It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-09-28 02:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | death |
Who: Muerte
What: Making some "life" decisions - Narrative
Where: Gotham
When: Recently (After recent not-great conversations - both her own and other people’s)
Warnings/Rating: ...No? Introspection? Acquisition of real estate?
She had been feared and worshiped by innumerable cultures, things said about her slipping away like rainwater over polished-smooth glass. But her glass had grown cracked and pocked in the recent past - by care, by pain, by forging connections both good and bad that scratched along a formerly smooth surface like a diamond cutter. It left weak spots and wounds where words could dig in, needles under skin, and send poison to the heart. It hurt, and she pulled away, wished to leave, to run, wished to find a place where she could no longer hear what was said about her in vicious and pained voices. Voices that used to not have that edge to them.
She didn’t claim to be a saint. She swore she didn’t. She knew that she had made mistakes, bad ones, and she thought she’d been doing her best to make amends. But all the amends turned around to only be more mistakes. Not malicious. There was only one thing she’d done maliciously, and she was convinced that she never would have without the toxin-laden deaths that had weighed on her. She couldn’t remember saying it wasn’t her fault, only that there was outside influence. But had she? Had she made it seem like she wasn’t trying to take responsibility, to make some sort of restitution? From what she’d heard said about herself (specifically, not conceptually), it seemed as if nothing she’d been doing had made any sort of positive step. The opposite, in fact. Even the throb of her aching cheek. Humanity was strange, the way it laced through her being as the Lazarus Pit once had, but she was trying. She was trying hard. And she was only hoping for a little patience while she sorted out what she was now from what she had always been. Instead, she got a demand to keep her nose out of things.
And she would. ...But.
Her awareness of everything wasn’t something that she could easily turn off. It was part of who - of what - she was. She threaded her way through the universe, and every spark of every living thing pressed on her awareness like electricity on skin in a lightning storm. She didn’t listen, not actively, not searching anything out specifically, but she heard. And she knew. Words and deeds and actions were given to the universe, and she knew. The only time she didn’t was when Iris was in Las Vegas, and even then, the history of what she’d missed rushed in and settled on her as soon as she returned through the door. The only time it ever truly shut off and stopped, ever muted down to just a quiet buzzing prickle of life, the energy of too much electricity in the air, was when she made the choice to be human. Not completely, not fully - she could never be that. But smaller and physical and vulnerable: that was a choice she could make. Humanity was confusing, difficult, sometimes unpalatable, but possible.
The question was whether it was worth it to try.
She knew that births and passings would continue on in the universe, even if she were not there, even if she was no longer the one to be the psychopomp from the world. She’d already seen it happen, the way being in Las Vegas didn’t halt the cycle of life in Gotham and beyond. So what, then, was keeping her at her post? Duties would be fulfilled, even if not by her. It presented the opportunity for something different.
Between one blink and the next, she thought of safety and belonging and purpose and home, and it brought her to a street in Gotham, looking up at a structure that had seen better days. The sign out front was both mocking and inviting, and she smiled to herself, feeling things settle (at least slightly) into place as she walked up to the front door. She laid a hand on the battered siding and felt a thrum of place and meaning.
***
The building, a large Victorian home built when the neighborhood had money, had seen better days. Privately-owned funeral homes were no longer as common as they had once been, and the former proprietor had closed his doors when his own mortality came knocking. The building had stood empty for too long - nearly a decade ravaged by the sort of neglect and decay that had spread to other areas of Gotham City as well. The neighborhood changed around it, crime surging for years before it was beaten back again to something less than a dull roar. The neighborhood had become, in recent time, a sort of middle ground - a buffer zone between the poor, crime-filled neighborhoods and the richer homes of Gotham’s elite. The neighbors were hard-working, maybe struggling a bit, but not as beaten down as they might have been. And there the funeral home sat. Empty. Vandals painted and broke and stole, and when the shattered windows were boarded up, they forced their way inside past the wood as well.
But something had happened. And it had begun to change.
Slowly, nearly imperceptibly at first, the building took on signs of care. The grass was cut, outside lights replaced. One by one, the boarded windows were first repaired, and then hung inside with sheer curtains. Lights could be seen inside at times, showing some signs of activity within, but no one ever seemed to come or go. Peering through the windows was made difficult by the newly hung curtains, but it did reveal the shadowed shapes of furniture inside. The outside sign was finally replaced, the former owner’s name changed simply to “Peaceful Passing Funeral Home”. Some of the neighborhood’s residents laughed at the name, but they couldn’t deny that there was something almost restful and respectful about the home now. And for some reason, the vandalism that had plagued it for years suddenly stopped. Rumors started that the building was haunted, but they spread only among those that would look to break and steal and harm again. Among others, the home retained its calm and peaceful reputation.
And then, to the side of the door, next to the mail slot that opened directly into the home, a sign appeared along with a small bin of paper, envelopes, and a pen.