Don’t Fear the Reaper: The First Chapter

I thought it would be helpful to post the first chapter of the latest book. You know, spur on a little interest.

Here’s the premise:

Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she discovers death isn’t at all what she expected. Instead, she’s trapped in a netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers Keely her greatest temptation—revenge on her sister’s murderer—she must uncover his motives and determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.

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CHAPTER ONE

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for they are with me.

I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood stream from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.

I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have.

Jordan had kept my secrets, and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something. But nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.

Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven…

I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he’d given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single prayer. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was okay wherever she was. What was so hard about that?

She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.

I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan was killed. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.

Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I know it was hard for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. When Mom went to the psychiatrist, no one asked me if I needed to talk about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.

Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? She’d been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.

I will fear no evil.

I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalms 23, because it said “I shall not want.” And I did want. I wanted to go back in time. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell, with demons cackling gleefully all around.

I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?

Before I got down to cutting my wrist—I managed to only cut one—I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d taken another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in case I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I sat the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.

It would have been easier to OD. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.

I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It’d become my personal mantra.

The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.

Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath, but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more, so it was just as well. Besides, I found the crimson that streamed from my wrist like watercolor on silk oddly mesmerizing.

The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from Psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.

I tried to not to think of who would find my body first or read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.

My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage it. Tears welled in my eyes.

Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.

Give me a sign, sis. Just one.

I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—saw their gaunt faces, red eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?

No. Stop, a voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please…

I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. The effort of focusing had become difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 9-1-1? Why had I gotten back into the tub? I couldn’t remember getting out. Did I use a towel?

Mom is going to be pissed when she sees all the blood I’ve tracked onto the bedroom carpet. 

“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.

“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. Softer, a hint of sorrow to it. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. Surely, I’d get the help I needed now.

My eyelids fluttered in tune with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty watercolor ribbons, were gone.

Dull gray clouded my sight.

A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.

“—okay, Keely.”

Cold. So cold.

“I’m right here.”

I wasn’t even afraid. He bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet older. His eyes were so… blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his hand. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense—exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.

Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.

—-

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