The Death Day Calendar:
Induced Sleep
Michael Crossbow died in Boston, Massachusetts, year 1987; since then he committed seven suicides, lived under seven different names and inhibited seven different bodies.
Michael Crossbow is a human parasite: he feeds on life.
If he dies on selected date and time, his soul reincarnates and incubates a host body, usually of a person locked in coma.
He lives on other side of world, with different upbringing, differing background, different age, but same memory of the old self.
The trouble is that the power that brings him pleasure would soon also lead to his demise.
I
It was a good place to die. Not another horrendous corner of shabby street, or the parking space of the gasoline station. No- this one, even when eerie- had some grace to it. An abandoned mansion- the name alone held a note of supremacy- was the checkpoint in which Michael Crossbow would take his life- for the seventh time. Death was in pair with the place. The elegant chairs sat unaccompanied, great mirrors decorated by spider web of weakness lines, the paint yellowed with age curling and falling just like the neighbouring rust. The deathly silence was not a loner too, frequently disturbed by tapping and scrapping of the mice, rapid flutter of the cloth moths who made their way into the oriental window coverings, and the crushing sound of spider consuming its terrified prey. Death, after all, in nature means life.
You couldn’t arrive to The Death Place too early or too late; you only could arrive just on time. Which is trickier than anyone could expect. The old grandfathers’ clock, which much to Crossbows liking, dominated the hall, was five minutes before ten. A time he could describe as nothing more- but just on time.
Like Matron had said, the gun was waiting for him in the lower drawer of the shelf standing under the vintage painting of some count who owned this palace. The mould was creeping on the painted face, but Crossbow could make out the aristocratic pose, uplifted chest decorated by medals and honours, the emotionless face with brow of supremacy and determination. He started to wonder what caused downfall of such young gentleman, must have been the recession in 1930’s. Crossbow opened the drawer to get a sight of Browning Pistol served on the plate as if cuisine- Bon Appétit Monsieur Crossbow. He grabbed the instrument with caution; it weighted almost a kilo and measured nine and half inches. Two bullets were packed into the magazine- as always two- wonder for what is the second one... maybe to be used when the first one doesn’t do the justice.
This time the firearm seemed to be heavier than usual, and death for the first time since the beginning- became fearsome again. Maybe because Crossbow got used- even maybe attached- to his current host body of the middle classed Eric Bowman. Crossbow lived as Bowman for a record breaking time of four years, he got used to his lifestyle, to his wife. He realised he would miss the scorch of the Miami sun, the azure beaches, the morning walks in the Craden Park- but, hell, man can’t have it all. The cops already are on his trail, and he crossed more lines he was allowed to- he won’t be able to continue- he has to die if he wants to live.
Crossbow closed the hatch of the gun, and turned to an uncommon face of a woman that made him jump on the spot.
“It’s me idiot.” The voice of Harriet Thomas replied; she was now inhibiting the body of infamous Jessica Wells.
“Didn’t recognised you- I still didn’t get used.” Crossbow said. Thomas just like Crossbow had this special power of resurrection or reincarnation, or whatever it was they had. Her current host had lengthy, blonde hair- almost waist length- and seductively long, thin legs. Crossbow didn’t know how many people could perform the trick- he only knew three- four if you count The Matron.
“Don’t get used to it. You know where my gun is?” Thomas asked.
“Didn’t Matron tell you?”
“I was listening with my left ear.”
Thomas started to shuffle through the shelves, drawers and wardrobes. Her arms were jerking the countless hideouts open, scanned their interior, but Crossbow guessed they were empty as she closed them as quickly as opened.
“Where’s Jeff?” He asked to diffuse the tension; the clock had pointed three to now.
“He said he stepped in some shit, and that he would be late.” She replied with aggression, slamming another thing shut. “Matron had to pick this damn bolthole- searching for stuff in this thing will take ages!”
“You should’ve listened.” Crossbow teased.
“More word and I will keep you alive.” Kill you won’t work in such circumstances. Kill you means save you in this universe.
“You said Jeff stepped into shit.”
“Let me concentrate-.” Thomas quietened him.
“It’s in the upper left drawer.” He gestured with his head and grinned when Thomas shot him a poisonous glance. “Unlike you, I listen.”
She walked to the gestured spot and returned with weaponry clicked ready, it was two to ten. Unlike Crossbow, Thomas didn’t hesitate she had a pretext to kill herself- the current reincarnation gnawed on her more than anything- she had wakened up in a body of heroin addicted prostitute.
“You think Jeff will make it?”
“No.” She replied definitively. They both stood in the middle of the ancient hall, back to back, guns ready to make a fatal blow, to open doors to a new, unexpected world.
“Why so?”
“I think he got too attached. Remember what Matron once said- that the more you reincarnate the more attached you get to the host, that the hosts’ personality starts to beat through and kill yours?”
“Wow, you get a medal for quoting him word to word.” Crossbow grinned.
“I think that’s what happened.” She said ignoring him. “That the Doc’s real soul had killed Jefferson. He reincarnated how many times now- twelve, twenty? Last time I had seen him he said he would kill himself “Only if I save my patient first” I think that is saying something.”
“Or maybe sod wants to die now naturally. Watch the time- we have minute.”
“What if we die too?”
“We’re about to die now.”
“But for real?”
He didn’t answer.
The minutes changed to seconds and ticking clock suddenly become loud. Without further talk they both got the artillery ready. The gun was steady in his mouth, held my teeth which collided with metal with a muffled “click”. He could taste the steel and cold, his tongue had moved over the circular opening of the barrel.
Committing suicide became part of his annual basic, but he still felt anxious when the gunpoint faced the ceiling of his mouth.
It doesn’t hurt, the bullet travels 400 meters per second, within a jiffy it penetrates through the skin, the skull, and then it finally hits the grey matter- and as once it shatters the Limbic System- you hardly feel a thing. The teeth are a tricky matter; when the shot is made the devastating wave of impact splinters them from their pockets, easier than glass.
It’s still the cleanliest way to do it. Jumping down heights can shatter bones, but not always kill. Pleasurable death in sleep is hard to measure- and when your end has to occur at exact spot at exact time- falling asleep falls short for the fit.
Ten seconds and he would leave Miami and Eric Bowman. Nine, and he would steal a new life, Eight, new body, Seven, new name, Five, new world, Four, new family. Three, but he will still remain, Two, the same man, one...
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Induced Sleep
Michael Crossbow died in Boston, Massachusetts, year 1987; since then he committed seven suicides, lived under seven different names and inhibited seven different bodies.
Michael Crossbow is a human parasite: he feeds on life.
If he dies on selected date and time, his soul reincarnates and incubates a host body, usually of a person locked in coma.
He lives on other side of world, with different upbringing, differing background, different age, but same memory of the old self.
The trouble is that the power that brings him pleasure would soon also lead to his demise.
I
It was a good place to die. Not another horrendous corner of shabby street, or the parking space of the gasoline station. No- this one, even when eerie- had some grace to it. An abandoned mansion- the name alone held a note of supremacy- was the checkpoint in which Michael Crossbow would take his life- for the seventh time. Death was in pair with the place. The elegant chairs sat unaccompanied, great mirrors decorated by spider web of weakness lines, the paint yellowed with age curling and falling just like the neighbouring rust. The deathly silence was not a loner too, frequently disturbed by tapping and scrapping of the mice, rapid flutter of the cloth moths who made their way into the oriental window coverings, and the crushing sound of spider consuming its terrified prey. Death, after all, in nature means life.
You couldn’t arrive to The Death Place too early or too late; you only could arrive just on time. Which is trickier than anyone could expect. The old grandfathers’ clock, which much to Crossbows liking, dominated the hall, was five minutes before ten. A time he could describe as nothing more- but just on time.
Like Matron had said, the gun was waiting for him in the lower drawer of the shelf standing under the vintage painting of some count who owned this palace. The mould was creeping on the painted face, but Crossbow could make out the aristocratic pose, uplifted chest decorated by medals and honours, the emotionless face with brow of supremacy and determination. He started to wonder what caused downfall of such young gentleman, must have been the recession in 1930’s. Crossbow opened the drawer to get a sight of Browning Pistol served on the plate as if cuisine- Bon Appétit Monsieur Crossbow. He grabbed the instrument with caution; it weighted almost a kilo and measured nine and half inches. Two bullets were packed into the magazine- as always two- wonder for what is the second one... maybe to be used when the first one doesn’t do the justice.
This time the firearm seemed to be heavier than usual, and death for the first time since the beginning- became fearsome again. Maybe because Crossbow got used- even maybe attached- to his current host body of the middle classed Eric Bowman. Crossbow lived as Bowman for a record breaking time of four years, he got used to his lifestyle, to his wife. He realised he would miss the scorch of the Miami sun, the azure beaches, the morning walks in the Craden Park- but, hell, man can’t have it all. The cops already are on his trail, and he crossed more lines he was allowed to- he won’t be able to continue- he has to die if he wants to live.
Crossbow closed the hatch of the gun, and turned to an uncommon face of a woman that made him jump on the spot.
“It’s me idiot.” The voice of Harriet Thomas replied; she was now inhibiting the body of infamous Jessica Wells.
“Didn’t recognised you- I still didn’t get used.” Crossbow said. Thomas just like Crossbow had this special power of resurrection or reincarnation, or whatever it was they had. Her current host had lengthy, blonde hair- almost waist length- and seductively long, thin legs. Crossbow didn’t know how many people could perform the trick- he only knew three- four if you count The Matron.
“Don’t get used to it. You know where my gun is?” Thomas asked.
“Didn’t Matron tell you?”
“I was listening with my left ear.”
Thomas started to shuffle through the shelves, drawers and wardrobes. Her arms were jerking the countless hideouts open, scanned their interior, but Crossbow guessed they were empty as she closed them as quickly as opened.
“Where’s Jeff?” He asked to diffuse the tension; the clock had pointed three to now.
“He said he stepped in some shit, and that he would be late.” She replied with aggression, slamming another thing shut. “Matron had to pick this damn bolthole- searching for stuff in this thing will take ages!”
“You should’ve listened.” Crossbow teased.
“More word and I will keep you alive.” Kill you won’t work in such circumstances. Kill you means save you in this universe.
“You said Jeff stepped into shit.”
“Let me concentrate-.” Thomas quietened him.
“It’s in the upper left drawer.” He gestured with his head and grinned when Thomas shot him a poisonous glance. “Unlike you, I listen.”
She walked to the gestured spot and returned with weaponry clicked ready, it was two to ten. Unlike Crossbow, Thomas didn’t hesitate she had a pretext to kill herself- the current reincarnation gnawed on her more than anything- she had wakened up in a body of heroin addicted prostitute.
“You think Jeff will make it?”
“No.” She replied definitively. They both stood in the middle of the ancient hall, back to back, guns ready to make a fatal blow, to open doors to a new, unexpected world.
“Why so?”
“I think he got too attached. Remember what Matron once said- that the more you reincarnate the more attached you get to the host, that the hosts’ personality starts to beat through and kill yours?”
“Wow, you get a medal for quoting him word to word.” Crossbow grinned.
“I think that’s what happened.” She said ignoring him. “That the Doc’s real soul had killed Jefferson. He reincarnated how many times now- twelve, twenty? Last time I had seen him he said he would kill himself “Only if I save my patient first” I think that is saying something.”
“Or maybe sod wants to die now naturally. Watch the time- we have minute.”
“What if we die too?”
“We’re about to die now.”
“But for real?”
He didn’t answer.
The minutes changed to seconds and ticking clock suddenly become loud. Without further talk they both got the artillery ready. The gun was steady in his mouth, held my teeth which collided with metal with a muffled “click”. He could taste the steel and cold, his tongue had moved over the circular opening of the barrel.
Committing suicide became part of his annual basic, but he still felt anxious when the gunpoint faced the ceiling of his mouth.
It doesn’t hurt, the bullet travels 400 meters per second, within a jiffy it penetrates through the skin, the skull, and then it finally hits the grey matter- and as once it shatters the Limbic System- you hardly feel a thing. The teeth are a tricky matter; when the shot is made the devastating wave of impact splinters them from their pockets, easier than glass.
It’s still the cleanliest way to do it. Jumping down heights can shatter bones, but not always kill. Pleasurable death in sleep is hard to measure- and when your end has to occur at exact spot at exact time- falling asleep falls short for the fit.
Ten seconds and he would leave Miami and Eric Bowman. Nine, and he would steal a new life, Eight, new body, Seven, new name, Five, new world, Four, new family. Three, but he will still remain, Two, the same man, one...
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!