Page 54 of Evil Hearts

1

I ’ve never really given much thought to what happens after you die. Some people say it’s a bright light, big pearly gates, the pits of a volcano, or even utter darkness. I found none of those things when my soul was violently ripped from my body.

No bright lights.

No dark void.

No peace.

What I did find is an entire maze-like wasteland full of creatures that are hellbent on shredding what remains of my soul into tiny pieces. At this point, I’m not even sure if I’m dead or just stuck in some endless loop of a coma-induced fever dream, doomed to wander within the dark recesses of my mind for the rest of my days. Or until someone pulls the plug on my life support.

The soles of my bare feet smack against the cracked terrain as I push my tired legs to the max, the muscles burning with each stride. My chapped lips stick together, and my tongue feels like sandpaper in my mouth as I round a corner and skid to a halt, coming face-to-face with yet another solid wall of black mist.

Another dead end.

This wasteland is nothing like the land my Sunday School teacher promised in the third grade. It’s desolate, disconcerting, and dangerous. With no evidence of escape in sight. It’s brutal and unforgiving on the body, even if it is just the remnant of my soul. The searing heat of this place has sucked every bit of moisture from my cells and left me little more than a dehydrated shell.

Every breath is like drawing burning acid into my lungs.

I double back and make a left at the fork in the maze, but I’m not hopeful. I’ve been wandering aimlessly for days, or maybe it’s been weeks. I’ve lost all sense of time. Sometimes, I’m so weak that I stumble and faint from the heat, while other times, I’m running for my life from the creature that patrols this labyrinth. Today, I’m running. I take a deep, steadying breath and prepare to forge ahead through another winding path, but the air gets stuck in my lungs.

A skeletal hand reaches through the wall of churning mist, gripping my throat so tightly that the sharp points break through the tender skin under my jaw. I grapple with the radius and ulna exposed from his black cloak, trying to find a purchase as my feet leave the charred earth.

I kick my legs out and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight against whatever lurks beneath the black, swirling cloak. My lungs burn from lack of oxygen, and black spots begin to encroach on my vision. Through the hypoxic disorientation, I catch sight of a wicked sneer beneath the shadows of the hood, and when it opens its mouth, my blood runs cold.

“Why do you keep running, Mikroúla ?” His guttural voice glides across my skin and slices my thoughts. It’s so loud in my mind. “You cannot escape me.” His words echo through the maze, reverberating off the walls and surrounding me in a shroud of hopelessness.

Anger courses through my body as I fight against his hold. It’s the same song and dance we’ve played for what feels like an eternity, but I can only remember pieces of the game. Fragments that my mind’s eye holds onto despite being forced to forget after each battle. The terrain and the combat transform and shift, but he remains a constant in every echo of a memory.

I run.

He catches me.

We fight.

Both physically and emotionally on my part. His proximity ignites a fire deep inside my core, and I find myself craving his presence, longing for his nearness. When he’s not with me, I feel like I’m adrift in an ocean of desperation, a wanton ship sailing aimlessly toward nonexistent shores.

He also makes my blood boil with anger because I can never outwit him. I can never make it through the maze without him catching up to me first. And the way he speaks in that ancient tongue, knowing that I can’t understand him. For all I know, he’s insulting and degrading me with every breath he takes.

“ Astériskos ,” he whispers the word like a broken prayer, and it sends shivers down my spine. He presses his forehead to mine and lowers me until the soles of my feet make contact with the scorched earth once more. He gently runs the bony fingers of his free hand through my tangled mass of curls, loosening his hold on my throat ever so slightly.

I know I should pull away. I should take this momentary pause to turn and run as fast as my legs can carry me, but I can’t. That ever-present sense of familiarity washes over me.

I should know him.

He knows me.

Intimately.

The memories prickle against the back of my mind, fighting to get free, but the void of memory loss envelopes them, sending them tumbling back into the abyss.

“I don’t know what that means!” I hiss through clenched teeth and jerk against his hold.

The tender moment has passed, and his bony fingers tighten on my throat once more, not enough to cut off my supply of oxygen, but enough to limit my blood supply. He presses down against my carotid artery, and my vision swims. “You must choose.” His voice is raspy and ominous.

It’s the same thing he always says at the end of our interactions, at least as far as I can remember. “Choose what?” I ask, frustrated and dizzy from the constant pressure he is exerting on my neck with his skeletal grasp.

“I cannot tell you. You have to find the path to take and choose to walk it, no matter how difficult.”

He sounds like an oracle.

I roll my eyes and grip his radius and ulna with both hands, trying to push out of his vice-like grip. “You’re speaking in riddles! I know what path I want to find! The fucking path out of the godsforsaken maze!” My voice rises in anger but quickly dies on a choked cough as his grip tightens around my throat.

My vision darkens, and my lungs burn as his palm presses against my windpipe and his fingers dig into my arteries, further cutting off the supplies of blood and oxygen to my brain. That must be why I’m so torn between wanting to stab him in the eye socket and melt into his embrace.

The lack of vital nutrients to my prefrontal cortex are affecting my judgement.

The skeletal being pulls me close until I’m just a few millimeters away. Despite my fading vision, I can see the tiny cracks and pores in his high cheekbones. “The maze will release you when it deems you worthy of release,” he grinds out and gnashes his teeth together with a sickening click. “ Mikroúla.”

The word dances off his tongue and swirls around my memories, tugging against the wall, preventing me from fully remembering him but finding no purchase. My body sags in his grip, and I stop struggling as my consciousness slips away. He lets out a defeated groan and pulls me flush against his chest, cradling my head as my muscles finally give out. Despite the numbness washing through me, I can still feel the hardness of the bones beneath his shadow cloak and the soothing coolness radiating from him.

“ thymísou me,” he whispers against the shell of my ear, his breath ghosting across my sweat-soaked skin. “ Parakaló.”

Words drift through the darkness of my mind, pairing themselves with his whispered pleas as I fade away in his arms.

Remember me.

Please.