Juggernaut called Time

5. Faith in neon lights

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There were many funerals that fall. There were funerals of classmates I had known since childhood, of teachers my father remembered from his own days at school, of priests and nuns martyred when they were singled out for their faith, of heartbroken parents and grandparents and friends who took their own lives to join the ones that had been taken. By Christmas, everyone in town was too exhausted to cry, and they had all learned their way around our cemetery's small lanes so well that they no longer looked at the avenue signs.

Every night for as long as anyone can remember, there had been a candlelight rosary vigil along the river, ending at the holy grotto that was our town's primary source of pride and of income. For reasons I wouldn't be able to explain, the massacre had strengthened the faith of many people in town; the vigil's numbers increased greatly.

For others, the massacre had made them lose faith entirely. How could such an event happen in such holy a place? they wondered, as if their beliefs could have blanketed the town like a shield.

I wandered aimlessly downtown at night, engulfed by pilgrim-tourists and bathed in neon light, not looking to prove a reason for my existence but to forget it. Downtown was an alien enclave in our otherwise provincial community. I could pass virtually unknown there, even when everyone in town had learned my name. Richard's daughter, Arianne, they'd whisper. She was the only one who survived.

I took Death's cold hand like a small child and hung on as he led me past the relic shops that sold hollow plastic figures of the Virgin Mary in bulk. It was quiet enough to hear the deep hum of lights all around us; we silently made our way to the Domain with other black-cloaked believers in the biting cold night, and were soon warmed by the womb of the crowd and a thousand prayer candles.

"Look at this," Death murmured to me. His voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear him above the crowd's monotone chanting of the rosary. He led me to the bridge as others flowed around us, and we both looked down at the warm twinkling candle lights reflected in the cold river.

"They look like stars," I said, my breath misting the air where his breath could not.

"But the real stars are far more complex," he replied, leaning in so close that his pale lips almost brushed mine. He was breathing, but I felt no warmth from his breath on my face. I shivered.

"Of course they are," I replied with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Arianne, haven't you wondered if there is an afterlife?"

I was able to glimpse the future and knew what it held for me, but I was only sixteen. I didn't think much about what would become of me after my death. I only saw Death's future without me-- alone, standing by the swing set, forever waiting.

"No," I answered honestly, then thought some more. "But you're Death, and I've seen you lead souls somewhere, so I assume it must exist."

He couldn't reply to confirm or deny it, but he kept me pressed against the bridge's railing and led my gaze to the star-studded night sky. I followed his eyes and thought I saw the light of the prayer candles reflected in the darkness.

"So is the afterlife a reflection of this life, or is it the other way around?" I mused aloud. Death licked his lips in contemplation.

"Let's find out."

He gave nothing away. But when he held me close, I suddenly felt warmth surrounding me that was not my own. I looked up in surprise, and there he was, blinking down at me amusedly, breath rising up in swirls, cheeks tinged pink by the biting air. Now pilgrims were pushing solidly up against him instead of flowing smoothly around us.

His white hair had turned blond, but his irises still retained vestiges of dark red. I touched his lips with my own and found them warm and wet.

"I guess this is the beginning of the end," he said in a soft voice that got lost in the crowd's chanting, a voice and words I'd heard before in my dreams, at this same exact spot, at this very moment.