After a few "almosts" and some of the more bizarre personal responses I've ever received on a story, I've decided to go the DIY route with this particular tale. Sometimes, you just have to say fuck it and cut out the middleman.
I've written about spree killers, vengeful demons and psionic psychopaths, but they've got nothing on Nicola Pierpont, who puts a new slant on the term "wreckless driver." Enjoy!
The Suicide Artist
By Daniel LeMoal
The first suicide was her own.
Full of the best painkillers her parents’ health insurance could buy, Nicola Pierpont said goodbye to her cancer-ridden body with the strike of a match. The spark ignited the air around her, spreading to her clothes, her wisps of hair and her skin, all drenched in gasoline. As her back arched involuntarily, she looked up in time to see a column of flame tearing through the roof of the garage.
Shit...I didn’t even think about the garage...
Amidst her careful preparations of finding a suitable forfeiture, chalking the runes and of course, ending her life, Nicola hadn’t considered the collateral damage. If she had, she wouldn’t have cast in her parents’ garage. Anything would have been better than leaving them with another mess to clean up.
Who are you kidding? One selfish act deserves another.
These thoughts came to Nicola in the few seconds before her brain realized that the drugs weren’t working at all; in the last seconds of her life, she felt enough pain and remorse to last several lifetimes.
***
Initially, Nicola found herself hovering over a large dining room, filled with 12 other people; all of them were seated and praying around a laptop computer. This first vantage point, affording only sight and sound, gave way to a closer view: Nicola was suddenly seated at the table.
Although she was no longer on fire, she could still smell smoke in her nostrils. Her flesh broke into grateful goose bumps; compared to the garage, the room could have been the Arctic.
She spent the next few minutes looking at her new hands and forearms, which were lightly downed with blonde hair. By the looks of her body, she was at least 50 pounds heavier than before. Considering the figure induced by her chemotherapy diet, the new weight was a welcome improvement.
All right...boobs are bigger too...
Nicola’s thoughts were interrupted by a hoarse voice that emanated from the laptop.
“April 24 has past, and The Ancestors have chosen not to return,” the Voice said. “As such, we have to accept that they decided we were not capable of joining the Journey. We are contaminated by the world around us...”
The Voice, which sounded like a middle-aged man, stopped speaking for several minutes. All that came from the tiny speakers were a series of choked sobs, which eventually gave way to uncontrolled wailing. Most of the congregation at the table joined in. Nicola tried not to laugh.
“I am unworthy, we are all unworthy. It is time to destroy the contamination in ourselves. I do not make this decision lightly. Pathfinders, you know what to do. May you all find the Ancestral Trail in death.”
After the address ended, the congregation exited the dining room. As they stepped into a rustic hall and walked past a set of oriel windows, Nicola realized she was in a farmhouse outside of the city.
“Chores as scheduled tonight. We’ll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes,” said a serious-looking woman with large glasses. She grabbed Nicola’s new body by the arm. “Rae, you can help me fix dinner.”
“Rae will be with you in a moment, Brenda,” said a tall, graying man with prodigious ears. “I need to speak with her first.”
The man touched Nicola/Rae’s shoulder gently and ushered her into a bedroom. Even with the door closed, he felt it necessary to whisper.
“Rae,” he said, his breath creating an uncomfortable, greenhouse-like atmosphere in her ear. “I’m worried that some of the others might not go through with it. They’ll need guidance.”
“I think you may be right,” Nicola/Rae said, finally catching a glimpse of her face in a mirror. A pretty, blonde tomboy. Why Rae had decided to throw her lot in with these Ancestral Trail freaks was anyone’s guess.
“I know I can trust you,” the man continued, digging a sizeable revolver and a box of bullets out of a night table drawer. “The Voice wants us all to do it at the same time. But if you catch anyone trying to leave the house tonight...or if anyone backs down tomorrow...”
“Shhh,” Nicola/Rae said, taking the gun. “Say no more.”
“I’ll be watching the back door tonight, and Jesse is going to watch the front of the house from the loft in the barn. You just keep an eye on things inside.”
“You know I will,” Nicola/Rae said, trying to guess at the man’s name. He looked like his name was Elmer, or Phineas. Something bumpkinish.
As the man left the bedroom, a solemn expression still plastered on his face, Nicola couldn’t resist one more comment: “I’ll even kill you if I have to.”
Not that she cared either way who lived or died.
***
Times were tight at the Ancestral Trail’s Frebe franchise; supper consisted of potatoes and squash. Even though Nicola already had to help with the cooking, she still found herself doing dishes afterwards.
“Why bother washing them?” she asked Brenda, who looked as if Nicola/Rae had just thrown a bottle at her. “Fine...never mind.”
Nicola found out that Brenda was also her roommate. After lights out, the woman spoke for hours. Nicola found her mind wandering through much of it, but at some point the older woman got through.
“I never thought I’d end my life this way,” Brenda said; her tears glistened in the dark. “My daughter and her boyfriend killed themselves three years ago. I thought it was a sin at the time. I never even gave her a marked grave. That seems like such a long time ago; I feel like I’ve been on the Ancestral Trail my entire life. I know we’re doing what The Voice wants. But what if he’s wrong, Rae? What if he’s wrong?”
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Nicola said, looking out the window at the sliver of the moon. Was it the same moon that she had seen the previous night? Or a different moon, a different world altogether? “Somebody has to stay behind to turn off the lights. May as well be you.”
“I’ve already made up my mind,” Brenda said, getting up from bed. “I’m leaving tonight. You can come with me, if you like...I’d look after you, get you back in school...”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brenda,” Nicola said, trying to sound earnest. “I’d stay here for the night if I were you. Leave in the morning, while everyone’s busy getting ready.”
“No,” Brenda said, pulling on her pants over her pajamas. “It has to be tonight. Or I won’t leave. Goodbye Rae.”
“Goodbye, Brenda,” Nicola said, once she was alone.
Seven members of the Ancestral Trail’s Frebe congregation died by poison. Six more died from bullet wounds: some self-inflicted and others not. Brenda Hinton was amongst the latter group, although her body was the only one found buried. Investigators surmised that she had been killed up to 14 hours earlier than the rest of the Frebe congregation.
Nicola knew this, and almost every other facet of the 2005 Frebe mass-suicide, due to her extensive preparations for her jump. As far as forfeitures went, it was like hitting the broad side of a barn.
***
Nicola stuck with history’s script at first; without a tinge of emotion, she watched seven disciples drink The Voice’s special wine. Even as they convulsed and groaned on the kitchen floor over the next three hours, she remained calm. Nicola was unsure if this was a result of her own poorly developed conscience or some facet of Rae Langley’s personality.
Once the first seven were dead, Nicola joined Brian Barbour (the big-eared man) in the living room, where he argued impassionedly with the remainder of the congregation. Apparently, the Frebe mass-suicide was far from unanimous.
“What is all of this?” Barbour said, fighting tears. “Have you forgotten The Voice’s words? We have been forsaken by The Ancestors. Our path is at an end...the only way to cleanse is through death.”
“I’m with you on that Brian,” said a taller man with insomnia-hued eyes. “But does it have to be poison or a gun? Are those the only choices? Surely there are easier ways.”
“Seven of our brethren...our friends...are already dead!” Barbour yelled. “Atlanta, St. Paul and Montreal have already finished. The time is now. I love you all.”
Barbour pulled a revolver from his jacket pocket and fired, destroying the insomniac’s face with one shot. He turned his weapon on two of the other members--both teenage girls--and began to fire; his attack was cut short by a second eruption of gunfire. Nicola shot four bullets into Barbour before he collapsed on the carpet and rapidly bled to death.
“You’re free to go, if you want,” Nicola/Rae told the only surviving girl, who was no older than 14. Nicola couldn’t remember her name; it may have been Arlene. The girl looked half-awake. “Seriously. Get out of here. Go home.”
Nicola had meant those words, but the mechanism of history struggled against her intentions. While she went upstairs to wash her hands and wipe down her gun, Nicola heard another shot from down in the living room.
She returned to find the girl splayed across the coffee table, Barbour’s revolver still smoking in her hands. For an instant, Nicola stared at the smoking gun and found herself filled with an immense longing.
“Forget it Rae,” she said to herself, turning away. “You’re not dying yet. I’m in control now.”
***
Several weeks later, Nicola finally made it to the downtown library, where she contacted Mabius. She chose a Kafka hardcover, The Trial, and retreated to a secluded corner of the library. Using a mild lemon juice solution, she marked page 8 with a star in each corner.
The message itself was more difficult. Wielding a razor blade, Nicola cut a slit at the bottom of the book’s front cover, excavating a pocket wide enough to hold her tiny, hand-scrawled note. It took another half hour to carefully glue the fabric back into place over the cardboard. By the end, the book looked slightly damaged, but no more than your average library book. When Mabius retrieved the message in 2010, it would have been there for five long years.
Allan,
The forfeiture spell worked. It was more pain than I’ve ever felt in my life, but it worked.
As I write this, it is May 12, 2005. The Ancestral Trail incident didn’t go according to the history books--obviously, since I’m alive. I ended up with Rae Langley, one of the younger cult members. I called the police myself. They made me walk them through the whole thing a few dozen times, but it looks like they’re letting me go free for the time being. I wonder: will you remember both timelines? Or just the current version? Very complicated stuff.
At this point, I’m not sure if David Cummings made it through or not. If he did make the jump, and became another one of the cult members, he didn’t make himself known to me. Things were very tense inside the house. There wasn’t much chance to talk to many of the other members, so he really wouldn’t have had any idea who I was either. If he did make it through, he’s dead now, with the rest of them.
I might keep going back. I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know through the “Kafka Channel.” If this turns out to be the last message you get from me, I want to thank you for bringing me in. I’m not stupid, though. What you gave me wasn’t exactly a gift, but thanks regardless. With this message I consider us even. From now on, I’ll decide what happens next with Rae, and with myself.
-Nicola.
Nicola felt herself blush at her quiet rebellion against Mabius. He would be furious with her striking out on her own. The idea, or at least Mabius’s idea, was for Nicola and David to keep going back: to see how far the forfeiture spell could span.
For a moment, Nicola wondered if Mabius would try the spell for himself. Perhaps. If he ever reached the point where he had nothing left to lose.
***
Over the next week, Nicola/Rae stayed at a downtown homeless shelter. With no job and no cancer to deal with, she had lots of time to think. She found herself taking walks that lasted for hours. Often, she thought of David Cummings.
David, like Nicola, had been dying of cancer. Allan Mabius had met both of them at the hospital. She was initially repulsed by the dreadlocked orderly; but Mabius had quickly proven that his world was far greater than his occupation.
At first, Mabius entertained David and Nicola with simple spells: compelling his shadow to walk of its own accord and making fire dance on his fingertips. These were mere distractions. What finally captured the attention of both terminal patients was the surveillance spell.
One evening, long after lights out, they linked hands with Mabius in the dark. Soon, they found themselves peering into other rooms throughout the hospital, in houses across the street and even a nearby hotel. The sheer invasiveness of it, watching people fuck, fight or sleep, gave Nicola a high for days afterwards. Even more compelling was that link with Mabius: a connection with an intangible, yet all-encompassing power.
“You both have it, you know,” Mabius told them after that first out-of-body experience. “The Aptitude. You don’t learn to read magick. Either you know it, or you don’t.”
It was not long after that Mabius first mentioned the forfeiture spell. As David and Nicola grew inevitably weaker in body, they became more open to the idea; Mabius continued to make his case on daily basis.
“It’s not as though you’re killing anyone,” he told them. “They’ve already made the decision to forfeit their own lives. If anything, you’re giving part of them another shot at life, as well as yourselves.”
The spell did have some inherent limitations. Since one could only jump to known suicides, the spell only worked backwards, to the past. Documentation was always important for any jump. The future, as always, was unwritten; except for a pair of terminally ill atheists. Going backwards seemed like a better option than going nowhere.
Another issue was the whole “blaze of glory” bit. But once Nicola’s parents took her home, to say goodbye and to die, she decided that fire was better than the numbing terror of waiting.
Did David go through with it as well? Or did he get scared at the last moment? Perhaps the spell simply failed, leaving behind nothing but a burned husk of a body. Or maybe it didn’t work exactly as advertised. Maybe David jumped somewhere else. There was no way of knowing for sure, but there was one avenue of investigation that could clear matters up somewhat.
Nicola returned to the library and found two matching copies of Thomas Pynchon’s V. Pynchon’s works were the designated “bottles” for David’s messages. The first copy of V. was devoid of any damage, but Nicola’s heart leapt as she examined the second copy. A thin fray at the bottom of the front cover revealed a somewhat sloppy glue-job. Retiring to an isolated carrel deep amidst rows of history books, Nicola retrieved a razor blade from her purse and went to work.
It was slow going; some of the glue had adhered to the tiny piece of paper. As a result, Nicola was forced to aggressively disfigure the book’s front cover.
No big deal. There’s always another copy...
At last, Nicola unfolded a small, white rectangle of paper on the desk. She had only glanced at the paper for a second, but it was long enough to realize that the message was not in English. Nicola gagged and batted the paper to the floor. By the time she reached the washroom to throw up, she had lost all sight in her right eye. Nicola had only glimpsed a few of the runes, but she could feel them working through her body: bad magick.
By nightfall, Rae Langley’s body was deteriorating rapidly. The darkness that had taken her right eye had moved on to most of the skin on her face, and likely the bones and brain underneath. It was time to move.
***
The following day, after a few hours of panicked research at the library, Nicola left Rae Langley’s body in a nearby alley. She only managed to cast the forfeiture spell with great difficulty; her mind and body were so weak that she was barely able to chalk out the circle of runes on the pavement.
This time, history would find that Rae Langley had set herself ablaze with two pop bottles full of gasoline, rather than shooting herself at the Ancestral Trail compound. While the fire was undoubtedly a worse way to die, Nicola felt the extra three weeks of life was a fair trade.
***
At first, Nicola thought she had mistakenly cast a surveillance spell; she materialized in a teenager’s bedroom, her consciousness hovering above a young couple in the midst of missionary sex. Then came the second shift, and Nicola found herself staring into the wide green eyes of Brenda Hinton’s daughter. Nicola gasped involuntarily as she felt an explosion of sensation that started between her legs and ended in an entirely new appendage.
“I love you, James,” Kerri Hinton whispered, wiping away tears.
“I love you too,” Nicola/James said, before putting a hand to her new neck. The deep voice made it feel like there were bumblebees in her throat.
“Let’s do this before we change our minds,” Kerri said, jumping up from under the covers. Her body was pale and littered with scabs and bruises. “Get dressed.”
Nicola watched as the other woman put on her underwear and a pretty sundress. When Nicola got up from the bed, she couldn’t help but stare at her new body: skinny and nearly hairless, except for a dark tuft of hair covering the new equipment. At the foot of the bed was a pair of khaki dress pants, briefs, a white shirt, a tie and a pair of blue tennis shoes. No socks though. James Fletcher was apparently a fashion rebel until the end.
“You don’t have to shoot me up if you don’t want to,” Kerri said, sitting on the bed with a jewelry box full of heroin paraphernalia. On top of the cache were two oversized syringes, already full of their lethal concoction. Kerri handed one to Nicola/James before pointing the other at the crook of her elbow. Nicola imitated the gesture as best she could.
“Ready, baby?” Kerri said, looking at James with a bittersweet smile. Nicola could feel James’s cheeks flush with shame as she watched Kerri push the plunger all the way down.
“At the same time,” Kerri said as she collapsed on the bed. Her eyes rolled towards the full syringe. “Like we promised.”
“I’m sorry,” Nicola told the dying woman. “I can’t do it.”
“But you promised, James...you promised,” Kerri said, her voice now a whisper.
“I know, baby, I know,” Nicola said, stroking Kerri’s raven dark hair. “People change.”
***
Nicola/James left the house in 20 minutes, after a less-than-thorough clean up of Kerri’s bedroom. She wanted to leave before Brenda Hinton came home to the worst day of her life. Brenda would want to talk to James, want to know why it happened. Nicola, of course, had no answers to give; she decided it would be best if that conversation never took place.
Nicola went to establish a temporary home at a nearby women’s homeless shelter; she had her fingertips on the door when she remembered that she was now a man.
Crap.
It turned out that 2002 was a bad year to be a homeless man in Frebe. Two of the missions Nicola searched for didn’t exist as of yet. Finally, Nicola decided to spend the night on the street. It was summer and she knew she wouldn’t be the only one out there using the stars as a ceiling.
In an attempt to forget about the growing hunger in her belly, Nicola wandered to the downtown library. She was officially off Mabius’s radar now, and she couldn’t help but feel a little cocky. She grabbed a copy of The Metamorphosis and went to work.
Allan,
Still alive. I’m assuming, of course, that you were the one who tried to kill me. Maybe you got David to do it for you. I have no idea why, or how you did this. Maybe you are simply an evil person. Just like me.
We can use spells and change bodies all we like, but we’re still the same people on the inside. Magick is wasted on us. But then, I suppose, if there weren’t any people like us around, there wouldn’t be any magick then, would there?
- N.
A broad smile crossed Nicola’s face as she returned the book to its proper shelf space. She pondered temporarily whether her two messages would reach Mabius in a sequence, or at the same time. Then she decided she couldn’t care less.
As she was leaving the fiction section, Nicola found herself wandering past the “P” shelves, trailing her finger across the works of Thomas Pynchon: otherwise known as David Cumming’s mailbox. A quick inspection of each book revealed a fine slit in a hardcover edition of Gravity’s Rainbow. The book seemed to vibrate in Nicola’s hands, as though the mystery it contained could explode. Another assassination attempt from Mabius? Or maybe David Cummings had found his way through after all. It took all of her willpower to return the book to its proper place, unread.
***
The police car caught up with Nicola/James as she exited the library. A distraught looking Brenda Hinton was sitting in the passenger seat; as soon as she saw James, she bolted from the car.
“James,” she said, running towards Nicola/James with a face full of tears. “Kerri’s dead! She’s dead!”
Nicola coolly stared at Brenda Hinton, examining her features. She was thinner, and dressed like a businesswoman. Different. But now, a new path had been set, one that ended in a farmyard on the outskirts of Frebe.
“James?” Brenda said, looking into Nicola’s eyes. “You knew already, didn’t you? Didn’t you!”
Brenda Hinton was beating her hands against James Fletcher’s thin chest. Nicola didn’t feel a thing; the woman’s sadness had made her weak. A police officer was beside them now, pulling Brenda Hinton away. Nicola didn’t notice the plainclothes officer until he spoke behind her.
“Mr. Fletcher? We’re going to want to speak to you down at the station.”
***
Aside from the omission of any mention of magick, Nicola/James gave the police an accurate summary of the events: a suicide pact that James could not fulfill.
The policeman shook his head and glared at James for several minutes, but seemed unable to exert any legal maneuver other than a tenuous drug possession charge. He left Nicola/James alone in the interrogation room for close to an hour.
In that time, Nicola felt a strange sensation hanging in her stomach: overwhelming guilt. Every cell in James Fletcher’s body was poisoned with it.
At last, the policeman returned to the room.
“Consider this matter still under investigation, James,” the policeman said, trying to sound tough. He really only sounded tired. “We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, I think there’s a mother out there who deserves to hear your story.”
“Nothing to tell her. If she wants to be mad at me for staying alive, that’s her problem. Not mine.”
Nicola could hear Brenda Hinton’s wail bouncing off the two-way mirror. The detective’s hand suddenly reached across the table and grabbed James Fletcher by the neck.
“I’d keep out of trouble James,” the detective whispered. “Sooner or later, you’ll be looking for another hit...and we’ll be waiting.”
As soon as she was released from custody and escorted to the main waiting area, Nicola darted to a bathroom and threw up for several minutes. Was she sick from guilt or withdrawal? Probably a bit of both; all Nicola knew was that she couldn’t stay inside James Fletcher’s body for another miserable moment.
Her mind made up, Nicola spent the rest of the day panhandling for gas money.
***
On a bed of grass, shivering under the stars, Nicola’s head buzzed from a lack of food.
James. All you’re giving me is guilt. How about your bank PIN? Or maybe a list of friends to crash with? That would be nice, for a change.
Too cold and hungry to sleep, Nicola walked through the park and into Frebe’s rundown north end. The entire district was permeated with a miasma of fast food and rotting garbage. Every step forward was murder.
Magick had given Nicola the power to play God over other people’s lives for a few hours, days or weeks, but she came to the realization that she lacked the motivation or creativity to actually live. No matter where she ended up, she was still stuck with her own marginal humanity. Even under new management, James Fletcher’s life was already ruined.
It was time to call it off, for real. At this moment of clarity, Nicola finally found some inspiration.
“I’m leaving, James,” Nicola told herself. “But I want to thank you. Maybe it did me some good to walk in your shoes for a while.”
Although she lacked chalk, Nicola found some crab apples that would stain the pavement just as well. A late-night gas station would serve as the gateway for her final jump. The station she chose, Frebe All Nite Gas, didn’t have much, but it had lighters...and gasoline. Nicola didn’t bother with a pop bottle or jerry can this time, dousing herself straight from the pump. The fuel felt ice cold as she poured it over James Fletcher’s head and body. A sizeable lake of gasoline had already formed before the clerk noticed her.
“What the are you doing, man?” a voice blared over the loudspeaker. “Don’t...don’t do that...”
As soon as Nicola clicked the lighter, she was engulfed by a giant ball of flames; the explosion immediately swallowed the islands of pumps and a section of the car wash. Inside the cashier’s booth, a figure writhed in agony.
Collateral damage...again...
For the third time in her life, Nicola felt flames eating away at her body. The pain was just as intense as before, but this time it didn’t come close to matching the self-loathing.
An experiment, then. Forward.
***
First, Nicola could smell the gasoline; then her parents’ garage came into view. But the vantage point was different this time around: Nicola was floating somewhere near the rafters, staring down at her own frail body. Her thin arms could barely hold the jerry can; finally, they gave out and dropped the container, leaving the gas to spill out of its own accord.
Nicola was starting to panic. There was sight, sound and smell, but no sense of touch; consciousness and body were still detached. All she could do was watch her body from above as a sudden surge of energy coursed through it, forcing the limbs into a severe seizure.
When the fit passed, Nicola watched as her body stared upwards, into the darkness above the rafters. It began to speak.
“Nicola? Is that you?” it said. “Yes. I can feel you there...”
The body took several unsteady steps forward before stopping to examine its arms and legs at great length.
“Don’t be sad, Nicola,” it said. “You are obviously a very sick woman and not long for this world. I suspect I won’t stay in here long myself. But I have things to do first.”
The body staggered out of the garage and moved towards the Pierponts’ house. It would likely find Nicola’s parents still in bed, exhausted from a long day of caring for their sick daughter. Nicola had no idea what would happen next. She really only knew one thing about magick: it ran on a brutal engine. She was suddenly very terrified for her parents. Who was inside her body? Mabius? There was no way to know for sure.
As the body stepped inside the house, Nicola felt her consciousness leaving the garage and moving into the air. It was as though her soul was expanding in all directions at once; all the will in the world would not hold it together for much longer.
Nicola sailed past the second-storey rooftop of her house and into a patch of leafless maple trees; soon there would only be sky, and beyond that, darkness.
And then, for the first time in her life, Nicola Pierpont tried to hang on.
Fin.
