The Bone Garden

by D-chan

Driving through the desert could be counted as Dez’s third-least favorite thing in the world. During summer, the dry heat of the Great Basin was unbearable; in winter, the cold was even more uninviting. They were not, however, as terrible as her second-least: family reunions.

Unfortunately, that was exactly where she was headed.

Heat and cold were hardly factors Desdemona—Dez for short—was unfamiliar with. In fact, she had spent the majority of her twenty years growing up in Elko, Nevada with her grandmother. No, it wasn’t just the intolerable temperatures—it was the thick, stifling heat that roiled through the open windows of her sedan to coil around her throat and constrict her breathing. And it was the damned fact the trip from Elko to Reno was a four hour drive.

Dez was especially grateful Grandma Melpomene had decided not to tag along. Spending over four hours in a stinking car with an old woman was a thought she was displeased to entertain. It was one thing living with her; the sweet-sour smell of senility already permeated their trailer home. But Dez’s 1991 Mitsubishi Galant remained untouched by the old bat. The pleasant scent of vanilla air fresheners was a preference by far.

Or at least, it was when it wasn’t so hot and instead smelled of one too many bodies in the car. Sadly, Dez was the only occupant, and it still retained that odor.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Dez used the other to uncap the water bottle nestled between her thighs. She drained the remnants, grimacing at the distastefully warm liquid. Perhaps a pit stop was in order.

She had just passed a sign announcing the turn-off to Carlin ten minutes ago, and there was no other such reprieve in sight. Dez shot a brief, hateful glare at her useless air vents, cursing the car’s age. And it had only cost her grandmother $500.

You get what you pay for, she thought sourly. She had wanted something newer and more practical—a truck to rough the terrain better, perhaps. But Grandma Mel had insisted on sticking within the budget.

Crazy old bat. Dez was fiercely glad she was going to this reunion alone. It meant suffering amongst other relatives and baking in a clunky broken car four hours each way, but compared to spending the weekend with Grandma Mel, it was worth it.

Just when she was beginning to think the back of her shirt could not be any more drenched with sweat, she saw it. First obscured by heat waves in the distance, the small building wavered before gradually solidifying itself, taking on a flat rectangular shape on the right side of the road. A blue and white sign peaked over the rooftop, shyly advertising gas prices.

“Oh, thank God,” she muttered. Tossing the empty water bottle out the window, she took the sharp turn off the road and into the empty parking lot.

For being in the middle of nowhere, it struck her as odd that no other car was in sight, even at the pumps. All around her was dust and desert, touched with a dry bush here and there. Dez parked before the building, warily allowing the car to idle as she peered through the front windows. It was difficult to see the front counter, as what appeared to be the back of a large framed painting took up nearly half one of the windows. Slow anxiety began to gnaw at her insides as she stared and failed to locate a human being. There was nothing inside but a line of full refrigerators, snack shelves, cigarette displays, a small deli. . . .

And a young man walking in from the back.

Dez sighed and turned off the engine. She stepped out of the car, making a beeline for the front door. Hinges squeaked and chilly, refreshing air washed over her so quickly it left a pleasant tingle in its wake. She remained still just inside the front door, basking in the air conditioning that blew directly into her sweat-dampened face.

“Heh.”

The chuckle startled Dez out of her bliss. She cocked her head to find the young man watching her in bewildered amusement.

Indignant, Dez folded her arms beneath her breasts. “It may not seem like it to some people, but it’s hot out there,” she said.

The corner of the young man’s mouth curved toward his eye. “I can tell by the sweat all over your shirt, ma’am.”

Dez shot him a nasty glare before making her way toward the back refrigerators. As wonderful as the cool air felt, she did not have to put up with a pretentious idiot of a cashier. A cool Dasani’s water would prepare her for the sweltering heat outside, and she could be on her way.

As she approached the counter with a stiff upper lip, the young man flashed a smile he was obviously using in hopes to flatter her. “Don’t take unkindly to that, ma’am. I was merely tryin’ to be friendly.”

“And I’m sure you win all the girls with your witty banter, too,” she returned icily. She set the water bottle on the counter with a similar coldness.

“Not all,” the young man admitted. He rang up her purchase and, without looking at her, said, “Gotta admit, though, I’m a sucker for brunettes. Especially when they got such pretty blue eyes as yours.”

Dez paused briefly as she set her purse on the counter. Rummaging for her wallet, she decided to go easy on him. “Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. You obviously don’t see many attractive girls out here.”

“I meet ‘em more than you think,” said the young man playfully. Dez reluctantly looked him in the eye, and found herself giving him a tight smile back. “Anythin’ else for you, ma’am?”

“I’m in a hurry,” said Dez flatly.

“Oh?”

“Family reunion in Reno,” she muttered, scrutinizing his nametag. “The hell kind of name is Mors?”

Mors gave her another wry smile. “It’s Roman. Don’t suit a plain guy like me, does it?”

Dez stopped to stare at him in disbelief. While she certainly didn’t care for his attitude, plain was a word even she could not have used to use to describe him. He was too short, barely taller than her, and Dez was a small young woman. His build was horribly scrawny, and he was deathly pale for someone who lived in the Nevada desert. His nose was tiny and almost feminine. Worst of all, his voice was light and high-pitched. He didn’t strike her as what a man should be in the slightest.

Aside from those glaring faults, he had the silkiest white-blond hair she had ever seen, so pale his long bangs didn’t even obscure his sharp green eyes. While far too pale, but his skin appeared smooth and unscarred. In contrast to his body, he had a healthy round face, and when he smiled it was unnervingly genuine, reaching his eyes.

Instead of voicing any of this, Dez wordlessly held out a five-dollar bill.

Mors took the bill and made her change, but did not hand it back to her immediately. He held out the hand grasping the change, clenched into a fist and hovering as though ready to drop the coins and bills on the counter. Solemnly, he said, “I’d sure like it if you stayed a bit longer.” Dez gave him a withering glare, and he smiled charmingly in return. “I was about to take a lunch break before you came in, anyhow.”

Dez held her own hand out impatiently, palm flat and facing up. “I said I’m in a hurry.”

To her surprise, Mors took hold of her outstretched forearm. “Surely you can stay ten minutes.”

“What part of no don’t you get?” she demanded.

In response he clamped down in her wrist, his grip astonishingly strong, and pressed the change into her hand. She yelped and attempted to yank her hand back, but he kept an agonizing grip on her. As Dez twisted and wriggled to no avail, she noticed a strange tattoo on the back of his right hand—a butterfly, of all things, colored with beautifully blending shades of blue and green.

Confused and rapidly approaching fear, she raised her eyes to his. His expression was utterly serious, losing any of the playfulness he had possessed moments ago. “You see, darlin’, I really need you to stay.”

“Let go of me!”

Clucking his tongue, softly in comparison to his death-grip on her arm, Mors said, “I can’t do that, or you’ll run away.”

“You’re damn right I will,” cried Dez. “Let go!” She wrenched her hand from his, desperately clutching her money as she stumbled for the door. Calm footsteps sounded behind her, which would not have been so utterly frightening if, when she slammed into them bodily, the front doors had not been locked.

Oh, God, she thought hysterically. I’m going to die. I fell right into the clutches of a psychopath!

Behind her, Mors sighed heavily. “You didn’t even take a look at the paintin’. Aren’t you at all curious?”

Dez whirled to face him, still clutching her change in a sweaty grip. “Are you crazy?” she shrieked. “No!”

“Then you really ought to calm down,” Mors said calmly, grabbing her by the upper arm with that same iron grip. “Calm down and notice somethin’ other than yourself for a moment.”

When she instead threw her change in a desperate attempt to distract him, Mors grasped her other arm and dragged her back to the front counter. He shoved her against the edge, causing her to yelp as the corner bit into her hipbone. And despite herself, Dez finally noticed the painting.

She was already frightened, and staring at the painting, she only became baffled as well.

In contrast to the brilliantly sunny day outside, the picture within the frame seemed defiantly dreary. Skies were cast gray with furious black clouds, white outlining the fat dark puffs to highlight distant lightning. Jagged rocks strained to reach the sky, forming terrifying mountains splashed with ominous red hues in the backdrop. And in the middle of it all, stretching from the lower frame to a lost pinpoint in the mountains, was the most morbid field Dez had ever seen. Bones grew like flowers from the ground. In the center of the painting one flower blossomed with dripping, bloody meat sagging in place of petals.

“The Bone Garden,” said Mors. “It’s one man’s depiction of the pathway to Hell, Desdemona. One unwanted flower in a dead garden.”

Her eyes widened at the use of her name. Dez wrenched her entire body with renewed vigor, though even if she could have broken free there wasn’t much room to run between Mors and the counter.

But the counter had a phone. Realizing her chance, she lunged for it, ramming her already bruised hip harder against the corner. To her dismay, Mors held fast, managing to keep her just out of reach from the receiver. Dez screamed.

“You’re crazy! I’ll call the police! I’ll—”

Mors pinned her wrists together, holding tightly with one surprisingly large hand. He began to pet her hair, an act that horrified and repulsed her more than it would have if he had touched her inappropriately. “It’s not your fault,” he said sympathetically. “Mortals should never name their little girl the Ill-Fated One.”

Dez screamed her throat hoarse, thrashing her head and kicking viciously. She no longer felt the chill of the room or the heat of the struggle; yet somehow, inexplicably, she tore free and ran outside.

Through the counter. Through the window. Through the Bone Garden.

She halted outside, trembling with the terror of realization. She whirled around to see Mors on the other side of the window; inside the gas station, watching her with intense calm as he cradled her limp body.

Dez thought she would crumple to the ground, but she did not. She remained weightless and standing. There was no feeling for her to lose, as there was no body for her to maintain feeling in.

Mors pushed the door open as though it had never been locked in the first place. Still gingerly holding her lifeless body, he stroked the dull hair of a woman who would never breathe again. It was eerie, watching him treat her own body like a doll, when all she could do was look on helplessly.

“It’s okay,” said Mors simply. “It’s not your fault you had to die, darlin’.”

-

Normally a duty such as hers could grow tiresome after a while. There had been many times she had been reluctant to take a part in the killing of Desdemonas throughout time; after a few hundred years, she had encountered enough incarnations to grow fond of many of them.

This Desdemona, on the other hand, she had been more than happy to guide to her death.

Defying her appearance, Melpomene did not hobble but strode into the gas station. There was a satisfaction to each step she took, drawing nearer to the striking young man and pathetic body he held in his lap.

“Oh, really, Thanatos,” she grumbled. “That’s horribly tasteless of you.”

Green eyes danced as the young man—though he was young in appearance only—rose to greet her. He bowed, forcing the stiff body to move along with him. The joints cracked as the rigor mortis was rudely disrupted.

Melpomene grimaced.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” said Thanatos merrily. “It makes me feel a tad more vindicated this once. She was a terrible presence to deal with.”

“You only dealt with this one for a few minutes,” Melpomene pointed out. “I, on the other hand, had to endure her attitude for sixteen years.”

“Such a small number in the grand scheme of things,” said Thanatos unpityingly.

Melpomene sighed. “I suppose.”

As though sensing she was reaching her limit of tolerable disgust, Thanatos allowed the corpse to drop to the floor. He sidled up to her, plastering on his charming smile. “Aww, Mel, won’t you drop that old hag of a disguise?”

She snorted in reply, lowering her eyes to the hand he placed on her arm. Despite his tone and choice of words, even though the flesh sagged loosely on her bones, he did not pull away or look at her in distaste.

“I happen to be enjoying this ‘old hag of a disguise,’ ” she said mockingly. “Though I’m enjoying a lot less the idea of what I have to do next.”

Thanatos shrugged, patting her arm before he stepped away. “Hey, I did my part. Just collected her cursed soul. I’m still tryin’ to convince her to pay the toll to Hades.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating to the sulking blur behind him; all that was left of Desdemona. Melpomene couldn’t help but smirk when the soul appeared to scowl fuzzily at her from behind the peanut rack.

“Deal’s done,” continued Thanatos. “You just gotta clean up.”

“One day people will get the idea and stop giving their little girls that horrid name,” grumbled Melpomene. “Let her soul rest in peace and let me deal with something a little less dreary.”

“But without a Desdemona in the world, what’ll we do in our free time?” asked Thanatos with brittle cheer.

From the way the disembodied soul was thrashing, Desdemona seemed to be throwing some sort of a tantrum. Unfortunately for her, she could not touch anything in the human world any longer, and her efforts to grab Mars Bars and toss them at Thanatos’ head were all in vain.

Melpomene shook her head in exasperation. “I better call an ambulance, then,” she muttered, limping for the phone behind the counter.

“Whatever you say,” agreed Thanatos. He nudged the corpse with his foot until it was lying on its back, ignoring flailing from the enraged soul behind him. “You’re the Muse.”