Ember X (Death Collectors) - By Jessica Sorensen Page 0,1
under the car. “If he ever comes back, you need to tell him to go away.”
“Alright.” I frown, dropping pennies into the jar. Once my dad is under the car, I dare a peek at the empty corner, secretly hoping my friend will be back. But he’s not and my heart aches. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who understands death like I do.
Chapter 1
Thirteen years later…..
I love the cemetery. It’s quiet and peaceful—it’s the only place where I get a break from death. I loathe crowded places, crammed with voices and life. It hurts to be around life. People don’t understand how close death is, right over their shoulders, around the block, at the end of a street. It’s everywhere and I’m the only one who knows where it’s hiding. I see death every day, but a cemetery is already dead.
The moon is vibrant tonight, only a sliver away from being full. Dry leaves fall from the oak tree and the air smells crisp with autumn. Headstones entomb the ground and a light mist dews the crisp blades of grass. I lean against a tree trunk with my notebook propped open on my knee, a pen in my hand, as I scribble words that are important to me.
The cemetery is my sense of comfort, my sanctuary in a world of darkness, the one piece of light I have in my life.
I remove the tip of the pen from the page and read over my words. I sound obsessed with death, like Edgar Allan Poe or Emily Dickinson, but death is a huge part of who I am. With a simple touch I know when someone will die. Whether they’ll go painfully. If their life will end up stolen.
I set the notebook on the grass and tuck the pen inside the spine. I pull my hood over my head, cross my arms, and stare out at the desolate street. One of the streetlights flickers and a dog barks from behind the front gate of a redbrick home. I glance at my watch. It’s really late. I grab my notebook and start across the cemetery. The ground is damp and clunky, and my black boots sink into the moist dirt. I eye the headstones; big, small, intricate, plain. I wonder if the details of a headstone define the life of the person resting beneath it. If it’s big and fancy, does it mean they were loved by many? Or were they lonely, but had money? Do small and plain ones declare that they lived a lonely life? Or were they just not materialistic?
I’m probably the only one crazy enough to be walking around thinking these thoughts.
The wind howls like a dust storm and leaves whirlwind around my head. I tuck my chin down, fighting through the dust toward the front gate as pieces of my black hair curtain my pale face and grey eyes and stick against my plump lips. My boot catches on the corner of a grave and I face-plant onto the grass. My notebook flies from my hand and my head smacks the corner of a headstone.
“Ow,” I mumble, clutching my head as I smear dirt off my cheek. My gaze travels upward to a statuesque carving of a hooded figure with the head tucked down and in the hand is a scythe.
“The Grim Reaper, huh?” I rise to my feet, stretching out my long legs, and tilt my head up. “I bet you know what it’s like, don’t you? To be surrounded by death all the time? I bet you understand me.”
The wind violently picks up and carries my notebook away. Shielding my eyes from the dust, I chase after it. It dances through the leaves and glides across the grass, finally resting against a soaring angelic statue in the crook of the cemetery. I hurry after it. A black raven swoops down from one of the trees and circles in front of me.
“Why are you always following me?” I whisper to the raven. “Is it because you know what I am—a symbol of death like you?”
“Dammit, I am so sick and tired of doing all your dirty work. It’s such crap,” a voice cuts through the cemetery.
I hastily take cover behind the Angel statue and the raven perches on the head, ruffling its wings. No one hangs out in cemeteries late at night, except for weirdos and people like me. (And as far as I know, I’m the only girl of my kind.)