Death is a Girl

Chapter 52 - Drowning

Morrigan had a vague awareness of the next day’s passing. Her dreams were sporadic and nonsensical, and she never quite came to full consciousness. There was only the occasional reprieve from her chaotic dreams when she would be aware she was on a bed. But, even then, she felt so much pain that she’d prefer being lost in the feverish nightmares. She, at one point, wondered if the pain would ever stop or if this was simply her life now.

Occasionally, she would be aware of someone near her, and the pain would lessen for a while. They would feed warm broth between her lips, but ultimately, she’d be thrown back into the feverish abyss.

She had no idea how much time passed, but finally, one day, she heard voices. They were so clear that for once there was no mistaking that her conscious mind was here in reality. They were echoing from another room.

“Just where do you think you are going, witch?”

“Mmmm, Death told me just make myself at home, remember?” a female voice responded.

“Yes, but I assure you anything you might wish to steal has already been stored safely from your reach.” That condescending tone was definitely Noir.

“Well, that’s great; I guess you have nothing to worry about then!”

“Now, Noir, let’s not be unkind to our guest.”

“But master! This witch… she…”

“This witch,” the female voice interjected. “Is working miracles in there. So buck up, cat.”

Morrigan groaned as she heard a door creak open. “H-hey!” Someone rushed to her side. It was the girl who had just argued with Noir. Her voice was vaguely familiar. “Hey, are you awake, kid?”

Hilda… that’s right, her name is Hilda. Emma’s cousin. But why is she here?

There was a gasp, and someone else in the room shuffled. “She’s awake!?” That was Emma’s voice, and she had apparently been sleeping in a nearby chair.

Morrigan groaned again as she forced an eye open. Emma’s worried yet hopeful expression fully encompassed her field of vision. “Morrigan! Hey, are you with us?” Emma asked.

She didn’t have the strength to respond, and her eyes fell closed as the haziness in her head threatened to sweep her away again.

“Hang on,” the older girl said. “I got something to help her along.”

Morrigan felt her feverish dreams taking hold, vague images of walking through the graveyard taking over. Then, she heard a snap; in her dream, she had stepped on a twig, but then something spicey shot up her nose.

Her eyes opened wide, and her face wrinkled as the spicey sensation invaded her sinuses. She could feel it in her ears and practically leaking out of her tear ducts as she began to cough.

“What was that, Hilda?” Emma asked.

“Smelling salts,” Hilda answered. “Nothing special.”

Morrigan spoke with a nasally voice. “W-what thah hellw?”

“Sorry kid, but you’ve slept enough.” She pushed Emma out of the way and lowered down to eye level with Morrigan. “So you are awake. Right? How many fingers am I holding up?” She held up three fingers.

Morrigan looked passed her, not feeling like answering the question. She was lying on her stomach, so her view of the room was low, but she saw a skeletal hand nestled on top of a cain. Her eyes traced up a black sleeve until she saw the lower half of Death’s jawbone peeking from under his hood.

“Please step aside, Lady Hilda,” Death spoke in his usual calm tone. “I would like to get a look at her.”

“W-what happened?” Morrigan whispered. She watched as Death walked over to her, the cain tapping against the floor with every other step. As he leaned down, she noticed a frailty in his movements that had never been there before.

“It’s alright, Morrigan,” he said. “You are back in your room. In my cabin, that is, and Hilda here has been aiding in your recovery.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t get her voice above a whisper. “Recovery from what?”

“A demon had latched itself onto you, and in doing so, a significant portion of your flesh has been lost. Luckily, we’ve managed to reconstruct most of it and in no small part thanks to Hilda and Noir, your body seems to have accepted the… well… replacement.”

“Replacement?” Morrigan asked.

“Yes, well, I assumed you were not interested in becoming a walking skeleton, so there was a bit of… shall we say, creative problem-solving involved.”

Morrigan gritted her teeth. She moved her arm to get up, but simply shifting her shoulder was enough to flare up the pain in her back, so she quickly gave it up. Instead, she hissed, “What did you do?”

“Master, allow me to explain,” came Noir’s sophisticated voice. Death moved to the side, and she saw the familiar black feline sitting on his haunches atop a chair in the corner. His yellow eyes glowed brighter than ever, and for some reason, a wave of relief washed through her upon seeing him. Perhaps it’s because one of her more vivid fever dreams involved Noir dying—and she was the one who had killed him.

“The demon which latched onto you, Morrigan,” Noir explained, “was of a type called a changeling. Essentially, they are parasitic. They consume their host and then take on their identity. Their shape-shifting nature also affords them regenerative properties, so… using some of the demon’s flesh to replace your own turned out to be a viable option.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed as she repeated the words in her head. Had she misunderstood? “R-replace my own?”

“Yes. Most of your back muscles, part of your spine, and even some of your organs have been replaced with the changeling’s flesh.”

“Oh my god…” she whispered as the memories of that day suddenly started flooding back. She remembered the whispering in her ear—the creepy bastard who wore her face—and somehow, everything it said made sense to her. She wasn’t in control of herself, not really, but there had been a sliver of her true conscious mind in the background of it all. It was a nightmare—watching everything unfold and being powerless to stop. It felt like… drowning…

Yes, that was it. She had almost drowned once in elementary school. Her mom had dropped her off at a pool party, and it was one of her first traumas, as the other kids seemed to get the idea she was poor and bullied her over it. It started with making fun of her clothes but eventually escalated when one of the boys pushed her into the deep end, saying she needed to get wet because she smelled so bad. Of course, she never had anyone teach her how to swim, either. Even now at 16 years old she didn’t know how. But, that moment when the water covered her never left her mind. In a blind panic, she tried to find something to grab onto. Her arms flailed, finding nothing; even the pool’s edge alluded her. She couldn’t scream for help because water would fill her mouth and lungs if she tried.

It was like she was trapped in this other world where she was powerless to control what would become of her body. Flailing around with nothing solid to grab onto, wishing desperately her screams could reach the other world and someone would help her. That is what drowning was like, and that is exactly what being under the changeling’s control felt like as well.

“Hey, hey! Relax kid!” Hilda said, snapping her out of the memory.

Morrigan realized she was not in control of her breath. It came in and out rapidly, her heart being squeezed oppressively inside her chest and her entire body locking up.

“Hey, breathe easy, you’re going to faint! HEY!” Hilda snapped her fingers in front of Morrigan’s face.

“Out of the way!” Emma yelled and pushed the older girl. She kneeled by Morrigan’s side and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Morrigan. You’re safe now, and everyone’s okay, see?” She spoke softly, the sound of her voice slowly talking down the panic attack that seized her. “It’s all over; nothing bad happened, and everyone’s fine.”

“But… Noir died, and you and Death were both…”

“No, we’re here, see?” Emma smiled.

Morrigan’s gaze drifted to Death. He was using a cane. He never used a cane before. He seemed to anticipate her thoughts and said, “Worry not, Morrigan. I sustained some damage, yes, but I’m healing… or repairing myself, in any case. But, all the same, please do not worry.”

She shifted her attention to Noir. She remembered seeing his body in two, his flesh melting away. He had been dead, and she had killed him.

“Don’t worry,” Noir said, his whiskers knitting up with a scrupulous gaze. “I stabbed you first. So we can call it even.”

Morrigan couldn’t help smiling. “Screw you. You damn demonic cat.”

Emma laughed. “There she is! That’s my Morrigan!”

Morrigan tried to laugh, but it stirred the pain in her back and she winced. Then she remembered what they said just before her panic attack. “Wait… so how did…”

“Hey, maybe don’t worry about that for now?” Emma said. “Why don’t I get you some soup and just relax? You just woke up, you know.”

“H-how long?”

“Huh?” Emma asked.

“How long was I out?”

“Oh, it’s been about a week.”

Morrigan exhaled. Her eyes were feeling heavy again but she tried to stay awake. She had too many questions. She didn’t know where to start, so instead said, “I… should have just stayed in Wyoming.”

“Now, why would you say a thing like tha—” Emma paused. “Morrigan? Hey, Morrigan?”

Morrigan could hear her voice, but it was fading. Sleep was claiming her again, and once it began to take hold, she didn’t have the strength to fight it.

***

She felt like she was forgetting something. Something important. She tried to remember, piecing together fragments of thoughts and memories. Then it hit her: her list. The souls she was supposed to guide to the afterlife. How long had she neglected it? What would be the punishment for failing in her duties?

Morrigan woke, and tried to get up. her muscles screamed and she fell flat against the bed once again. She groaned painfully, her fists balling up the sheets as she grit her teeth. She suddenly felt like she had to get up and do something, but she was stuck. She had to find out how much time had passed and what she needed to do to make up for it. As she tried again to move, a sharp pain shot through her back, and she let out a small scream.

“Morrigan?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway. She hurried over to her side. “Hey, don’t move; you’re not ready yet.”

Morrigan glanced toward the window. It was dark outside. How long had it been since she last woke up? Was it still the same day?

“Emma, I need... my list,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Emma looked confused. “Your list?”

“My reaper list,” Morrigan clarified. “The souls... I’m supposed to reap… H-how long has it been?”

“Um…” Emma looked over her shoulder, and Morrigan followed her gaze to Noir, still sitting on the chair.

“For now, master is taking care of your list,” Noir said. “Just as he had insisted on doing while you were away.”

“Oh… I thought…” Morrigan’s words trailed off.

“You would have been classified as a rogue reaper, had master not taken measures to protect you,” Noir said. “Thus, you’d have appeared as an emergency order on the list of any other reaper you came near during your travels.”

Morrigan blinked. “But… I checked my list. There was nothing.”

Noir’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you remember where that list came from?”

She had a sudden flashback to her first encounter with Noir’s demonic nature. He had melted some of his flesh to create it.

“The list…” he explained, “well, the physical version of it that you possess, is merely transcribing what I am able to provide to you as a voidling.”

“Um… so… I was too far away to get voidling reception?”

“More or less,” Noir confirmed.

“I didn’t realize you put the names there.”

“I merely translate what is handed down by the fates. Reapers exist here on Earth; the fates exist elsewhere. Voidlings are unique in their ability to easily move and communicate between plains of existence. Even the most powerful of demons require a portal of some fashion, but for my kind, it is simple.”

Emma stared. Morrigan could see the gears spinning in her head. She shook it off and smiled. “Surprised you’re saying all that in front of me,” Emma laughed. “Does that mean you’ve decided to trust me, even though I’m a witch?”

Noir’s whiskers knitted on one side. “This is not secret knowledge. I’m sure your cousin could have told you this. Besides… either way, you hardly qualify as a witch.”

“Hey!” Emma snapped. “Yes I AM a witch!”

Noir tissked. “As if.”

Emma's face turned red. Morrigan couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry. He grows on you.”

“Somehow, I doubt that…” Emma said dryly.

“Hmmm. yeah, you’re right, actually.” Morrigan grinned. “I still can’t stand him.”

“Apologies. I suppose arrogant teenage humans are simply not my forte.”

***

Emma and Hilda would have to leave every so often. They did have their own lives to tend to, after all. Hilda would come every day and help with her recovery, and Emma never let more than a 48-hour gap between visits happen herself. Morrigan told her not to worry about it so much. After all, she mostly just slept during Emma’s visits. When she was able to keep her eyes open she would listen to Emma talk and gossip like everything was normal. It made her happy just hearing Emma’s voice, and she suspected that even when she was barely conscious, Emma just kept talking anyway.

Slowly, Morrigan recovered. Sitting up on her own was her first milestone, then finally, she was even able to limp to the bathroom without any assistance.

Morrigan wasn’t the only one who needed to recover, as she noticed even a week later Death was still getting around with a cane. He seemed to hide further under his hood than normal, and when Morrigan eventually managed to get a peek at what he was hiding, she saw shards of his skull that had been pieced together like puzzle pieces with thin black lines between them. She wanted to ask exactly what happened… but then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She felt guilty enough as it was.

About two weeks after the changeling attack Morrigan was taking a shower, fully getting around on her own now, though still a bit slowly. She turned and looked over her shoulder to the mirror she set up in the shower. It was hard to believe she lost as much of her flesh as they said she did. There was a huge patch of discoloration, where her white skin was a slightly greyer shade, but otherwise it wasn’t clear she was ever injured at all.

But that’s not my flesh…

It was only on occasions, when she stopped thinking about it or was concentrated on something else, she felt a slight tingling running down her spine. It wasn’t like the feel of magic, it was completely different, like a bug crawling along her skin, but deeper, wider and faster.

As she stared at the patch of discolored skin, she suddenly saw it move, it was like a muted wave, a minor ripple in some thick liquid that pulsed along her back. She let out a surprised scream, reached for the shower door as if to run, thern realized—what exactly did she plan to run from? It was attached to her. It was the only reason she was able to stand without completely giving up on her human body. She gulped cautiously, looking over her shoulder once more. A smaller wave pulsed along the arc of her back, interrupted by her spine, and then laid still.

What if that thing’s still alive? It hid in the graveyard for weeks… waiting for a good target. Or maybe, since it was born from my blood in the first place… it was just waiting for me.

She shuttered at that thought and suddenly felt uncomfortable in her own skin. As quickly as she could manage in her weakened state, she rinsed off, got out, and dried herself. As she was getting dressed, she could vaguely make out the sound of Hilda’s voice—it sounded like she was bickering with Noir.

As she came out of the bathroom and down the hall she spotted Hilda in the livingroom. Noir sat atop a stack of books so he was at eye level with her. “There she is!” Hilda said. “I see you’re getting around pretty w—”

“It moved,” Morrigan said, cutting right to the issue. Hilda and Noir were mostly to thank for the patch-job that was done on her body, so she figured best to report to them.

“It... moved?” Hilda asked uncertainly.

“The...” she shook her head. “The changeling flesh! It just moved!” She was trying to stay calm.

“How so?” Noir asked.

“It was just a wobble, but… I saw it.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Hilda asked as she walked over to her.

Morrigan nodded and turned around. As Hilda lifted her shirt to uncover her back, Morrigan shot a glare at Noir, who respectfully turned around atop his stack of books to face the other way while Hilda examined her. Hilda then applied some pressure with her hand just under Morrigan’s neck, then moved her hand slowly down her spine. Morrigan felt a bit of a warm sensation, which must have been some kind of magic.

Hilda’s thumb then traced around in a big circle, Morrigan figured along the edges of the patch-job where her own flesh met the demon’s.

“It hasn’t consumed any more of your flesh, it’s exactly as we left it. Furthermore, there is no consciousness in it.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Morrigan asked.

“I just am. Trust me, it would be obvious to me if I was touching a demon right now. The changeling is dead, you just… borrowed one of its parts.”

Morrigan shuttered. “But it moved.”

“Hmmmm… let me try something. Keep your shirt up for me. This might hurt a little, but don’t freak out.”

“O… kay?” Morrigan asked suspiciously, looking over her shoulder as Hilda stepped backward. She pulled her staff out of thin air, then held it with both hands as the blue gem nestled in the tree knot began to glow.

Suddenly a blue streak of color shot out of it, like a lightning bolt, and stabbed Morrigan’s back. She yelped, but then, she felt the strangest sensation, like a bubbling along her back. She twisted to see over her shoulder and her heart jumped into her throat from the horror of what she saw.

Little spikes rose from her back in quick succession, swatting then retracting so quickly they sliced the air with a swish. Morrigan clenched her fists on her shirt, tempted to scream. She probably would have if it were not for the fact Hilda seemed so calm.

“Hmmm, I see,” she said, stepping forward with her palm out now. Her staff continued to glow as Hilda placed her hand on Morrigan’s back, and the spikes retracted, evening out along her back once again and both the pain and odd bubbling sensation melted away into a soothing warmth. “It reacted defensively but I’m pretty sure that’s just a… how to put it…” she pointed at her knee. “Like hitting your reflexes.”

“Then why did it move earlier?” Morrigan asked, rolling her shirt back down.

Noir turned back around and asked. “What were you doing at the time?”

“I was just looking at it.”

“It could have been reacting to your own consciousness. It is a part of you now, after all.”

“That’s so…” she didn’t know what words could describe how she felt about that. The thought put a queazy feeling in her stomach.

“You’ll just have to get used to it,” Noir said. “That is, unless you are ready to discard your flesh entirely.”

“But… I only became a reaper a month ago…” Morrigan said. If she had to do this job to stay alive, she wanted to remain looking at least somewhat human for as long as she could. She did not want to just be a skeleton, though she knew it was unavoidable in the long run. She was grateful that Emma accepted her as she was, but asking her to accept her as a literal skeleton would have been asking too much. She was sure her relationship with Emma would suffer if that were the case. Therefore, she wanted to stay as she was at least until...

Well, until Emma died, she supposed. She frowned at the thought, it just now hitting her the fact she would outlive everyone she knew other than Death and Noir.

Hilda took in Morrigan’s expression for a moment, frowning slightly. Then she clapped her hands. “Hey, I have an idea! It might start having stronger reactions as your own strength comes back, but there is a way to keep it under control.”

“How?” Morrigan asked.

“Go grab your hoodie. Oh, and you’re supposed to be good at sowing, right?”

“Well, yeah, but...” Morrigan had no idea how that could be relevant.

“Let’s see...” Hilda tapped her foot, pondering something. I’m not sure about everything we’ll need, so make a list of embroidering supplies. I’ll go pick up Emma along with anything you put on that list.

Morrigan canted her head. “What’s this all about?”

Hilda winked. “Just a fun little craft project.” She turned her gaze to Noir. “That is if the hell-cat over here doesn’t get upset about us practicing a little witchcraft.”

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