A Part Of Her Died
“We are deeply sorry to announce that Mrs. Sung did not make it.”
Mae broke down as soon as those words caught her ear. Could she really be dead? With death taking one of her parents and the other—she wished she could say where they were, her grandmother took her in. But death, how she hated him. Time went by, and old age got the better of that woman. She fell ill, and though Mae tried everything within her power to keep her alive, she unfortunately got worse until she met her end. Though it was a natural occurrence, she thought it was cruel. ‘Why her?’ She thought. Her grandmother did not deserve this bitter end, especially not after the fight she had been putting up with for weeks leading up to this cursed moment. Mae thought highly of her grandmother. She always looked up to her—even though the woman was a domineering boss lady who gave more than enough criticisms to create a 100-part series out of. But she took her in when no one else would, and she highly respected her for that. Mae’s eyes began to sting with tears as she stared dead ahead, absently watching doctors and nurses moving about the blue and white abyss.
“Ma’am? Are you listening? This must be really hard for you, but we need you to provide the contact information for her next of kin. Is her spouse alive?” Mae shook her head ‘No’ at the nurse’s question while she wiped away a tear that was rolling down her cheek. She felt like a child all over again. Like that same little girl who was orphaned, then taken in by her grandmother. Mae, from that moment on, did everything to please her, out of the fear that if the woman was not pleased, she would immediately throw her aside just like her mother did. If her grandmother wanted Mae to play the piano, she mastered it. If the woman wanted Mae to be bilingual, she became fluent in 3 different languages. If she wanted Mae to pursue business, Mae would have graduated at the top of her class and is currently doing her Masters while running her medium-sized company. Not once did she want to be seen as a burden or a baggage to the old woman.
“It’s ok, take your time. Do you have a direct contact for any of her adult children? The ones she provided to the hospital are not in service.” The nurse stated in a gentle, kind voice. If Mae was not grieving at the moment, she would have laughed in the woman’s face. Her children—her biological children, could not be bothered with her and were only around when there was something to gain from the situation. She admitted the woman can be prickly, overbearing and controlling more times than Mae could count on both of her hands, but she saw that as no excuse to leave her for dead—basically for dead in a cold depressing white room. Her mind went back to something her grandmother had said to her during a Christmas dinner:
“All of us could be in a room, and it’ll still feel like it’s just the two of us, Mae.” Mae was feeling that way now, more than ever. Perhaps the reason the old woman bonded with Mae was because she was alone, and so was herself. They could be described as two lonely souls that looked for comfort in each other.
“Miss Sung?” Mae turned her attention to the nurse upon her name, her eyes tinted red and puffy.
“Do you have any direct contact for her next of kin?” The nurse urged, though her tone remained gentle. Mae nodded before she reached for her phone and provided the nurse with the contact.
On the other side, another world known as the liminal space, the waiting room for traveling souls—a peaceful place consisting of soft, restful fluffy clouds, with beams of warm yellow sunrays peaking from beneath them. Then there was the ground, a very calm and clear body of water that provided a delicate sound that could be used as background music for one’s thoughts. In the center of it stood a thick white marble tree, with fine red cracks along its body, its leaves replaced by pearls dropping nonstop, synchronizing with the music of its environment. In the midst of it all stood a being—no, a man with long raven hair, eyes as dark as night framed by thick long enviable lashes, a lean muscular figure stood confidently, his height climbing lengths above the average male height. His pale body was covered in a white ethereal gown that flowed in the constant blowing wind along with his hair. His body was covered in symbols, red symbols that looked very much like tattoos.
Suddenly, he closed his eyes, pulling in the energy of the peace around him, taking a deep breath as he slowly raised his arms—some pearls rose from the water along with his movements. Moving one of his hands forward, he formed a fist in one swift movement, which caused the pearls to cluster together. In his other hand, he materialized a marble box, which he carefully moved the pearls into.
“Mortimor...” A beautiful, serene womanly voice called out to him. He turned around to face her. She was dressed similarly to him; except she was buxom in body—with all her curves seductively placed in the right places. She had the same red tattoos as him, with long, thick, curly black hair and the same deep dark eyes as him. Her skin was chestnut colored and glowed mystically under the warmth of the sun.
“Nori, back from your last job so soon?” Nori smiled at his question, and she was a drop-dead beauty. Nothing, no one held a torch to her—to how breathtakingly alluring she was. She is the pure representation of the beauty of death. Her gown flowed across the water as she strides towards him. In the land of the living, she would have been considered an enchantress, a seductress, because of the way her hips sashayed at every step she took. Yet, Mortimor did not see her that way. She was one of his colleagues, doing the same job of soul guiding—collecting souls from the dead in the land of the living.
“These poor human spirits, I can feel them resisting, some of them refuse to give up on life. But in the end, they all lose. They always do, no matter how much of a fighter they are, death has the final say in all their lives.” Nori said as she gazed upon the tree. Watching the continuous fall of the pearls against the water surface. Mortimor’s face hardened. He would not describe all the souls as poor spirits, he did not even believe death was a fitting end to some of their lives, for these were people who had done some terrible things in their lifetime. And since death meant that they came to this peaceful place, it was unfair. He felt that their flesh should be immortalized, then be subjected to eternal pain, tenfold what they gave to their victims. But all of that did not matter, as in the end, he was only a transporter—he could not pass judgment for it was not his place. He turned away from Nori.
“I need you...come to me...” He suddenly heard a voice in his head. The voice came from a long, suppressed memory of a woman. His entire being went cold and rigid, followed by a tingling sensation that ran the length of his skin. And his eyes turned full black, with fine black veins surrounding the area. The marble box crashed into the water—Mortimor had lost control of his conscious self. Nori, who heard the commotion of the box falling, turned to see what was going on.
“Mortimor, are you alright?” But there was no response. Nori then noticed his tattoos, and they began to turn deep red. That was not a good sign. She began to reach out to him.
“Come find me, Mortimor.” The woman’s voice said to him, and every bone, every limb in his body obeyed.
