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The Last Victim |
Nobody knew for sure if thirteen-year old Charity Hanson was the first civilian casualty of the Parody War, but she’d certainly died in the first minutes of the conflict, as dimensional dreadnaughts had passed overhead and devastated Paradopolis. Huddled at home waiting for her mother to hurry back from the shops, killed in the rubble of her burning house, a collateral loss in the mere preliminary to attempted planetary conquest, Charity had somehow become the representative of every senseless death, every lost family member, every sad fatality in that terrible galactic conflict.
They called her The First Victim. A few days after the end of the war, as humanity began to realise it had a future again, as people tried to come to terms with the losses they’d taken, people remembered Charity Hanson. When the rubble of her home was finally cleared away the city devoted the space to a small walled garden with a small memorial stone. The inscription said Charity Hanson, the First Victim. Never forgotten.
Time passed, and people forgot. Life goes on.
There was a high gate around the garden, and recently the city council had added razor wire atop the fences to keep people out after dark. Taxes were high and services had to be cut and the municipal parks staff didn’t have time to rake away the needles and condoms more than once a month. And then there was the other problem…
The two youngsters didn’t even have to climb the fence, although they’d brought a thick woolen blanket to cover the razor wire if they had to. Someone had already wrenched away the latest in a series of padlocks on the gates. They slipped inside at two in the morning, huddling together because of the cold.
The little garden was small, no larger than the footprint of the house that had stood there. The high fence shadowed it so only scrubby border plants and a thick trash-choked bramble bloomed around the dog-dirt-strewn grass. The young people picked their way by torchlight to Charity’s memorial.
“This is it,” said Leroy Paris, doffing his backpack and rummaging for the black candles he’d brought. “This is the place.”
Candice Colbain nodded. “It’s quiet,” she noticed. “I thought there’d be car noises and stuff.”
“All the better,” Leroy told her. He used a disposable lighter to ignite a wick, then dripped wax on the memorial stone to fix the candles in place.
Candace unpacked the other stuff they’d need, the blutack and the envelopes and the biro and the black ribbons and the straight-edged shaving razors.
At last they were all set. Leroy checked that the envelopes were firmly tacked to the side of the memorial, then he and Candace helped each other tie the black ribbons round their left wrists. Leroy used the biro to mark an easy line along the major artery of their right wrists, longitudinal not crosswise. Candace had researched that.
They held hands for a minute then reached for their razors.
“Not bad,” said a voice from the bushes. “Quite professional. I like the biro idea.”
Leroy sprang up, holding the cuthroat razor as a weapon in trembling hands. “Back off!” he warned. “I mean it!”
A cat sauntered into the circle of candlelight. It had synthetic blue fur and flying goggles. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just hunting. There’s a big bugger of a rat hangs about here at night and he’s starting to piss me off.”
“That cat’s talking,” Candace warned Leroy, clinging to him. “There’s a blue cat, talking.”
Catbot managed a feline shrug. “I’d say I’m a very special cat, but that’s like saying someone’s a famous superstar.”
“What do you want?” Leroy demanded, still waving the razor.
Catbot considered this. “Tuna,” he decided at last. “And maybe a lady cat. A Siamese. Two Siamese.”
“You can’t stop us!” Candace called defiantly.
Catbot looked at them curiously. “Why would I want to stop you? From what I can see you’ve got things pretty organised. You’ve worked out the proper way to make the cuts, you’ve left long self-indulgent notes to explain your self destruction to your grieving friends and relatives. You’ve posted emotional goodbyes on MySpace or wherever to all your online blogger geeklings. Just get on with it so I can get back to stalking things, will you.”
Leroy and Candace exchanged looks.
“Oh, you might want to talk to the people at the gate as well,” Catbot added casually. “Then maybe they’ll go away too and leave me to the hunt.”
For the first time the youngsters realised that other people had slipped into the garden. A young man and a younger black girl were talking quietly in the shadows by the entrance.
“Who are you?” demanded Leroy, turning with his razor. “Why are you here?”
The young man pushed a shock of unruly hair from his eyes and put his hands up in surrender. “It’s okay,” he assured them. “Well, I don’t mean okay, because obviously you have a sharp object pointed at me and you seem pretty agitated, but that’s what people tend to say when agitated weapon-pointers threaten them. Kind of an instinctive reaction. Like babbling. I’m demonstrating the babbling now.”
“That’s Vinnie de Soth,” Catbot supplied, settling down on a comfortable spot to watch. “He’s the good guy. He’s here to talk you down.”
“You won’t stop us,” Candace cried defiantly. “Nothing can!”
“Well I’m not exactly a qualified suicide counsellor,” Vinnie admitted. “Um, I could do you a horoscope reading that shows why this would be a bad time to be cutting your wrists if you could tell me the precise time and place you were born and give me maybe half an hour with a calculator. But I’d really like you not to kill yourself for the next few minutes of you don’t mind, so we could talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Leroy told him. “There’s no future. End of story.”
“There must be something to say,” the exorcist for hire suggested. “You wrote out notes, didn’t you? That must be to say goodbye to people, or to explain what went wrong, or something. Um, maybe if I could read what it says…?”
“No!” objected Candace. “That’s personal.”
“Yeah, isn’t gluing them to a public memorial then topping yourselves going to sort of interfere with their privacy?” noted Catbot.
“That’s different,” argued Leroy. “After that it’s too late.”
“So it’s not too late now!” Vinnie pointed out. “You could change your minds. After all, you’re not the first people to come here and do this kind of thing. You don’t have to be copycats.”
“I object to the term copycat,” Catbot interjected. “When was the last time you saw one cat copying another? Most of the time we pretend we don’t even notice each other. That term is felinist!”
“It’s not copying,” Candace objected. “It’s… tradition. Symmetry. Resonance”
“Three couples and four individuals have taken their lives at this spot in the few months since the garden was opened,” Vinnie told them. “Each of them did what the first couple did, with the black ribbons and the candles and the notes in red ink and everything else. This has become quite the suicide spot. But why?”
“Because there’s nothing for us,” Leroy said. “We’re like them, the ones who came before. Nobody understands us. The world hates us. Other kids, our folks. The world is a bleak, horrid place and we’re all just screaming to get out.”
“And we’re going to,” Candace added. “We’re going out our way. Our choice.”
“Sometime,” sighed Catbot impatiently.
“There’s nothing you can say to stop us,” Leroy told Vinnie defiantly.
“Okay,” Vinnie conceded. “I think you’re right. But if you won’t listen to me, listen to her.” He pointed to the teenaged black girl standing near him.
“Why should we?” asked Candace.
“Who are you anyway?” Leroy challenged her.
Vinnie did the introductions. “This is Charity Hanson. It’s her garden that you’re in.”
Charity moved forward into the light. She seemed perfectly normal, except she cast no shadow from the distant street lamp.
“No way,” denied Candace, backing off a step.
“Way,” said Charity. “This is where I died.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts!” argued Leroy.
“Really?” Charity replied scornfully. “Duh!”
“What do you want?” demanded Candice, shaking.
“Want?” Charity looked at Vinnie and he nodded. “I want not to be dead,” she said. “I want to have my life back, and my mom, and my house, and my friends. I want Fruit Loops, and Saturday morning cartoons, and whispering about boys, and wondering what I’ll be when I grow up. I want what I lost. But I can’t have it.”
“What’s it like, as a ghost?” wondered Leroy.
“It’s not like that,” Vinnie explained. “Charity here, she’s just an echo. Whatever happens to people when they die, that’s happened to her. I hope it’s a good thing. I just brought the echo here for you to talk to for a while. Then she’ll be gone for good.”
“You brought a ghost to see us?” Candace exclaimed.
“You want to die,” said Charity. “I so didn’t want to. When the bombs came, I prayed not to die. I could see my whole life being ripped away from me.” She shrugged a little bitterly. “You know what, I never got kissed. I’m pretty sure Johnnie Barlow wanted to, but he never did. And I never dated, and I never went to college, and I never had a big white wedding and kids and a home of my own. I never saw Europe. I never got my poems published.”
Candice Colbain bit her lip.
“I never told my nan I was sorry for shouting at her,” Charity confessed. “Because when you’re dead that’s it for the list of things you can do.”
“But we have no future,” Leroy said. “You don’t know…”
“You come to my house, to my place, and you bring your crap with you!” Charity flared at him. “Spare me the emo self-pity! I died for no reason when I had so much to live for. Then you freaks start coming here and throwing your lives away because you read on a bulletin board that someone else did it and it seemed like a romantic way out. Well it isn’t. It’s just dumb and pointless and it makes you dumb and pointless as well. You think people will say nice things and feel sorry for you and shed a tear and remember. Maybe they will for a while. But news flash, idiots, after that you’re still dead and in the end nobody remembers!”
“Tell them how you really feel, kid,” chuckled Catbot.
Leroy and Candace looked uncertainly at each other.
“Maybe this isn’t the time and place,” Candace conceded.
“Maybe not,” Leroy admitted. “Wouldn’t be cool.”
Then his body language changed entirely. He stiffened and his grip on the razor changed. “And maybe it would.” he said in an older, deeper voice.
“Yes,” agreed Candace, her own tones colder and darker. She hefted the razor and lifted her arm.
“Hold it again!” called Vinnie de Soth. “Time out! I can tell a walk-in spirit when he crashes the party. So come on, grue, identify yourself.”
The two youngsters both looked at him simultaneously. A dark silhouette formed, squatting between them, a living shadow.
“Uh oh,” breathed the exorcist.
“You think you can perform a supernatural intervention and rob me?” said the darkness. “Once you called in the little echo to speak then you opened to door for me to take a direct role too.”
“And you are?” demanded Vinnie.
“Every ninety minutes in this United States of America a young person ends their own life,” said the shadow. “Every nine minutes one of them tries.”
“I know the statistics,” Vinnie snapped. “And the average North American will eat 35,000 cookies in their lifetime, the record cherry-pit spit was 95 feet 7 inches, and there are 293 ways to make change for a dollar. So what?”
“So the name for a being who is so constantly worshipped, worshipped with human sacrifice, is a god.”
“What the hell is that?” demanded Charity, horrified, as the shadow swelled.
“That,” scowled Vinnie, “is a repeated meme that’s become sentient and decided it’s not enough to feed on lost desperate children but now it has to go hunting them. That’s what’s been attracting these young people to this place to die.”
“But you’re the one,” the shadow gloated, “that made it possible for me to manifest. I’ve got to thank you for that.”
Vinnie found his arm raising of its own accord. He was terrified to see an open razor clutched in his fist.
“I don’t want to die,” he called out. “This isn’t suicide. It’s murder!”
Then the thoughts hit him; of all his failures, of all the things he’d done in his life that he regretted, of lost opportunities and old betrayals and failed attempts. The core truth that he struggled so hard to conceal, that really he wasn’t a very good human being, that really he was a disappointment and a waste of space not fit to carry on existing, welled over him. He couldn’t deny it any longer. He dropped to his knees, sobbing, baring his wrist.
“Not murder but suicide,” said the phantasm.
“Stop it! Stop it!” cried Charity helplessly.
“It is autumn and the leaves are falling,” quoted the shadow. “All love has died on Earth. The wind is weeping with sorrowful tears. My heart will never hope for a new spring again. My tears and my sorrows are all in vain. People are heartless, greedy, and wicked… Love has died.”
Vinnie, Leroy, and Candace brought the razors to their wrists.
“Like I said,” noted Catbot, “hunting a rat. And now here he is all manifested. Thanks, Vinnie.” And the robot cat sprang on the shadow, steel claws extended.
Catbot tore into the meme with a feline fury, teeth and claws and rapid movement, instinctively moving for vulnerable spots, shredding the meme with every bite and slash. The occult runes Vinnie had painted on his blue fur earlier glowed brighter with every gash.
“Just so you know,” Catbot told the shadow, “this isn’t suicide. This is murder.”
He kept raking at the entity until it was just a tangle of shredded black ribbons, then kept on until it was gone.
Leroy tossed up on the grass. “What was that?” he demanded, shaking.
“It called to us,” cried Candace. “It hooked us like fishes!”
“It was not at all pleasant,” agreed Vinnie de Soth, picking himself up. “That’s why Catbot hired me to set a trap for him – and to save you two kids from making the last mistakes of your lives.”
“I can’t stay now,” Charity told them. “I wish that I could, but that wish can’t be granted.” She looked over at Candace and Leroy. “But if I do get one wish that is possible, it’s that you two just get over whatever it is that’s brought you to this. One more day, then another after that, then another. Because there are all kinds of things for you two still to do, if only you take the chance. That’s my wish – for you.”
Then Charity Hanson left her garden for the last time.
Candace wiped her face and began repacking her things into the backpack. “I guess… we’ll go too. We need to think about things, and to talk.”
“Yeah,” agreed Leroy. “It’s not what we thought. It’s… we need to take another look.”
“Good luck,” Vinnie told them.
Leroy took Candace’s hand and they left the garden. Candace looked back. “Charity. What’ll happen to her now?”
Vinnie shrugged. “Nobody really knows. Your theology may vary, but I’d like to think that somebody loves us enough to care for us, to wait for us beyond the dark. To make things right. But they don’t let us know for sure.”
“Why not?” demanded Leroy.
“Because if we’re so busy looking for ways out of this world to another one then we don’t stop to appreciate where we are,” Vinnie replied. “Take the wild ride in this life first. Anything after that will wait its turn.”
When they’d gone Vinnie turned back to Catbot. The robot feline was licking his paws and looking smug.
“Well, I thought that went quite well,” the occultist ventured.
“Yeah, yeah,” answered Catbot. “You get paid.”
“I’ve never been paid before in roadkill and dead goldfish,” Vinnie noted. “I think I might chalk this one up to…” He looked down at the memorial stone. “Up to Charity.”
Catbot looked up at him with malicious feline eyes. “Oh no,” he said in sweet, insincere tones. “I insist.” In fact the payment was already wrapped in Vinnie’s pyjamas snug inside his bed.
***
Footnotes are Painless:
Psychologists and medical practitioners are only now beginning to recognise the anatomy of suicide clusters, patterns of self-destruction that seem linked to previous deaths, like an idea that infects another vulnerable person. Recent tragic events in Bridgend, Wales, where seventeen people aged 15 to 27 killed themselves by hanging within thirteen months, have brought this to popular attention here in Britain. More and urgent research is clearly required. If only Vinnie and Catbot’s solution really worked.
All the statistics quoted in this story are genuine.
The shadow’s quote is from the original lyrics of “Gloomy Sunday”, a song written by Rezső Seress in 1933 which became associated with many suicides. Some sources cite poet Laszlo Javor as writer of the words, or of a subsequent and even more depressing version of the lyrics. A Time report in 1936 cited seventeen deaths that were linked with the song being played. Many others have been attributed since. It was the first record ever to be banned from being played by the BBC. Rezső Seress jumped to his death from his flat in 1968.
Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2008 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2008 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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The Hooded Hood ponders on gloomy tragedies
Fri May 16, 2008 at
07:19:32 pm EDT
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Posted from United Kingdom
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 The Last Victim - The Hooded Hood ponders on gloomy tragedies - Fri May 16, 2008 at 07:19:32 pm EDT |
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