Limbo’s Story Part 3

Manhattan hated Eliot.

Not because it knew him.

Because it couldn't survive him.

Traffic lights flickered as we crossed the street.

A city bus rolled to a stop, sighed, then refused to move again. The driver slammed both hands against the steering wheel while passengers groaned behind him.

Half the phones on the sidewalk went black.

A woman frowned at her smartwatch.

"My battery was full."

"I'm sorry," Eliot whispered as we passed.

She didn't hear him.

He apologized anyway.

A digital billboard high above Times Square blinked.

The advertisement dissolved into static before becoming a painted sign for cigarettes.

A second later...

nothing at all.

The screen simply ceased to exist.

People pointed.

Someone laughed.

Someone else cursed.

Eliot pulled his patched mittens tighter.

"I'm trying."

I looked over.

He wasn't talking to me.

He was talking to the city.

"I'm really trying."

The kid carried enough guilt for an army.

The Mortician had told me to bring him to Times Square.

I hadn't appreciated the joke until now.

There wasn't another place in America more dependent on technology.

Every step Eliot took...

the city stepped backward.

We walked the last few blocks in silence.

He kept his hands buried beneath his arms.

Head down.

Shoulders tucked in.

Trying to become smaller.

Trying not to brush against anyone.

Every few steps—

another phone died.

Another taxi stalled.

Another screen blinked into history.

Each time...

the same quiet apology.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't mean to."

Nobody ever answered.

Nobody even knew who they should be angry at.

I did.

Not Eliot.

Whatever curse had decided a boy like him should spend his entire life apologizing for breathing.

Times Square opened before us.

Noise.

Lights.

Advertisements.

Tourists moving in every direction without ever really going anywhere.

Right in the middle of all of it...

sat the Mortician.

A tiny wrought-iron café table.

A porcelain espresso cup.

Immaculate black suit.

As though he'd arrived early for an afternoon meeting.

He looked up as we approached.

"There you are."

Not relief.

Not surprise.

Expectation.

He'd known we'd come.

I stopped beside the table.

Eliot stopped beside me.

The Mortician's eyes never landed on either of us.

They settled instead...

on Eliot's mittens.

Old.

Gray.

Stitched together so many times the original fabric had almost disappeared beneath the repairs.

He nodded once.

"They've served you well."

Eliot instinctively tucked his hands behind his back.

The Mortician reached beneath the table.

He produced a small wrapped parcel.

Brown paper.

Simple twine.

Nothing ornate.

He untied the string.

Folded back the paper.

Inside rested a pair of thick wool mittens.

Dark green.

New.

Clean.

Warm.

He placed them gently on the table between them.

No flourish.

No salesmanship.

Only four quiet words.

"Those should fit."

Silence.

Eliot stared.

The Mortician leaned back.

"You shouldn't have to live like this."

No promises.

No bargains.

No mention of power.

Only...

recognition.

For the first time since I'd met him...

Eliot didn't apologize.

He simply looked at the mittens.

Then...

very slowly...

he removed his own.

The old mittens came off carefully.

Not because they were valuable.

Because they were all he had.

The left one had been patched three different times.

The right thumb had been sewn together with blue thread that didn't match the gray wool.

One cuff had nearly unraveled.

Eliot folded them anyway.

One over the other.

Smoothed them flat.

Then rested them on the table.

The Mortician watched without speaking.

There was something almost reverent about the silence.

Like watching someone bury a friend.

Eliot reached toward the new mittens.

His hand stopped halfway.

"...These are expensive."

"They're mittens."

"They're more expensive than mine."

"They're newer than yours."

Eliot looked away.

"I can't pay for them."

"I know."

"I don't take charity."

"No."

The Mortician smiled faintly.

"You've made that painfully obvious."

Another silence.

The city continued breaking around them.

Somewhere behind me—

glass shattered.

A delivery truck refused to start.

Someone screamed about losing every picture on their phone.

The Mortician didn't even glance over.

Neither did Eliot.

"I lose them."

The words were barely audible.

The Mortician nodded.

"I know."

"I don't mean to."

"I know."

"I try to keep them dry."

"I know."

"I stitch them."

"I know."

"I sleep with them on."

The Mortician's expression softened.

"I know."

Eliot swallowed.

"If I lose them..."

His voice cracked.

"...people get mad."

The Mortician leaned forward for the first time.

Not like a hunter.

Like a physician.

"How long has it been since someone asked how your hands were?"

Eliot blinked.

He searched for an answer.

Couldn't find one.

The Mortician answered for him.

"I thought so."

I stepped forward.

"That's enough."

The Mortician didn't even acknowledge me.

He kept his attention on Eliot.

"Does it hurt?"

Another pause.

Eliot nodded.

"...Sometimes."

"When?"

"When I get scared."

"When I'm angry."

"When..."

He looked down at his hands.

"...when I think about it too much."

The Mortician nodded as though confirming a diagnosis.

"And afterward?"

Eliot laughed once.

A bitter little sound.

"I'm tired."

"Of course you are."

The Mortician glanced toward the endless crowds of Times Square.

"They've made you carry something that was never yours."

Eliot's eyes followed his.

Nobody noticed him.

Nobody thanked him for trying.

Nobody knew he was the reason the city seemed to be unraveling.

They only knew something had gone wrong.

"I scare people."

"You inconvenience them."

"I ruin things."

"You reveal what cannot last."

The sentence hung in the air.

Even Eliot looked confused.

The Mortician continued.

"Electricity."

"Computers."

“Networks."

"They imagine these things are permanent."

"They're not."

He looked back at Eliot.

"You merely remind them."

I had heard enough.

"He's not coming with you."

Finally...

the Mortician looked at me.

Only for a moment.

Then he looked back at Eliot.

"I wasn't asking him."

Silence.

The city disappeared.

Not literally.

Only for me.

There was nothing left in Times Square except the three of us...

and the pair of mittens waiting patiently on the table.

Eliot looked down at the new mittens.

Then...

at the old pair.

He reached for neither.

"I don't want to owe you."

The Mortician nodded.

"A reasonable concern."

"I don't know you."

"No."

"You could want something."

"I do."

That caught Eliot off guard.

The Mortician smiled.

"I would be concerned if you hadn't asked."

He folded his hands atop the table.

"I want you to stop apologizing."

Silence.

Eliot frowned.

"...That's it?"

"For today."

The answer was so honest it unsettled me.

I stepped closer.

"Eliot."

He looked over.

"You've been surviving without him this long."

"I haven't been surviving."

The words came out before he could stop them.

His face reddened.

"I mean..."

"I..."

He looked at the ground.

"I'm tired."

Nobody spoke.

"I'm tired of checking my gloves every five minutes."

"I'm tired of sleeping with them."

"I'm tired of waking up because I think I lost one."

"I'm tired of everyone yelling."

"I'm tired of breaking things."

His breathing quickened.

"I'm tired of being..."

He searched for the word.

"...careful."

The Mortician finished the sentence for him.

"You're tired of being afraid."

Eliot's shoulders fell.

"...Yeah."

The Mortician slowly pushed the mittens across the table.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

"So stop."

No speech.

No grand promise.

Just...

permission.

I saw it happen.

Not on Eliot's face.

In his shoulders.

They lowered.

Just a little.

Like he'd been carrying a weight so long he'd forgotten what standing straight felt like.

I took another step.

"Listen to me."

He did.

"I know you're tired."

"You don't."

"I do."

"No."

His voice remained quiet.

"You don't."

"I buried a son."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Eliot froze.

"So don't tell me I don't understand losing people."

"I didn't lose anybody."

"You'll lose yourself."

"I don't even know who that is."

That one...

hit.

Because he wasn't arguing.

He was telling me the truth.

The Mortician remained silent.

He didn't need to say another word.

Eliot looked at the old mittens.

He picked them up.

Turned them over in his hands.

His thumb rested on the crooked blue stitching.

The repair he'd made himself.

He smiled sadly.

"They tried."

He wasn't talking about the mittens.

He was talking about everyone.

The shelters.

The employers.

The strangers who'd given him odd jobs.

The people who'd handed him old clothes.

Who'd meant well.

Who couldn't fix what was wrong.

"They really tried."

He carefully folded the mittens one last time.

Placed them back on the table.

Then...

he reached for the new pair.

He slipped them on.

They fit perfectly.

He closed his eyes.

For one brief moment...

he looked warm.

The Mortician stood.

Without a word, he buttoned the top button of his coat.

He picked up his espresso.

Finished the last sip.

Set the cup back on its saucer.

Then turned toward the curb.

A black SUV rolled quietly to a stop beside the café.

Its rear door opened.

No driver stepped out.

No one announced anything.

The door simply...

waited.

The Mortician started walking.

Eliot hesitated only once.

Then he followed.

I moved before I realized I had.

"Eliot."

He kept walking.

I caught up with him.

My hand settled gently on his shoulder.

He stopped.

Slowly...

he turned around.

The city disappeared.

All I could see...

was a frightened kid wearing mittens that finally fit.

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

"...Son."

For just a moment...

Eliot looked twelve years old.

Not eighteen.

Not a Stray.

Not a curse.

Just...

a kid.

His eyes searched mine.

I don't know what he was looking for.

Permission.

Forgiveness.

Maybe both.

Then he smiled.

Not happily.

Gratefully.

A small...

aching...

Smile.

“My name is Eliot.”

The words were almost lost beneath the traffic.

I felt my own mouth open.

Nothing came out.

He had told me the truth the first time.

I simply hadn’t believed him.

I nodded.

“Eliot.”

It was the first time I’d said his name.

He looked relieved.

Then...

without thinking...

he reached up.

His new mitten brushed against my chest.

Only for an instant.

Like someone steadying themselves before stepping away.

The fabric beneath his hand sighed.

A sound so soft...

I almost imagined it.

Neither of us looked down.

Neither of us noticed.

Eliot stepped back.

The Mortician held the SUV door open.

Still saying nothing.

Still waiting.

Eliot looked at him.

Then back at me.

"I..."

He searched for words that didn't exist.

"...I'm tired."

"I know."

"I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"I know."

"They'll be afraid of me either way."

I couldn't answer that.

Because he was right.

He looked toward the waiting SUV.

Then quietly said,

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head.

"No."

For the first time since we'd met...

I didn't let him apologize.

"You don't owe me that."

His eyes filled.

He nodded once.

Then he climbed into the SUV.

The Mortician waited until Eliot had settled inside.

Only then did he look at me.

No smile.

No triumph.

Just certainty.

"As always..."

he said quietly,

"...thank you, Pilgrim."

He closed the door.

The latch clicked.

The SUV pulled away from the curb.

I stood there watching it disappear into the sea of yellow taxis.

Watching...

until I couldn't tell which black vehicle was theirs anymore.

My hand was still half-raised.

As though there were still time to call him back.

There wasn't.

Behind me...

a single calliope note floated through Times Square.

High.

Bright.

Wrong.

Then another.

Then another.

Children laughed.

Blue confetti drifted across the avenue.

A fox wearing ribbons danced between tourists.

An owl in a velvet waistcoat bowed to applauding strangers.

Deer balanced on polished wooden barrels.

Acrobats swung from impossible ribbons strung between buildings that hadn't been there a heartbeat before.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

They thought a parade had arrived.

I knew better.

The music swelled.

Not loud.

Impossible.

One instrument became five.

Five became twenty.

Soon the whole of Times Square seemed to breathe in rhythm.

The blue confetti thickened.

It drifted between skyscrapers like autumn leaves that had forgotten what season they belonged to.

Children chased it.

Parents laughed.

Tourists raised their phones.

The fox danced across the hood of a taxi.

The driver applauded.

A pair of antlered acrobats leapt from ribbon to ribbon overhead, moving with impossible grace.

They never seemed to fall.

They simply...

floated...

before landing with the effortless certainty of hunting cats.

Nobody questioned it.

Nobody questioned anything.

Wonder has a way of lowering your guard.

A voice boomed across the square.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The music softened.

A ringmaster stepped into the center of the crowd.

His coat shimmered midnight blue beneath the afternoon sun.

Silver embroidery curled across the sleeves like tangled vines.

He tipped his top hat.

"What a magnificent audience."

The crowd answered with applause.

He smiled wider.

"But every performance deserves..."

"...a guest of honor."

His eyes found me immediately.

Of course they did.

"Pilgrim."

The name echoed across Times Square.

I hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years.

Not since before...

before everything.

The Ringmaster spread his arms.

"There he is!"

Every face turned toward me.

Hundreds of smiling strangers.

None of them knew me.

All of them stared.

Clowns bounded forward.

Not painted men.

Fairy glamours.

Things given shape long enough to hurt me.

Their faces hidden behind grinning porcelain masks.

Their limbs bent wrong.

Too many joints.

Too much freedom.

They skipped around me in widening circles.

One dusted my shoulder with a feather.

Another adjusted my collar.

A third offered me a bouquet of blue flowers that immediately wilted in my hand.

The crowd roared with laughter.

The Ringmaster beamed.

"Let's hear it for Pilgrim!"

Applause.

Whistles.

Cheers.

I didn't move.

I couldn't.

The Ringmaster's smile softened.

"Oh..."

"You don't know why you're being celebrated."

He looked genuinely saddened.

"Well..."

"...we simply must fix that."

He removed a cream-colored envelope from inside his coat.

Held it delicately between two fingers.

Like an invitation.

Or a funeral notice.

He broke the wax seal.

Cleared his throat.

The square became strangely quiet.

Even the music seemed to wait.

"'To our dear friend, Pilgrim.'"

He looked up.

Smiled warmly.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

My stomach dropped.

"'Your wife..."

"...and your eldest son..."

"...are dead.'"

Silence.

One heartbeat.

Then—

BOOM.

Blue confetti exploded into the air.

Cannons fired from rooftops.

The band erupted into triumphant music.

The crowd cheered.

People laughed.

Children jumped to catch the falling paper.

A little girl beside me clapped so hard her hands turned red.

She thought it was part of the show.

Everyone did.

I stood perfectly still.

The words refused to fit inside my head.

Dead.

My wife.

My boy.

Dead.

The Ringmaster folded the letter neatly.

"I was asked to pass along the news personally."

He placed the envelope gently into my coat pocket.

"So terribly sorry."

Then he smiled.

The same smile the others wore.

Kind.

Beautiful.

Empty.

Behind him...

the black SUV turned the corner.

It was leaving.

With Eliot inside.

I took one step.

A porcelain-masked clown landed silently in front of me.

Then another.

And another.

The music never stopped.

The show...

had only just begun.

"Move."

The first masked performer tilted its head.

As though it hadn't understood me.

I repeated myself.

"Move."

It giggled.

Not a human laugh.

Something sharper.

Like dry leaves rubbing together.

The others joined in.

Heads cocked.

Curious.

Studying me.

The Ringmaster sighed dramatically.

"Oh dear."

"I was hoping you'd appreciate the performance."

"I said..."

My voice was no louder.

"...move."

He tipped his hat.

"I'm afraid we can't."

The fox was the first to spring.

One moment it stood upright, balancing on polished boots.

The next...

it dropped onto all fours.

Its spine rippled beneath blue velvet.

It covered twenty feet in a heartbeat.

I caught it by the throat.

Its neck felt wrong.

Too light.

Too flexible.

I threw it through a souvenir stand.

Snow globes burst across the sidewalk.

The crowd screamed.

Not because a fox had attacked me.

Because, to them...

a giant man had just assaulted a performer.

The owl came next.

Silent.

Talons first.

I ducked beneath it.

Caught one wing.

The feathers dissolved into fingers.

Too many fingers.

They wrapped around my wrist.

I slammed the creature into the pavement.

The asphalt cracked.

People scattered.

Phones appeared.

Someone shouted,

"He's attacking the circus!"

Good.

Let them think that.

The deer charged.

Not graceful anymore.

Its antlers lowered like spears.

I grabbed them.

Its momentum carried us both into the side of a city bus.

Windows exploded outward.

The deer shrieked.

Not like an animal.

Like a woman laughing underwater.

It wriggled free and bounded away.

Always smiling.

Always smiling.

The Ringmaster clapped politely.

"Bravo."

"I've missed this version of you, Pilgrim."

"I haven't missed yours."

"Oh, I should hope not."

He glanced toward the departing SUV.

"It's nearly gone."

I looked.

One block.

Maybe two.

Still close enough.

I started after it.

The Ringmaster snapped his fingers.

The music stopped.

Every masked creature froze.

Then...

as one...

they turned their heads toward me.

The masks smiled.

The eyes behind them...

did not.

They came all at once.

Fox.

Owl.

Deer.

Hares.

Badgers.

Things I couldn't name.

Not performers anymore.

Predators.

I met them head-on.

One tried to climb my back.

I drove it into a traffic light.

Another wrapped around my legs.

I tore it loose and threw it through the windshield of an empty taxi.

The third bit my forearm.

Its teeth splintered.

It screamed louder than I did.

The crowd surged away in blind panic.

People shoved each other.

Children cried.

Police whistles pierced the chaos.

The Ringmaster watched everything unfold with delighted fascination.

"This..."

he said to no one in particular,

"...is why Simon likes you."

I ignored him.

There.

The SUV.

Only half a block now.

I drove through the last knot of masked creatures like a bull through dry reeds.

Wooden masks shattered.

Blue ribbons filled the air.

Someone caught hold of my coat.

I shrugged free.

Another grabbed my arm.

I flung them over my shoulder without breaking stride.

The Ringmaster called after me.

"You're forgetting something."

I didn't slow.

"My family is dead."

"No."

His voice floated effortlessly through the screaming crowd.

"You've only just found out."

I ran harder.

The black SUV stopped at a red light.

For one impossible second...

I thought I could still reach it.

Then...

the light turned green.

"No!"

The word tore itself out of me.

The SUV rolled into the intersection.

I ran.

People dove out of my way.

Taxi horns blared.

Someone grabbed my sleeve.

I ripped free without ever seeing who it was.

"Eliot!"

The rear window.

Just for an instant.

I saw him.

He looked back.

Our eyes met.

His face crumpled.

He wasn't celebrating.

He wasn't smiling.

He looked...

heartbroken.

Then he lifted one mittened hand.

Not to wave.

Not goodbye.

Just...

an instinct.

Like he wanted to reach back.

The SUV disappeared into traffic.

Something inside me broke loose.

I charged after it.

A police cruiser screeched sideways across the avenue, blocking my path.

Two officers burst from behind their doors.

"Police!"

"Don't move!"

I never even looked at them.

The SUV.

I only needed one more block.

One more street.

One more chance.

I sprinted.

"Stop!"

The first shot rang out.

It hit me square in the chest.

There should have been a hard impact.

A bruise.

Nothing more.

Instead...

fire.

The bullet tore through me.

I stumbled.

Confused.

For one impossible heartbeat...

I couldn't understand why it hurt.

Then I remembered.

A mitten brushing my chest.

A quiet sigh from the fabric.

My vest.

Eliot.

He hadn't meant—

The second round struck my shoulder.

The third caught my side.

The force spun me halfway around.

Still...

I kept moving.

One foot.

Then another.

The officers shouted again.

More sirens.

More commands.

None of it mattered.

The SUV.

I couldn't even see it anymore.

Another volley.

My legs folded beneath me.

The pavement rushed upward.

The world tilted.

Blue confetti drifted past my face.

One piece landed in a widening pool of blood.

The Ringmaster appeared above me.

He crouched.

Adjusted my collar.

Brushed dust from my shoulder with almost fatherly care.

"You always did have terrible timing."

I tried to grab him.

My arm wouldn't listen.

He smiled sadly.

"I'll tell Simon you made it entertaining."

He tipped his hat.

Then vanished into the retreating carnival.

The music faded.

One performer after another disappeared into the crowds until there had never been a parade at all.

Only frightened tourists.

Shattered glass.

Blood.

Police.

Someone pressed both hands against the hole in my chest.

"Stay with us!"

Another voice.

"We need an ambulance!"

"Where did the performers go?"

"I don't know!"

"They were just here!"

Everything sounded...

far away.

A paramedic leaned over me.

His lips moved.

I couldn't hear him anymore.

Only...

whispers.

Not the city.

Leaves.

Branches.

Wind.

The smell of damp earth replaced hot asphalt.

The sirens stretched...

slowed...

became something else.

Voices.

Dozens of them.

Hundreds.

Speaking all at once.

Not to me.

About me.

A thought drifted through them like a falling leaf.

No one comes to the forest...

Another answered.

...unless the forest allows.

Darkness settled over everything.

I should have been dead.

I knew I should have been dead.

Then...

a voice.

Close.

Calm.

Almost amused.

"Who says you're not?"

I opened my eyes.

The lights of Times Square were gone.

Above me...

branches.

Blue leaves.

The endless limbs of the Weeping Willow reached across the sky.

A man stood beneath them with his hands folded behind his back.

He smiled as though we'd been expecting each other.

"Welcome," Simon said.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you."

The world went dark.