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And, at the same time, I know she chose what’s best.
She is pure light…and I am the darkness that would have corrupted her.
* * *
A week later, I wake in my condo, the familiar heat of the Underworld a lacking substitute for the warmth Elara brought into my life. It’s a Monday, another hell day. But the sting of the morning feels dull, every sensation muted by a numbing fog.
The alarm shrieks its dreadful wake-up call at 6:00 a.m., an unholy symphony that has me wondering if I’ve already descended into a new level of Hell. I swat at it half-heartedly, the effort feeling monumental. Lying there, staring at the bleak ceiling, I consider fashioning the alarm clock into a deadly weapon and doing us both a favor.
With all the enthusiasm of a condemned man walking the gallows, I roll out of bed and onto the icy-cold floor. The apartment is as silent as a tomb, the perfect setting for my current state of existence. I shuffle into the bathroom, meeting the mirror’s harsh appraisal with a grimace. Dark circles under my eyes, pallor that would make a ghost jealous, and a general air of having been dragged through Hell backwards.
The shower offers a brief respite, the water hot and unfeeling against my skin. I stand under the spray, trying to wash away the memories of Elara. But hell, even the soap seems to be on her side.
Breakfast is as enticing as a plate of sawdust. Forget the blood sacrifice. I mechanically toast bread, slather it with butter, and wash it down with a cup of coffee as black as my current mood. If there’s a flavor, it’s lost on me. I imagine this is what despair tastes like.
Braving the outside world, I make my way to the office. The journey is a blur, my mind preoccupied with Elara. The charm of the Underworld has lost its luster, like a party where the music’s died and all the alcohol’s run out.
The office, once my stage, now feels like an elaborate joke with me as the punchline. I settle into my chair, eyeing the mountain of paperwork like it’s my next opponent in this never-ending bout of cosmic wrestling.
I work for a while, not even bothering to fudge the numbers or inflate them even a bit, and when I’m done I rise to do my usual walkthrough of the office, grimacing as soon as I step out on the floor.
The office is a battlefield littered with memories of Elara.
It’s not just the fact that these imps are eyeing me with a mix of concern and curiosity. It’s the palpable sense of unease that fills the room, the sudden hush that falls over the office as I make my rounds. It’s as if the entire place has been drenched in a heavy silence, a painful reminder of her absence.
Their gazes, once respectfully fearful, are now full of a knowing, sickeningsympathy. My lips curl in disgust as I catch one of them peeking out at me from a corner.
They know why I’m brooding, why I’m walking around like a ghost haunting its own life. They know she’s gone, and they know it’s tearing me apart. Each glance, each pitiful look, is a stark reminder of my loss.
Every corner, every room, every desk, carries the imprint of her presence. The changes she made are bitter reminders of what I’ve lost, the emptiness she left behind a gaping wound that refuses to heal.
Drowning in paperwork offers a semblance of solace, the routine tasks a distraction from the relentless onslaught of my thoughts. So, I head to the bowels of the Archives to distract myself and spend as many hours as I can in the pits. I don’t know how long I spend down there before coming back up.
With a sigh, I head back to my office and I’m almost at my door before I sense it. Something impossible that snags my attention.
A pure soul.
Time ceases. There’s only one person I know with a soul like that—Elara. A flurry of panic surges through me as I rush toward the source, flinging my door open so hard it slams into the other side of the wall and falls off the hinges.
I spot it immediately.
There, on my desk. A jar containing the ethereal glow.
I freeze, hoping what I’m seeing isn’t true.
What happened? Did she die Aboveworld? So consumed by my grief, I’d forced myself not to spy on her, not to watch over her. A decision I regret at this very moment.
As I’m about to storm out and begin my search for her, my chair swivels around, revealing the last person I expected to see. Elara.
Silence stretches between us as all I can do is just stare.
There are mimics among us. Shapeshifting demons that can transform into whatever you wish to see. For a moment, I think that’s exactly what I’m looking at. And yet…
“Bax,” Elara smiles.
“Elara,” I breathe out, my voice barely more than a whisper.
She flashes her familiar smirk and responds, “I remember you berating me about coming into your office uninvited. Are you going to punish me now?”
