I had no idea how long I'd been missing. Did anyone notice that something wrong with the new employee? Did Phoebe tried to find me? Did my mom call or text me?
Time didn't exist in Jericho. The sky always looked like dusk. It was beautiful yet terrifying. Imaging someone had to look at the same sky, same view, every time; day or night or whatever. It could drive people crazy. It drove me nuts. I wanted to know what happened to me back on the living side.
We were not supposed to leave Jericho unless we had a soul to collect. It had come to my realization that we, grim reapers, were possibly prisoners to Death.
"Cheer up, Lilith. We've got work to do." August came to fetch me at the carousel.
I sprang out of an artificial horse, excited to see the living world. August didn't allow me to blink, so I had to travel with him. He said, and I quoted "I don't want you to end up somewhere else that could waste my time trying to find you." It turned out that a few years ago there was a newbie who believed he mastered the blink, ignored his supervisor, and blinked alone and ended up on the other side of the globe surrounded by penguins.
I took his advice to heart, didn't want to end up in the middle of nowhere.
We were at Manhattan Bridge where there was a man stood halfway down the bridge, starring at the river below.
"He's not going to jump, is he?"
"No, not here anyway. There's a fence, you see."
"Then why are we here?"
"Sometimes, we receive the name prior to their death; hours, days, weeks, months, we keep observing them."
"What's the point?" I blurted out.
"What's the point, indeed."
As August kept his eyes on the man, I looked at the end of the bridge, remembered the first day in New York City, I walked under this bridge. I couldn't see my apartment from here, but it was near.
Something caught my eyes nearby the river. Police officers had set up the perimeter while a police boat occupied the river. They searched for something, and I just knew what they were going to find.
I blinked down there, seeing a man giving his statement to one officer.
"We were setting up the place for tonight event when I saw something white floating in the river. I wasn't sure what it was, so I asked Jimmy. He's carrying a binocular around and we thought the shape looked like a body. I remember that a month ago a news reported that a body had been found in this river near Brooklyn Bridge. So, we called you guys," the man said, "I was horrified then, I didn't know I was going to be the one who found the body in the river. I hope I was wrong."
He was right, and I knew it.
When the police boat had returned to the shore with something identical to a body wrapped up with dirty white sheet and rope, the crowd went crazy. Someone took out their phone and filmed it from outside of the police line.
Detective Ian Carhart, a man in his late thirties with dark brown hair and brown eyes, was the officer in command. He approached the figure and photographed the shape, knot, and rope before instructing the officer to open it.
"I hope it's a false alarm."
"Notify CSIs." Before removing the cover, Detective Carhart told one of the uniform police officers. Regardless of the policeman's hopes, he, too, was aware of what he was about to witness.
I stood next to the detective, who had squatted down to examine the body up close. Although I check my appearance in the mirror on a daily basis, what I saw was unfamiliar. Part of my skin, I couldn't tell you which, was stuck to the sheet. The decomposition process had just begun. My skin tone had changed. I wished my mom didn't have to see me like this. Her heart was going to break.
Crime scene investigators had arrived and began their work, photographing my body and wounds. Until the pathologist performed the autopsy, she couldn't determine the time of death or the cause of death.
They attempted to identify the body, but my purse was missing. I couldn't recall what had happened to my belongings.
"There's an ID inside her pocket," the pathologist stated as she gave the ID to Detective Carhart.
"Lilibeth M. Langdon, financial risk analyst, Clymer-Cannon Corp." He read my employee's ID. "Who did this to you?"
I wished he could see and hear me so I could describe that person; that face I'd never forget. The one who blended in with the crowd.
I initially thought I saw a ghost. That wouldn't make sense because I was the one who died, not him. He was bold enough to come here. I wanted to yell at everyone that the guy they were looking for was standing outside the police line, wearing brown t-shirt and faded trousers, probably mocking the detective who was in the dark.
The killer walked to the parking lot. I wouldn't pass up this opportunity to follow him. I started sprinting toward him, but he drove away. I concentrated, but I couldn't blink. His automobile was getting further away. I kept running, not stopping for the red light since I wasn't a part of this world anymore.
"What are you doing?"
August suddenly appeared in my path and seized my arm.
"Let me go!" I yelled, watching the back of his car fade away as he disappeared from view. "No. NOOO!!"
All of the lights in the area flickered and went out. The street became chaotic in seconds when the power went out. August displayed signs of shock, then recovered himself, waved his other hand in the air, and the light came back on, restoring normalcy.
"What were you trying to do?"
His tight grasp caused pain in my arm. I mistakenly believed that as a grim reaper, I would be immune to harm of any kind. Grim reapers might touch and harm one another.
"Didn't you hear anything I said?" He was so enraged that he might have sworn at me. "You think you're immortal? You think they can't hurt you?"
He never clarified who exactly "they" were.
"You're hurting me."
As soon as August released my arm, I stroked it to relieve the throbbing.
"They found me," I said, "the cops found my body."
I should have known better than to expect August to show any emotion because he clearly doesn't care about the fates of the living or the dead. He was completely dedicated to his work. He seemed to have a beating heart when he was in Jericho, but a stone one when he was in the living world. It was a mystery to me what became of him, but I didn't have the nerve to ask.
"I'm sorry."
Even though I wanted to follow the killer and the investigation, that was the only thing I could say at the time. My family would be notified, and they would have to come here to identify my body. They had to see me...the 'me' that even I couldn't recognize.
We returned to work. August took me to the living room of a two-story house. The man on the bridge was drinking while sitting on a sofa. The floor was littered with liquor bottles, empty pizza cardboard boxes, and crumpled papers. The house was larger than mine in Wisconsin. He wouldn't live by himself, would he? A photo of him and a woman with two children, a boy and a girl, displayed on a television shelf revealed that he had a family. The house, on the other hand, was far too quiet.
"Meet Edward Regan, 46 years old, unemployed, and depressed after his wife ran away with their children. He's an alcoholic with a high risk of suicide."
"Is that how he'll die, suicide?"
"If that were the case, we wouldn't be here." August replied, without providing any further explanation. He watched the man as he drank himself to death.
I avoided asking how long we had to remain here by studying his house and distracting myself so I wouldn't think about my dead body or the investigation.
I walked into the kitchen; the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and leftover food. I was about to open the fridge to check what he had when I realized I shouldn't unless I wanted to cause unexplained phenomena.
If he didn't die by suicide, this unhygienic accommodation could kill him.
"He needs help." I spoke.
"No one can help him."
I kept thinking about his remark, and I wanted to ask him about it, but Edward immediately stood up from the sofa and diverted me from doing so. He was a little tipsy as he walked to the kitchen with a bottle in his hand and came to a complete halt right next to me. He placed the bottle on the counter. His trembling hand reached for one of the knives in the wooden knife block.
Edward stared at his reflection in the knife, and brown eyes returned his gaze. I was close enough to hear his breathing and whimper. Whatever he saw made him reconsider. He put down the knife and sobbed.
"How long do we have to be here?" I asked August.
"It'll happen soon."
Edward wasn't in a condition to commit suicide; therefore, I was curious as to how he died. Despite how much booze he'd consumed, he didn't want to do it; deep down, he attempted to protect himself. Edward fell asleep on the kitchen floor after a long period of crying.
August's "soon" didn't mean five minutes, ten, or twenty; it meant four hours later, when Edward awoke. He took his time getting up, shambled into the living room, and went to the bathroom. I'd never been hung over before, so I couldn't comprehend how bad it felt, but I could see how terrible it was.
Edward washed his face. His brown eyes scanned the figure in the mirror, but he couldn't recognize himself. He smacked the mirror, not hard enough to break it. He clinched his fists and bit his lower lip. His body was trembling. It was difficult to tell whether the sound he made was angry or sorrowful.
It reminded me of the rainy day I spotted an injured puppy on the street on my way home from school when I was nine years old. I attempted to lift him so that I could take him to the hospital, but I was too small, and the dog was too large. Those dark, wide eyes gazed at me, pleading for assistance. His sobbing made my eyes well up. I had no choice but to apologize. I gave him my umbrella and sheltered him from the rain. I'd never asked my mom for a pet because of what I saw that day.
Edward returned to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and discovered nothing suitable to eat. He grabbed his cash and a house key from a counter and departed.
August and I followed him to a convenient store at the end of the street. He grabbed a basket and loaded it up with instant foods and a six-pack of beer. Surprisingly, his wallet was full of cash. He finished his groceries in less than five minutes.
On the way back was when it happened. A skinny man holding a knife stopped Edward just a few meters from his house and demanded cash. The robber's hands were shaking, his pupils dilated. Edward, on the other hand, was composed. He reached for the coins he had just gotten and handed it to the robber.
"No! it's not enough," he said, "You have more. I'm sure you have more. Give me your wallet."
"That's all I have," said Edward.
"You're lying! Stop lying or I'll stab you!"
Whatever idea Edward had at the time was wrong, tricking him into believing he was in control of the situation, when in fact the substance that the robber took was the one in charge.
When Edward refused to comply, he was stabbed twice in the stomach and once in the chest. The robber seized all of the money, tossed Edward's wallet near his body, and ran away.
Just like that, Edward's spirit appeared between August and me.
"H…how…why…I mean…am I dead? I can't be dead." Edward shook his head as he gazed at his own body. "No. This can't be true. I'm dreaming. This must be a dream. I must see Daisy and Billy. That's what I told myself every time I was on the bridge or holding a knife. I must see them. No. I must see them. I must…"
Edward kept saying those phrases to himself over and over. August informed him about his death and what he had to do. While being dragged into the black smoke by August, the spirit refused to accept the truth.
Edward wanted to live despite his several attempts to harm himself. He was never going to do it.
Life wasn't fair to anyone.
When August and I arrived at Jericho, I wanted to go to the lake and sat there, leaving everything behind. There were so many things to process, so many thoughts that my head hurt. However, grim reaper couldn't rest. Every time a name came up, they had a soul to collect.
I opened my left hand and found a piece of a paper contained name, date, time, address, and cause of dead.
My first name. My first soul. My first mistake.