thing out in the courtyard, and we walked outside. The flagstones were smooth and clean, and the hallways that ringed the courtyard had delicately carved screens of red, sweet-smelling wood.

A ring of Fae stood against the outside walls of the halls, and the executioner stood in the center. He held a silver ax that seemed so light and perfect. The blade was almost white, and the Fae was a tall, pleasant faced man with light eyes.

"You know the Folk are a generous people, Jordan Hart," the queen said, "and I trust you used the day we gave you well." Her guards led me to the executioner, who motioned to the chopping block.

"Motherfucker," I sighed. I wasn't sure if I was referring to the queen, the executioner, or the Fae in general.

And I knew I wasn't going to let them behead me. It was too easy.

And I made an impressive escape attempt, too. Not as I had started to plan during the day, because that had involved the preservation of my life. But it was good. I whirled around, hit the guards, who staggered. It allowed me to grab at the executioner's weapon, which he, I'm assuming due to his surprise, didn't have a good grip on. Wielding it awkwardly near the base of the blade, completely unbalanced, I swung it from above at the executioner, whose head seemed to peel into badly portioned halves.

It didn't do much. The fucker reached out two long arms and grabbed the weapon, tugging it out of his body. His skin sealed itself, and he stood before me with some red blood smeared across his face, but in general, apparently in good health.

It was infuriating. I said, somewhere between resignedly and irately, "Shit," just before the guard behind me, having recovered, drove a long bladed dagger into my back, just between my spine and my right shoulder blade. It didn't hurt, not at first. It was more like a force, like someone had solidly thumped me on the back. I remained standing until the guard twisted the blade, and the pain shot down my spine, into my groin, and then straight piercing down my legs; he kept twisting until I was on my knees. I could feel the cold stones through my pants. I looked up and saw the executioner reach his hand back.

He hit me. He hit me so hard my neck snapped and my body slumped down onto the flagstones, and the Fae stood still and watched my blood seep out onto those perfect, clean tiles.

But they sure as hell hadn't been able to behead me. It's some consolation.