Chapter 7: Chapter 7

S A V A N N A H

I WENT TO my funeral in a stolen car.

Søren promised we would return it afterwards. It was an inconspicuous, weathered little black Volkswagen Beatle that had been parked across the road outside the apartments. It had also been conveniently left unlocked —the poor owner must have forgotten to do so —making it less work for us. I asked why we did not simply walk, but unfortunately we were running late.

As it turned out, getting to Fulton from Downtown Manhattan was not as quick as Saratoga, even after shifting.

Søren assured that we would not need the car for long anyway. That it would just be an in and out operation.

It was all a part of his anti-homesickness plan —that I had not liked initially. In fact, I had wondered how it could even help.

It turned out, in a weird way, it was an important and pivotal experience.

It was the still, humid Tuesday after the accident; the sky grey and full of fat dark clouds that refused to rain. Maybe they too felt the need to bottle up the tears. It took a lot of will to attend my funeral, and before I had even set foot in the church yard, tears were already blurring my vision. I had grown up in that church; going there every Sunday in a clean white lace dress. If I was completely honest, I had not really liked it. The songs were as old and boring and stiff as the pastor; and the bathrooms smelled of something awful. Through my early teens my friends and I had dared each other to go in there and stay for a whole two minutes; trying to size each other up and see who had the strongest lungs.

But when I returned to Trinity Church, I noticed how the plants at the front were browning and dying, and how the main building was in dire need of a new coat of paint. The beautiful silver painted cross that had sat on top of the bell tower was slowly revealing its wooden underneath and was leaning to one side. It looked as though it was barely holding itself together.

That was exactly how I felt.

I ultimately scolded myself for even being there. What sort of person mourns themselves? I felt sick with the weight and frustration of being pathetic; in the way of not knowing how I would handle seeing my own dead body. Only at the moment of truth would I be able to tell.

I was a little late for the ceremony, so I only caught the end of a few speeches; Phoebe’s sister Aunt Sophia, and her husband Derek’s; and one from Luca. Hers made me reflect and ponder the most.

“…If I had known that Friday would be the last day that I would get to see Savannah Green alive, I would have told her how much she meant to me. I would have hugged her more. I would have laughed with her more. But, no one can predict these sorts of things,” she was saying, with tears profusely rolling down her golden-brown cheeks. “The least that we can do is to tell the people who matter to us just how much they do, all the time. Everyday. Because you never know when it will be the last. I never dreamed that I would get to witness that ‘last’ with someone at this age —someone who was my age. And it’s so difficult not to feel completely guilty. What if I hadn’t pushed for her to go to that party —what if I hadn’t insisted? Would she still be here, by our side? I don’t…I don’t know the answer. But to make up for it, I can start with an apology, and a hug and some time.

“You know, Savannah was always teaching me new things —changing my perspective. This weekend, I think she taught me the most important lesson of all. If something is too good to be true, it won’t last very long. And that’s it —Savannah Green was too good to be true. She —” she then choked and paused, gasping for air, “…She was too wonderful for Earth itself —life couldn’t contain her. We can’t just concentrate on the fact that she’s gone. We have to remember all of the good. We have to remember that all good things come to an end. That her end…came a little early.”

She walked back to her seat as the respectful clapping entailed, wiping her face and sobbing. It made me want to comfort her and tell her that it was okay, that I was not entirely gone. But I could not do that —there was a risk of her asking who I was.

I then played a scenario through my head, pretending to be my own unknown identical sibling.

“Oh…I’m her long-lost twin sister. I didn’t know about her until now, but I’m really sad that I never got to meet her.”

“I…I’m surprised. What about her Mom? Wouldn’t she have mentioned you? You would think you’d remember shoving two heads out of you.”

“Oh —she’s not my Mom —”

And then that was where I would stop short, because that is exactly the kind of stupid thing that I would end up saying.

All light-heartedness then dissipated once we went around the chapel to where my grave would be in the yard.

My mother could not stop crying. Don just stood there like a jerk with his arms around her, appearing grief stricken. What a damn faker —he had only just met me. At least, he did not cry.

I wandered around my friends and few relatives; some eyes solemnly —or begrudgingly —dry, while some leaked like a broken faucet.

Aaron Carter was not there. His parents were, though. Maybe he felt guilty for the crash. Or maybe he was still in hospital.

Whatever the reason or excuse, it hurt that he had not shown up. I had expected to see him here, mourning me no matter his condition. Because I would have done the same for him.

Lauren, Sam, Olive and Luca could not even face my coffin. Luca could not stop crying either, and buried her face in her mother’s embrace; and her wild hair seemed flatter than its usual fluffy bounce. A tear found its way out of the corner of my own eye at the thought of just how much I was going to be missed. That was what was so therapeutic about this whole ‘attending your own funeral’ idea. Realising the impact my life actually had had on others. That people would remember me after death, even if we could no longer interact. And that they could see me, yet that was as far as it went.

They all saw me alright —but they ignored my presence like a stray cat. I wondered exactly what it was they saw. When I looked at my reflection, I still looked the same —albeit the change in colour to my eyes. But to them, I suppose the rest of my appearance had to alter slightly. I could not go off scaring the living daylights out of humans by acting like the Walking Dead. Even though it would have been rather fun to do so.

I smiled momentarily at the thought, blinking back my tears.

The humorous idea that Søren might have done so then crossed my mind —and I nearly snorted. He seemed far too serious and uptight for something like that. He was keeping a safe distance away, hands clasped behind his back in an official soldier-like fashion. He looked like he had witnessed this all countless times before, and had developed an apathetic mask to wear at every such occasion; just as he had claimed.

But I appreciated it. I did not need sympathy.

Phoebe let everyone put roses inside of my coffin for the burial. I picked one up —the one with the most faded-out colour —and stood at the back of the line. I told myself to calm down; that I had to do this. It would be my way of saying goodbye to my old life and my mortal existence.

I shivered when I saw the casket. It was almost indescribable —to see my own dead body there in front of me. My hair had been parted neatly and my skin was deathly pale; my eyes sunken and my lips cracked dry underneath a thin layer of dark rose lipstick.

I looked like a nightmare.

But I leaned over shakily and snapped the rose in half, before fiddling with the bud to nestle in my hair. It was as good as a chrysanthemum; which Phoebe had not known was my favourite flower. I then silently watched as my coffin was lowered into the ground, before being piled with shovelled dirt. I watched myself disappear into the earth, lying next to will-be-forgotten breathless strangers. Savannah Ivy Green no longer existed.

It was simply Savannah now; a Grim Reaper in training.

It would take some time to embrace that fully. I then turned away as another round of speeches started, unable to bear any more, and walked back over dead vegetation to where Søren had been standing. He looked a little solemn; not so uncaring, but he wisely refrained from saying even one word.

“…Let’s go,” I rasped, choking up towards the end. I picked up the pace and wiped my face furiously, heading for the car. I got into the front passenger’s seat and buckled the seatbelt, before leaning against the window. I had asked Angelina for the 5 Stages of Grief and figured that I was now at acceptance, even though I had raced through the other four. It did not mean that everything was now happy-clappy —more like super-crappy.

“You’re brave. Most people don’t actually look at themselves in the coffin,” my Trainer murmured as he tried to restart the engine. “Probably because it’s way too weird.”

I did not respond but a part of me agreed.

I then watched him do what he had done earlier —instead of hot wiring, he concentrated and stared to see right through the car and into its mechanisms, before physically poking around in the ignition with a pin. It was a relief when the car engine finally spluttered to life after coughing worryingly for a minute. Søren then winced and grabbed the side of his head again, as if he had just come down with a strong headache. Using the X-ray vision did that apparently —it was a lot of strain on the retinas.

“It’s a wonder that you’re not blind yet,” I spoke up; the ghost of a smirk lingering on my lips.

Søren glared at me and sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t do this enough to be so,” he grumbled.

“So, how does this work?” I jumped to ask, sitting up properly. “Do all Reapers have X-ray vision?”

“Yes. It’s an additional compensation for not being able to pass through solid things at will,” he answered, shifting the car into first gear. “The ability to pass through matter is more for safety. Since we are comparable to ghosts, albeit with solid forms, Death must have thought it would be considerate and generous to give us this power.”

A sly grin then broke out on my face. “…To steal cars?”

The Reaper did not bother to correct me this time, and silently turned onto the main road. I turned to the window again and wondered if I could start using my special gift right away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Søren suddenly said, eyes still on the road.

“…What?” I frowned, surprised that he seemed to be responding to my thoughts. Was mind reading on the list now?

“I can tell you want to try it out,” he went on, “but you can’t. Not yet. Your eyes are still pretty human, and way too fragile. If you try it now as a trainee, you might rupture your retinas.”

I started, paling rapidly. I squeaked and sat bolt upright, shaken. As we drove on, I slowly let myself relax and the tension in my muscles ease. “…Thanks for this. For bringing me here, I mean,” I said softly, glancing out of the window. “I think that I needed it.”

There was a pause, where I saw Søren raise an eyebrow at me in the corner of my vision. I think that it was the first time I had ever expressed gratitude towards him. “…No problem.”

✠

When we arrived at the apartment back in Manhattan, Søren seemed to be constantly tense and jumpy —his eyes flittering back and forth between whatever was occupying his attention at that time, and the windows.

We were supposed to be training, but instead of the pupil being distracted, it was the teacher. I figured that it might be a defence mechanism, but when I tried to catch him off guard, he did not even react.

There his silver eyes stayed —at the window.

“Okay, what the hell?” I huffed, having had enough. I swung my sword over my head and let it rest on my covered shoulder. “What’s so fascinating about

the window?”

“…What?” he muttered, not turning to face me.

“You’re not paying attention to me,” I informed, marching up to him and grabbing him by the collar his turtleneck. “Your focus should be undivided. You’re supposed to be teaching me.”

He seemed to snap out of it then, and he quickly shook his head. I released my grip on him and frowned, standing with one hand on my hip.

“What’s the matter?”

He sighed and shook his head again. “It’s…it’s nothing. Sorry, I’ll try not to be so absentminded.”

I hummed in response, swinging my sword forward again.

To my delight, I was becoming quite the sword master —albeit with a tendency to set fire to Søren’s hair and slice cushions in half.

We started again, with a parry and attack exercise. My Trainer used a weaker and more temperamental obsidian sword than mine from his hoard of glorified murder weapons, and was finding it hard to keep up with my sword’s strength as they clanged against each other.

“…Out of curiosity,” I panted, stepping back for a moment, “What would happen if I accidentally reaped your soul?”

He chuckled and took the opportunity to make me back up further by pushing his sword against mine. “I would die again,” he said simply. “…We’re not completely immortal, you know.”

“I…see,” I breathed heavily, pushing back against him. “You’re quite casual about that fact,” I smirked, took a step backwards, before pivoting sharply on my heel and ending up being side-to-chest with him; my sword an inch from resting on the base of his neck. He scoffed, seemingly unfazed, and then ducked, moving out from underneath. I turned around too slowly and found myself with the tip of his sword to my chest.

“I think that I can handle myself pretty well, don’t you think?” he quipped, smirking. “That was pretty advanced by the way. We’re supposed to be practising parry and attack —not Dancing with the Stars.”

I growled and pushed his sword downward with my clothed arm, away from me. “I’m over that now. Can’t we do something more challenging? Doing the same dodge and block, over and over again is demeaning,” I drawled. “I want to try something more complicated.”

As soon as the words left my mouth Søren grabbed my waist, pulled my back towards him and held me by the neck against him; the edge of his sword’s blade hovering just above my skin.

My sword lay on the floor to the left of me, out of my reach. I flushed and breathed shallowly, feeling sheepish.

“…You were saying?” Søren chuckled, which shamed me even further.

“You just caught me off guard,” I quipped haughtily. “But fine —we’ll go back to dodging and blocking.”

“Oh, no, no,” he went on; his grip on me tightening, “First, you’re going to have to find a way to get out of this. As defence practice. Think of it as a real-life situation.”

I drew a breath, reaching up to grip his forearm that was around my neck. I felt the tension in his muscles ease, which gave me the perfect opportunity to pull him. He did not expect the action, and stumbled forward, aiding my plan to throw him up and over me.

He landed on his front with a thud at my feet; and the sword clanged hard against the floor, letting out an echo. I dusted my hands and smirked, pleased with myself. I picked up my sword and waited for Søren to stand up.

He did; painfully slowly, before he turned to me with a trickle of blood dripping out of one nostril. “…Nice one,” he coughed weakly.

My eyes widened as he simply wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and picked up his sword again. I hesitated —whether it was from shock or something else —and my mind instantly went back to the crash; back to the sight of silver blood. For some reason, I was apprehensive about asking if all Reapers’ blood looked like mine. So, I refocused.

“…Oh my God —I didn’t mean to break your nose,” I gushed, rushing over to examine the extent of the damage.

I grabbed Søren’s face and brought it down closer to me. Nothing appeared to be bent out of shape, which was a relief. I then breathed out a sigh and glanced upwards into his silver eyes. The light caught and danced within them, making them luminous and sort of beautiful.

I likely stared for a couple of seconds too long.

Then I blurted, “Are you sure that you’re okay?”

He nodded convincingly. “It’s really not a big deal,” he insisted. “Seriously —that was very clever.”

He then winced, holding the bridge of his nose.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough,” I mumbled.

The Reaper shook his head. “I asked you to treat it like a real situation, and you did. Well done. There is absolutely no need to apologise. I should probably go and stop the bleeding though.”

He then sidestepped me and headed for the main room. I still felt guilty, but I was grateful for how well he was taking it.

A sudden bright light then shone in the corner of my vision.

I whipped around —before stumbling backwards into the desk. Sitting on the windowsill, in all its shining glory, was a fully-grown turkey-sized fiery orange and golden bird with a long, curled tail.

I gasped and clutched at my chest, feeling as though I had gone into cardiac arrest. I shakily stood up straight and squinted at the creature in front of me. It was a little too bright to look at head-on, but I did not miss its beady little red eyes boring into mine as it turned its head to look at me.

It was a Phoenix.

The stuff of mythology and legends, was sitting right there a few meters away from me, poking its curved beak around underneath its wings. It then stretched its wings out and flapped them, before letting out a shrill squawk.

I did not even register the slight ringing in my ears.

I was too mesmerised by the flames that flickered at the ends of its feathers. I wondered if it would hurt if I stroked them; and so, I took several steps forward…only to stop about a meter away.

It radiated such a tremendous amount of heat that I had to back up, shielding my face with my arms.

“Uh…Søren,” I called out worriedly, eyes glued to the flaming fowl. “We have a…visitor.”

Søren poked his head around the doorframe to see what the problem was. He flinched and his eyes widened at the sight of the Phoenix, before he shrunk back in the doorway.

“Oh no —I was afraid of this.”