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I was walking down the street with my best friend Minho, when it happened. We were laughing about some stupid comment he had made, not having a care in the world, being young and feeling immortal. Reckless, as I am – or should I say was – I tried crossing the street without looking to my right. That’s when it hit me – literally. I remember instant pain, the world fading into darkness, Minho screaming my name.
That’s how I ended up looking at myself being transferred into an ambulance. I’m strangely numb, a complete contradiction to the flashing pain, I had felt only seconds before. I feel helpless seeing my best friend in shock. The otherwise composed Asian is shaking, still screaming my name even as the ambulance drives away, sirens piercing the air. I want to call out. I want to let him know, that I’m right here, right next to him. But even as I shout for him, he doesn’t hear me. I realise, no one can. I try reaching towards him, but just as I do, a medic walks straight through me. My breath unsteadily quickens. I put a hand to my chest to make sure it’s there. When I feel the fabric of my shirt, I force myself to calm down. My eyes tear up. This cannot be happening. This is not possible. A sudden weight on my shoulder causes me to flinch. A new how flickers in me; maybe it was all just a dream?
I turn around, expecting to see a smirking Minho. Instead, I meet unfamiliar brown eyes. Air leaves my lungs, seeing the gorgeous, blond stranger in front of me. His smile is beautiful, but his eyes are filled with sadness, as though he is trapped in a never-ending abyss of melancholy. I feel lost in his eyes, a sudden pain swelling in my heart at the loneliness evident. I open my mouth, but I am at loss for words. If Minho were here, he would laugh at me and hit my back teasingly. Then I remember; he is here. He just can’t see me. A sudden sense of distrust rush through me. If no one can see me – or touch me for that matter – why can this boy? As if sensing my distress, his smile falters. He nudges his head towards a truck and turns around to walk towards it. I hesitate to follow. After all, this boy is a complete stranger. Then I realise he might be my only hope at figuring out, what is happening, so I follow. Meanwhile, I deny the thought that maybe I’m following him because I’m slightly curious and intrigued by him. I get into the passenger seat, eyeing the blond suspiciously.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me. The boy doesn’t answer and merely starts the engine. I grab his thin wrist before he manages to grab the steering wheel.
“What’re you doing? Where’re we going? Why can no one but you see me?” I should feel slightly stupid for pouring out questions without giving him time to answer, but I settle on staring confidently into his eyes not letting my stubbornness waver. His eyes soften sympathetically, but all it does is make me more uneasy.
“We’re going for a ride, Tommy,” he says. His voice is incredibly soft and I can’t help but melt a little at his accent. I clear my throat in a vague attempt to conceal my embarrassment and let go of his hand.
“How do you know my name?” I ask, my heart fluttering slightly at his immediate nickname. The blond smiles that achingly sad smile again and turn his eyes to the road. I let him drive the truck, not bothering to notice where we’re heading.
“Because I’m here to pick you up.” This causes me to frown.
“Pick me up? To where? Who are you?” I ask, demanding answers. His jaw tenses visibly, and his eyes turn hard. His shoulders slump, his face darkens. Something twists in my heart, and I get the urge to remove whatever is burdening the blond.
“Do you know what you are?” he asks so quietly, I don’t hear him at first.
“Um, I’m Thomas, in my third year –“ I start carefully, unsure why I would need to present myself, when the other already knows my name.
“No, I mean, do you know what happened to you?” the boy interrupts, still keeping his eyes on the road, not glancing once at me, making me slightly irritable for some reason. I think back, trying to recall the events only minutes before.
“I – I was walking with Minho, and then –“ I stop, suddenly understanding the sombre look, the hollow look, the people who didn’t notice me on the street.
“Shit – I’m – I’m dead, aren’t I?” I gasp. The other’s silence works as confirmation. I take deep breaths to calm my heart, then realises what I had missed before; my heart isn’t beating. Frantically, I rush my hands across my chest to try to find my pulse – with no luck. How could I have overlooked that? The blond says nothing and looked indifferent as he kept driving.
“So, you're like my reaper? Is that it?” I ask, trying to distract myself. The other smirks, but his eyes are sorrowful.
“You could put it like that, yes.” His eyes has a faraway look, like he is reminiscing a part of his past he would rather be free of. Once again, I feel strangely protective of the blond who looks to be my age, or maybe a year or two older. How did he end up here? Was it an accident, just like mine? Will I be a reaper as well, when I arrive at wherever we’re going? Not capable of taking the loud silence anymore, I ask:
“What's your name?” He seems to be surprised by the question and flinches visibly. I wonder, if maybe newly deceased people aren't as keen on following him as I was. Maybe they even blame him? I cringe at the thought of having to feel responsible for the death of people. Just being responsible for myself is hard enough; but this? How does he cope?
I look at him with curious eyes, waiting patiently for his answer. He glances at me as though he's expecting me not to be genuinely interested. He hesitates, and he's so quiet I think he's not going to answer.
“Newt,” he then says, causing me to look at him again. I can't help the smile at the sound of his name.
“Newt,” I say, repeating it, tasting the name. It rolls off my lips perfectly, and I lick them unconsciously. I catch him staring at me and suddenly feel self-conscious. Trying not to let it get to me, I turn away towards the window, looking at the passing houses and skyscrapers. Wait. Skyscrapers?
“I thought we were going somewhere?” I say, suddenly realising we’re still in the city, even though we've driven for hours. It has been hours, hasn't it? Newt says nothing, but I notice his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.
“Newt?” I ask, the name flowing instinctively off my lips. He glances at me, then at my lips as though he's not used to hearing his own name. I wonder how many bothered to ask. If any at all.
“Don't worry about it, Tommy” he says, and I can't help but feel slightly privileged to hear him say my name in that way.
“Hey, how come we’re driving anyway? Shouldn't you, I don't know, show me the light or something?” I notice the upturning of his lips and can't help the smile forming on my own.
“I suppose, but experience shows, most people find this easier with something as familiar as a car ride.” I once again notice the solemn look in his eyes, and realise, I'd do anything to make it disappear.
“How many have you… helped?” I ask, unsure whether it was the right verb. The blond shrugs and tries to smile, but I see the hidden sadness.
“Enough,” he says, and I decide not to dig any deeper.
“I'm sorry – it must be tough.” The tires screeches when Newt loses focus. He coughs awkwardly, trying to hide his embarrassment by being distracted. I see an adorable blush spread on his cheek, and can't help but feel proud to have caused it. I laugh slightly, and the sound causes him to glance at me again.
“Come on; is it really that rare for people to speak with you?” I say disbelievingly. He raises his eyebrow, as if to say ‘yes, actually, it is’.
“Usually, people are more focused on where they’re going, why they’re going. Most people cry quietly and reminisces their past life,” he says and shrugs as if death was no big deal. I guess, in his world it’s an everyday occurrence. Death is his colleague. I catch myself staring at him, as I wonder about the boy in front of me. Who was he in his past? How did he die? Who did he leave behind? Did he have a girlfriend? The question is stuck in my mind and repeats itself enough to make me look away. It’s not my business anyway. But I can’t help but drift back to it. He’s certainly handsome, and I feel comfortable around him, as though I’ve known him for years. I glance back and meet his gaze. As I look into his brown eyes, I see past the walls he surrounds himself with, and notice the hesitant, lonely boy behind the façade. I guess he senses my scrutiny, because he looks away trying to conceal himself.
For a while he doesn’t move or talk. I sit patiently, letting my eyes scan over his body, heat rising in my cheeks and my breath shortening. Then he sighs.
“Bloody hell.” It’s only a mutter, but I just manage to hear it. I’m about to ask, what’s wrong, when he pulls over. I look through the window and see we’ve arrived at a hospital. Confused, I frown and look to him for answers.
“This is where I’m supposed to go?” I ask, doubt evident in my voice. He turns off the engine and turns completely to look directly at me. I’m slightly flabbergasted by the sudden determined look in his eyes. Where he had previously been quiet and careful, I now see fire and stubbornness.
“Go inside, room 241” he says hurriedly. He nods to the door, expecting me to go out immediately, but I hesitate.
“What’s in there? You’re not going with me?” I ask, suddenly extremely insecure and unwilling to leave him behind. The determination falters slightly, his eyes softening. He closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. I don’t understand. He seems to struggle with himself. His eyebrows knit together in what I would guess was frustration. The look doesn’t suit him; I much prefer the smiling Newt. For once this entire car ride, I act out on instinct. I let my hand caress the crease and let my hand rest on his cheeks. He flinches slightly from the touch, but doesn’t move away. He reaches his hand towards me, and pulls me closer by my neck. I feel his shaky breath on my lips in a hesitant second before he presses his incredibly soft lips to mine. The kiss is over too soon. When he pulls away, I try to follow but he pushes me back.
“Go” he says, and I feel the puff of air he releases at the word because of our closeness. I shake my head and scoffs, horrified he’d think I’d go after that. He rests his forehead on mine and closes his eyes.
“Go,” he whispers softly, “We’ll see each other again. Just not too soon, I hope.” When he pulls back, his lips are curled up into a genuine smile. My heart aches at the thought of leaving, as it seems permanent, the way he says it, but I believe in his promise. I look at his face, trying to imprint every detail of it before leaving the car. I walk quickly, afraid that if I slow down, I’ll look back and not be able to move on. What kind of heaven is this, anyway? What am I supposed to do? Is there some kind of passage?
I follow his instructions and go to the mentioned room. However, as I get a look inside, I stop. There’s me. Lying on a hospital bed, is me. Badly beaten, bleeding, not breathing me, but it’s still me. I frown wondering what this was supposed to achieve. Am I supposed to reflect on my life? Is that it? I walk closer, noticing Minho’s jacket lying on the chair next to the unconscious me. I look so… dead. But I guess I am, aren’t I? And yet… I look at the scarred hand on the bed and instinctively reaches out to touch it. As I do, the world turns black.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep. A piercing sound echoes through my soar ears. My soar body. My soar everything. What happened? The sound subsides as my ears get used to the sound, and I register voices around me.
“What’s happening?”
“He was dead!”
“But that’s impossible!”
Then suddenly a loud voice sounds through the room.
“What’s going on? Is he waking?” The other voices subsides, and I suspect the owner of the demanding voice is the one nearing me and grabbing my hand.
“Thomas? Thomas! Can you hear me?” I try to respond, but my throat is achingly dry. However, I manage to produce a croak, that I’m embarrassed of the moment it leaves my lips.
“Thomas!” The person exclaims in delight. I finally manage to open my eyes, the light blinding me the second I do so. Determined to name the voice, I stubbornly blink to try to overcome my sight. When I’m finally able to see clearly, Minho’s overjoyed face meets me.
“Wipe that stupid grin off and get me some water”
…
Only hours after am I discharged from the hospital, with a notice to come back for a quick check if everything’s back to normal. Apparently, I was in a coma for nearly 24 hours and the doctors were already certain, I wouldn’t recover. They said it was a miracle. Minho drives me back to my place to make sure I rest properly; knowing Minho, he won’t let me leave bed the next couple of days. He asks me in the car, what I remember. I tell him, I remember the accident. And then a blond angel saving me. It’s frustrating, but I can’t remember the angel’s face. For some reason, I know it’s important to me.
When we get back, he immediately ushers me to bed and goes to light the fireplace. I walk by the basket of old newspapers and into my room. On the top, there is an article about a suicide. There’s a picture of a young boy, probably a year or so older than me, with blond hair, gorgeous brown eyes, and a beautiful smile. The headline is:
“Young male jumps off building: family business loses heir”