Aidan Masters

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,

History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.

And lo another story starts to flow

As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind really is the greatest audience in the world. It’s heard a million confessions of love, a million deceitful dealings, a million births, and a million deaths. It’s heard the voice of Shakespeare, of Lord Byron, of Keats, of Chaucer - all in person and in the flesh. And it hears the frustrated curses of a modern day writer, Aidan, who sits over an antique typewriter. For years Aidan struggled as a writer, receiving just enough recognition (never fame) to feed him – both physically and egotistically – and convince him of the most beautiful lie: that maybe being a writer was indeed what he’s called to do. Except, more often than not, he faces nothing but this: the empty desperation of a deadline and the gaping absence of a story filling his cavernous mind. But then, as he mutters under his breath four simple words, his life turns down a path that would change him forever, that would inevitably change all of us forever.

“I’d sell my soul…”

There was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. The romance and theatrics of Hollywood were His greatest creation; to convince the mortal inhabitants of Earth that the supernatural only existed with improbable fantasy made His work all the more easy. Anyone can turn away from temptation when it’s full in your face – humans are remarkably heroic when it’s obvious exactly how to be a hero. No, He had perfected his work on Earth long ago, how to make these humans do His bidding. Let them think His whispers are their own brilliant ideas. Let them hang themselves on their own rope. No martyrs here; just mix up some greed, a dash of hope, a healthy dose of paranoia, and garnish with some genuine nobility. And just to prove how everyday His work is, Evil incarnate came for young Aidan Masters with the ring of his cell phone.

“What is it!?!” Aidan snapped as he lifted the phone to his mouth. “This better be fucking important. I’ve got twelve chapters and three plots to write tonight; and unless whoever you are is calling to tell me that I’ve won either won the lottery or my editor has dropped dead, you’re wasting my goddamn time.”

There was a long pause on the other end before a shaky voice could finally speak. “Aidan, it’s about your father.” Even over the phone, Aidan could tell his mother was dancing the razor thin edge of sanity. “He’s in the hospital. He collapsed at work today and… and… he’s got lung cancer. The doctors said it today. He’s got lung cancer, and he’s got a week to live with the treatment that I can afford…”

Aidan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t really remember the words that he spoke, the conversation with his crying mother. It was like a dream; he could see himself cleaning up his typewriter and gathering the loose pages on his desk into a sad semblance of order. He watched with intrigue as he could see himself grab his coat and car keys, and run out the door. He watched himself drive to the hospital in the pouring rain; saw all five of the close calls that would have landed him his own bed and gown. He saw himself dash through the halls of the Emergency Room yelling at nursing staff that he was trying to find his father, can’t you idiots fucking do anything right. He saw himself, his hysterical mother, his unconscious father with more tubes and plastic attached to him than any person should. He saw himself take a vase of flowers and throw it with all his hate and anger across the hall where it shattered into a million little pieces. He saw himself staring at his father for the briefest eternity – all the time needed until the clarity of nothingness filled his eyes and let him coldly hug his mother, walk out of the hospital, drive home, and begin typing with renewed fervor.

Aidan has a secret. What he writes comes true.

In first grade his elementary school was closed for a week. The class bully who would always pick on Aidan was found on the playground choked dead from the chain on a swing set. It was ruled an accident.

In junior high Mel had Aidan’s heart. Aaron had hers. Aaron’s prom limo ran through a guardrail and off a mountain road. Mel didn’t have a scratch on her, and Aidan thought she was so beautiful at the funeral.

In high school her name was Josie, and at the expulsion hearings her mother was furious that her daughter would not only throw away her private school education by engaging in such lewd acts on campus with that Aidan boy, but to deny any sort of memory of the whole event… well, that was not her Josie!

In college we get away with a lot. No one ever knew why Aidan got away with more than most.

But there were rules. For some reason writing about family never had any sort of supernatural effect at all… Aidan could remember the hateful stories he’d write about his parents, wishing they would die after they grounded him from prom… but they always lived. He remembered writing about his sister coming into amazing wealth and finding love, but she died tragically at a young age – poor, destitute, and ever alone. Family blood runs thicker than any ink Aidan could ever put to paper.

And today, Aidan’s paranoia over what he writes tethers him to mildly interesting stories at best. To record the real stories flying through his brain would be disastrous. “But fuck it. Dad is dying; Mom can’t afford his treatment, so I need to make this deadline. You want a story? Fine. But don’t blame me when people start dying and lives are ruined. Whatever it takes to make money to keep Dad alive…” And he began to write…

“She was always running…”

She was always running down this hall. Her scrubs were covered in blood, and yet, no time to change. The ER is the focal point of the infinite inevitability of human mortality, the center of the maelstrom that is human life. People come here to die, whether it’s before, after, or exactly their time to go. Reality never works here – you save who you can, you condemn others to death; and since life and death is your job, it makes normal life completely abnormal. The Nurse could remember when she first started working here; she would leave the hospital knowing that each day was precious, that the fragile balance between life and death meant that each day should be lived to its fullest. But time wore her down, and the ferocity of death lost its bite – leaving nothing but the cold grey of a world that no longer held any sort of extreme at all. Life, death, what did it matter? It’s all just some shade of grey…

“There are always hysterical people at hospitals though,” she couldn’t help thinking to herself. She envied those that still do feel the polar opposites of the emotions of life. “Take this guy here.” She didn’t even make eye contact at the crazed young man screaming at her to tell him where his father was. “Remember when you thought life was that important? Ah well.” She just kept running, turning down hall after hall, handing out life, handing out death, going home and coming to work.

She was always running at home too: she was married, but she didn’t love him anymore. She used to believe once that Love was forever, that if there’s anything in this world that is steadfast and can weather any storm, it is Love. But the years had found the Nurse retreating deeper and deeper into her own heart, as he retreated deeper and deeper into the comfort of the bottle. She walked through the door of her apartment, exhausted from the day’s work, and saw him passed out on the kitchen floor. Wine bottles littered the ground. The place stank of urine, vomit, and death, and the tremors that wracked his body made his already pathetic form seem even less human. She turned and walked out of the apartment without even the slightest bit of emotion. This was normal. She was always running.

Why didn’t she leave him? Who knows. She didn’t need the money. She did need the validation. She didn’t need the affection; there wasn’t any from him, and besides, she could get any man’s attention she wanted. She did need someone to save. And if she ever saved him, well, then there wouldn’t be any reason to be with him. Someday, she always said, he’d change. And if he didn’t, well, she was strong enough on her own. She’d be just fine.

She had heard once in a song that all relationships end in one of two ways; either happy together or happy apart. Whoever wrote that was a fool. The true ending for any relationship, for all of life, is nothing more than the result of a thousand constant compromises and fear. It was compromises that let her drop out of medical school; it was fear that made sure she never went back. Compromises found her never taking that trip around the world; fear made her believe it was the right decision. Compromises kept her in a stagnant relationship; fear made sure she never followed her heart with that young man of promise so long ago. Fear and compromise, compromise and fear.

The saddest thing was she could see how the rest of her life would be. Each day is the same dull shade of grey: work, home, life. It’s enough to drive someone to doing something crazy. Enough to make someone run. And run she did…

Aidan looked up from his typewriter. His hands were cramping and ink smudged his face and hands. But there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there in years. He was writing life again… He paused for a moment, stared up at the ceiling, and then began with renewed fervor…

"Even with no siblings, he was never an only child…”

Even with no siblings, he was never an only child. Though most kids have their imaginary friends that they conjure up to keep them company, this Child’s fanciful friend was Death himself. Whether it was an ants’ nest or a stray cat, Death would whisper to him whenever he would go out and play. It was completely normal for him to see a life’s end, and for some reason the ending of lives tended to follow him around. And now at the ripe old age of twelve, misunderstood and mis-medicated, he walked home to see his step-father after school. Not like his parents would miss him anyways. Not like he’d miss the beatings.

The Child stood in the doorway of his step-father’s apartment and inhaled deeply. It was the welcome smell of death; in this case, equal parts urine, vomit, and alcohol. His step-father was passed out on the floor, laid out in a bed of wine bottles and filth. The Child knew his step-father’s wife was a Nurse, dedicated to helping people, but he had never seen her show any care at all. The Child slowly started cleaning up, stepping over the trembling and groaning body of his step-father. He never had any thoughts of self-pity, never thought that this was too much for a twelve year old. This was all he’d ever known, and Death smiled cruelly at him from the corner of the room, never once offering to help clean up.

He slept on the couch, if you could call it sleep. Terror would wake him in any number of forms. First there was the cold that the ratty blanket he lay huddled in couldn’t keep away. This cold was beyond the lack of warmth; it was the chill of despair and decay that sat deep inside his bones. It was the rising panic and mania that there is no cure, no solution, no way out of the life he had found himself in. Wrapping himself tighter seemed to hold the cold in instead of keeping it at bay.

Then there were the fits of coughing and choking coming from his step-father’s form on the floor. The Child could hear his step-father’s insides being torn apart, the body rejecting the very oxygen trying to keep life alive. He could almost taste the blood and bits of flesh that were for sure rising into his step-father’s throat. He tried to ignore the sounds, to tell himself that they would stop soon, but they never did. He used to try to help, to soothe him, to try to get him to drink something. Now, he just covered his head and shut his eyes so tight it hurt. If only Death would leave him alone, let him be an only child.

But the scariest terror that would wake him was the realization that this was all there was to life. When the cold grey dawn of the next morning would come, the Child knew he’d just be laying there with open eyes staring up at the ceiling. Death would be whispering in his ear again to do all sorts of terrible things, and if he was strong enough, he’d ignore them. Day after day after day would be the same. He needed a way out of this, a way to finally be alone…

Aidan didn’t even look up as he reached for a new ream of paper and loaded his typewriter.

“He was truly alone surrounded by a million people…”

He was truly alone surrounded by a million people. The Painter had left his tiny hometown to pursue his big dreams. Everyone was so proud of him. He was moving to the Big City to be a real artist, to be a Painter following his calling. He’d been here for a year now, and was getting by just fine. Friends from back home would call every so often, and someone was usually here visiting or on business or passing through while traveling. He’d met some new friends, gone out on a couple of dates, even met some fellow artists. But you’ve never met a man more alone. Each morning he woke with a dull sense of despair. It took all the effort in the world to get out of bed, even more to get dressed, and even more to open his front door. Most days found him lounging lethargically on his couch at home, watching a blank TV screen. He’d stare intently at his phone and pray for it to ring. If he was feeling particularly courageous, he’d call someone; maybe a friend from back home, maybe a business contact. He almost always would reach a voice mail. “Hey, let’s hang out sometime.” Nothing says alone like hanging up a phone.

Sometimes he’d go sit at a coffee shop. He’d order the biggest cup of coffee they sell, sit alone facing the door, and wait for someone meaningful to come inside. He’d watch smiling people laughing as they walked by outside, and wished that they were him. It wasn’t even uncommon for a pretty girl to smile at him and say hello. But he never felt like he was a part of it all. Instead, he’d feel sick from the coffee, sick from his loneliness, sick from the panic of dying alone. Sometimes when a new gallery was opening, the Painter would get invited. And more often than not, he’d make up an excuse to not go. “Oh, I’m actually busy that night. Me and a bunch of friends are going out.” “I actually have a date that night.” “Wow, I’d really love to go, but I’m super swamped with other stuff… next time for sure.” And he’d sit by himself in his room, completely alone.

He loved going to live shows. Concerts, the theatre, plays, even operas were all a chance to feel a part of something bigger. He’d always, always, buy two tickets. He told himself that by the time the show came around, there’d be someone in his life he could share it with. But he always went alone. He’d invite friends he knew couldn’t make it, just to pretend he’d tried. He’d go alone, be a part of a thousand person crowd, and get overlooked by everyone.

The Painter’s apartment was right next door to a hospital, and he was deathly jealous of the sirens that wailed through the night. Everyone riding in an ambulance was special for those fifteen minutes; you can’t be alone with people trying to save your life. Sometimes he’d sit in the waiting room of the ER and pretend like he was waiting on the news of a loved one’s fate. There was a certain sense of camaraderie that he shared with the others waiting there. He could make their pain his; and for a few seconds, he almost felt un-alone. Coming to the ER became a bit of a routine. And the scary thing was the Painter could see himself doing this for the rest of his life.

There was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. There was only a whisper and a suggestion He kept making to Aidan. “You must be doing the right thing. It’s for your father, who cares if this actually comes true. If it sells, you can save your father.” Aidan looked up again with the light of passion in his eyes. “If it sells, I can help Dad. Who cares if it comes true?” He smiled and looked over Aidan’s shoulder as he wrote. He liked them when they were like this, desperate, at wits end, and just starting to feel empowered. His work was really too easy sometimes. Hardly work at all when these humans kept digging their own graves. Aidan picked up his cell phone, dialed the hospital, and waited for the answer. “Yes, hello? Aidan Masters. Go ahead and begin the treatment on my father. I’ll have the money.” Excellent, He said, and slowly left the room.

The Nurse kept running from the grey: the grey of her life, of the lines between life and death, the grey of Her City. Perhaps it’s better to say that she wanted to keep running. But it seemed that for each step she took away from the cold of the Emergency Room, the cold of her husband, and the cold of her numb heart she found it easier to turn around and embrace what she’d always known. She hadn’t seen her son in weeks. She hadn’t slept by her husband’s side in months. She’d gone through the motions of smiling and winking and laughing with the people in her life, but deep inside all she wanted to do was to run away from it all, to cut through the grey.

And then one morning it struck her. This morning she would finally take a stand. She would escape by running no more: she would make a change in her life. She didn’t know what it would be, but today, today was the day. She drove to the Emergency Room with a renewed sense of purpose. Finally she was running, and it wasn’t away from anything at all, it was towards her destiny. She strode in with confidence and determination. Anyone who looked at her could tell that there was something about her today. A young man with paint on his nose looked up from a family he was consoling in the waiting room and eyed her with admiration. “I’ll bet she’s never alone”.

Aidan paused at his typewriter. What should the Nurse do…? She could quit her job, quit her life, and travel the world. She could save a thousand lives today. Anything to escape the numbness of her grey world. Or she could… Yes, this will do…

For so long she had been running from the cold grey futility of trying to change people’s exit from this life. Save a life here, give final comfort there – this was the life of her as a Nurse. But if there was a place where she could take control for once in her life, here, with life and death hanging in the balance, here is where there would be the most meaning. Here is the stuff reserved for the gods.

She grabbed the first chart that caught her eye, and headed into the patient’s room. “This’ll do…” she whispered to herself. “Room 408, your destiny is about to change…”

She rushed out of the room so that no one would see that she had been with the patient in his final hour, been the cause of the monotone death wail that came from the machine that so carefully recorded his every heartbeat. The pandemonium of nurses and doctors trying to revive him with crash carts and chemicals brought the smallest of smiles to her face. Today she had made a difference, had changed the fate of a person with finality.

Aidan’s cell phone rang, and its vibrations caused it to dance across the desk. It almost seemed alive. He ignored it. How much time had gone by? Hours? Weeks? It didn’t matter. He had to finish writing.

The Child sat at his desk at school, cold and disturbed. Death sat in the corner of the room, pointing at random flies and spiders, causing them to fall lazily to their deaths on the classroom floor. “He’s dying, you know. Your step-dad. Your mom too, every day she spends with him she dies a little bit more. You know that cough your step-dad makes?” Death put his hands to his mouth and the most retched coughs (a perfect imitation of the ones the Child would hear every night) filled the classroom for no one but the Child to hear. “That cough is the call for me to come and get him. I will someday, you know.” Another fly fell to its end as Death raised an eyebrow.

Tears filled the Child’s eyes as he looked up at the friend he’d always known and never been without. “Why don’t you leave me alone!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, causing the students around him to jump up from their desks in a panic. The teacher stopped her lesson with her own tears filling her eyes, and simply pointed to the classroom door. The Child slowly packed up his things and trudged out the hall.

He was supposed to go to the principal’s office he knew; he had been there countless times before. But this time, he didn’t care. He just wanted to be alone. He wanted to be free of Death’s whispers, of Death’s touch on his life. He followed his feet, out the building, out the front gate, out onto the street. It was here where…

“Where…” Aidan drummed his fingers on the desk as he struggled for a direction to take this thought. His cell phone beeped once letting him know he had a voice message. “Where…”

“Where the hell is 858 31st street?” The Painter muttered to himself as he scanned the buildings around him while barely keeping one eye on the road. One eye is never enough to see the whole road, much less a Child wandering aimlessly out onto a street. The squeal of breaks, the shriek of tires, and the sickening crunch of metal and bone filled the crosswalk and seemed to echo in the silence that followed. Unseen to anyone, Death shook his head, spat on the Child’s body, and disappeared.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” the Painter mumbled as he rocked back and forth, clutching himself in the driver’s seat of his stopped car. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” he opened his car door, and somehow managed to walk forward while shying away from the view that awaited him in front of his car. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD…” There was blood everywhere. So bright and so red. Everywhere. “This can’t be happening oh my god oh my god oh my god. What the hell am I going to do oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

The Painter looked around in a panic. The street was empty. No one had seen the accident. No one knew his secret. He leaned over and stretched out a finger to feel the Child’s pulse. Nothing – the Child was finally alone. And then, in a flash of purpose - the Painter scooped the Child’s mangled body into his arms, tried to open the passenger door, dropped the body, cursed, opened the door, managed to prop the lifeless form upright in the seat, shut the door, cursed again as it caught on the body’s arm, pushed the arm into the car, quickly shut the door until it locked with a click, rushed to the drivers door, opened it, jumped in, and slammed it shut. No one had seen anything.

The Painter sat in his seat with both hands on the wheel, chest rising and falling quickly as he breathed deeply. He stole a glance over to his passenger, and then quickly looked ahead. He’d have to clean up. He sped off home, and soon was back at his car with a bucket of water and sponge. The car was soon clean, as was the body. He put some sunglasses on the Child’s corpse so random passerby’s wouldn’t notice, and headed off towards the hospital. He could drop the body there.

But something strange happened on his drive to the Emergency Room. The Painter kept looking over at the lifeless body in the passenger seat, and noticed he had done a good job cleaning. In fact, if you didn’t look too closely, the Child looked like any normal sleeping kid. The Painter could swear that people looked at him differently as he drove by. They could see that he was just a normal Painter with a normal Child next to him. And for once, the Painter didn’t feel alone. He had a passenger. He turned to drive through the heart of the city. The hospital can wait for now.

He didn’t know how long he drove, but eventually he knew that he would have to go to the hospital. He was quite sad, actually. This time with the Child had opened his eyes – since moving here he had prayed to cure his loneliness – but it had nothing to do with other people. It had everything to do with how he saw himself. From here on, he would make a true effort to reach out to the people around him, instead of being content to hide in his fear by himself. From here on…

His thoughts were cut short as the wails of sirens and flashing lights greeted him at the entrance to the Emergency Room. Countless voices yelled at him to get out of his car with his hands up. The Painter had never had a gun pointed at him, and panic again filled him as he climbed awkwardly out of the car. “My son is hurt!” He yelled fervently. “He needs medical attention!” He kept screaming protests about the Child, about who he really believed was his son. The screams fell on deaf ears though as he was handcuffed and pushed into the back of a police car. Someone had seen the whole accident; there are no secrets in this world. And as the Painter sat in the back of the police car, he couldn’t help but notice all the flashing lights, all the staring onlookers, all the news vans were here for him and him only. He was finally important to people, he had escaped being alone.

A knock on the door pulled Aidan’s eyes up from his typewriter. How much time had gone by? He stood up irritably and pulled the door to his apartment open. “What the fuck do you want! I’m writing here, I’m trying to save my Dad!” Aidan’s mother stood in the doorway, her eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. “It’s your father,” she said without emotion. She was completely spent of any feeling. “He’s dead”.

“But that’s impossible!” Aidan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I authorized the treatment; he’s going to be fine!”

“No son, he died early this morning. Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Apparently there was some sort of mistake in treatment. They’re looking into it. The hospital thinks it was negligence on someone’s part. Come on, we have to go to the hospital to sign some paperwork.”

As Aidan and his mother left the room, there was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. Ever so calmly He took his seat at Aidan’s typewriter and began to type with a constant, monotonous rhythm.

The Nurse held her son’s lifeless body close as she wept for what seemed like an eternity. The glow of the police car sirens faded away eventually, as did the curious onlookers. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen her son in weeks, the cruelty of the black and white reality she had to face was more than she could bear. Eventually the coroners came to take the Child’s body, and she walked aimlessly inside the Emergency Room. She walked up to the counter and began signing the paper work necessary for the death of a relative. “Funny,” she whispered, “that life ends…”

“…with just some paperwork”. Aidan muttered to himself. He looked up and saw a Nurse with the same tiredness of eyes that spoke of a loss greater than loss of life itself. She too was filling out the same forms as he, and something drew her to him. He put down his pen, walked over to her, and without a word gave her an embrace that spoke of the loss they both could share and had to endure.

A black moon rose that night over the Painter in his cell, the Child in the morgue, and the Nurse and Aidan sitting together at the hospital. In time Aidan would surely find out who the cause of his father’s death was. Surely the Nurse would find something to run away from again. But for tonight, they could share each other’s pain, and perhaps offer the smallest hint of comfort and deluded hope. And as the constant rhythm of keys pressed on an antique typewriter in an empty room fades slowly away, the last thing to hear them is simply the greatest audience in the world: the wind.

...And so the wind doth blow across the land,

Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.

Another tale closes its pages

Until opened again by history's sages