Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
He thinks of Kyle, of when he asked the same question to him, decades ago.
He wonders why he still asks himself that question, even today.
Even if he never feels brave enough to answer it himself.
“Start over? Sounds awful tiresome,” complains Raya. “Are you finished with your errand yet? I want to be entertained.”
I have done such terrible things, Raya. Such terrible …
Red on the blades of a ceiling fan.
Of a mother.
A father.
And …
“We’ve all done bad things,” says Raya, rolling her eyes.
I wish sometimes I knew why I did certain things. I wish I knew if I did them for myself, did them for someone else, or did them just because I was … bored. I’ve wondered all this time if he would forgive me … but I wonder, even if he did … I wonder if I could ever truly forgive myself.
“This is why you were last on my list,” explains Raya. “You are such a drag, dear me, it’s a wonder you don’t bore yourself to death.”
I wish you could feel my sadness, Raya, my dear friend.
Raya sighs like a petulant teenager. “Is it entertaining? To feel your sadness?”
Sometimes.
She brings a long white finger to the black heart of her lips, mulling it over. “Alright,” she decides playfully. “Make me feel it, then. Make me feel your sadness.”
Tristan closes his eyes.
Very well.
Tristan leaves the room. Raya follows, hands linked behind her back, nearly skipping.
Around the corner from the nurse’s station, they pass a long, bright room with cream-and-lime wallpaper where approximately ten humans sit getting their blood drawn. Attending to them is a very real, non-illusionary nurse, also human. As Tristan and Raya pass through, every human, nurse included, bow their heads. Thank you, as you were, says Tristan without looking, and the blood drawing resumes.
They arrive at an elevator. With a tap of a button, the doors slide open, and the two step on.
Tristan’s finger slides down the array of blank buttons, taps one near the very bottom.
“Oh, dear me, Tristan, what in heavens are we going down there for?”
Sadness, answers Tristan as the doors close.
When the doors open again, an impossibly long, stark grey hallway stretches before them, utterly silent, cold, still.
Tristan walks down the hall, Raya following behind. They pass a human in plain grey clothes mopping the floor, who at once stops, kneels, and bows his head respectfully.
Thank you, as you were, Tristan says as he passes by, and the human then rises and continues his duty.
The hall opens to a small commons area. Three humans, all in similarly plain grey clothing, sit at a table playing cards. When Tristan and Raya pass through, they drop their cards at once, kneel upon the floor, and bow their heads.
Thank you, as you were, Tristan says to them as well, continuing on.
Down the hall, another commons area with more humans, more kneeling, bowing heads. Thank you, as you were. And then a narrow, drab library room. Demure humans quietly put books away on the shelves, then stop, kneel, bow their heads. Thank you, as you were. Another room with long tables, a handful of humans eating, the opened window to a kitchen along the wall, humans serving food to other humans on plain metal trays. All of them stop eating, stop serving, kneeling and bowing heads.
Thank you, as you were.
The eating and serving resumes, quietly, calmly.
“I do very much hate this place,” complains Raya. “How long will we be down here, do you think? Are we finished with the entertainment?”
No, answers Tristan.
Soon, they walk down narrower halls lined with doors—a staggering amount of them, intersections after intersections of hallways full of doors. Tristan and Raya pass them one by one, each door bearing a small glass window, each door marked with a tiny metal placard. Blood 203. Blood 204. Blood 205.
At each intersection, Tristan knows which way to turn.
Blood 434. Blood 435. Blood 436.
“We don’t drink directly from them,” complains Raya. “So why are we down here in these miserable halls?”
Tristan doesn’t answer her. He just turns another corner.
Blood 758. Blood 759. Blood 760.
“Is it because we’ll find sadness here?” asks Raya. “Because no one drinks blood from anything over 800 anymore? Because there are less of us? Can you tell me if I’m warm, at the very least? Oh, I do hate your games sometimes, Tristan.”
Another corner.
Blood 981. Blood 982. Blood 983.
One more.
Blood 1023. Blood 1024.
Tristan at last comes to a stop. Before him, a door labeled Blood 1025. Before gazing through the small glass window, he closes his eyes and takes a breath.
It has been some time since he stood before this door, perhaps too long.
Are you awake? Tristan asks the question of the occupant, a courtesy not often granted to them. May I enter? This question, also a rarely given courtesy.
From within echoes a soft, gentle voice. “Yes, sir.”