Malachi and I

  I gathered the papers together before making my way up to his room. The door was cracked open as well, and there, lying on his bed in nothing but his jeans, I found him staring blankly at something in the room. I saw that he’d abandoned the mugs, opting instead to bring the whole coffee pot to his room. Even that was empty, except for the smallest brown liquid within it.

  “Malachi?” I whispered as I stepped inside and tried to get him to look at me.

  But he remained silent as tears fell from his eyes without his control. Now that I was further into the room I turned and followed his gaze. And there, leaning against a few other blank canvases, was an Indian woman with long dark brown hair, dressed in green and gold traditional clothes. In the corner of the painting I saw the date written in white—1599.

  I lifted the papers in my hand and motioned at her.

  “Anarkali?” I asked turning to him. “Is she Anarkali?”

  He blinked slowly and his dazed blue eyes looked to me, like he couldn’t focus on me and was instead looking right through me.

  “I killed her,” he whispered. “I killed her to spare her the pain…I shouldn’t have! I should have held on! He would have forgiven us! He was going to forgive us! I’m sure he was. We could have stopped them! We could have lived happily ever after but I killed her! I KILLED HER!”

  “Malachi!” I dropped the papers and rushed to his side as he coughed and rolled himself into a ball.

  “No. Please. No!” He begged rocking back and forth with his head in his hands.

  “What do I do? What’s wrong?!” I yelled touching his arm but he just shook and rolled over, with his back to me. He cried out one final time before he slipped into unconsciousness. “Malachi!”

  He was ice cold and shivering as though he were naked in the middle of the North Pole. Unable to pull the blankets from under him, I wrapped him up as best as I could but he still wouldn’t stop shaking so I laid next to him and held him as tightly as I could.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I whispered at his back. “You’re going to be okay. It’s only in your head. You’re going to be okay.”

  I didn’t realize I was crying until my vision blurred. I held on and didn’t dare let go repeating that he’d be okay over and over while praying that he would be.

  ***

  “Grandpa, he’s not well!”

  “Esther—”

  “No! Don’t Esther me, Grandpa! Don’t talk to me like I’m overacting! For the last five hours, I’ve watched as he whimpered in pain, confessed to a murder that happened over four hundred years ago and begged for death twice. He thinks he’s the former prince of the Mughal Empire!” This was insane! Malachi was not sane, he needed medical treatment not to be writing books!

  “He thinks he is because he is.”

  I froze. The pot of soup I was boiling bubbled up as I left it. My mind was trying to comprehend the madness coming out of my grandfather.

  “I’m sorry, the reception is a little spotty…what did you just say?”

  “Esther, Malachi isn’t insane.”

  “He’s just over four hundred years old?” Was I surrounded by lunatics? “I love paranormal fiction as much as the next person but this is going too far. What is he then? A vampire? A coffee-addicted, meat-loving, fang-less, four hundred and eighteen-year-old Caucasian vampire who was once a prince in India? That’s the story you’re trying to sell me on?”

  “I need you to be open-minded when I tell you this.”

  “Sure!” I turned off the stove and moved the pot to another burner. “I’m open, please go on I’ll try not to turn into a bat and fly away.”

  “Are you done?”

  I kept silent so he could talk though a part of me wondered if there was a two-for-one deal at the mental hospital.

  “Now that you’re silent I don’t know how to explain this to you.”

  “Grandpa! I’m already on edge, you cannot make jokes—”

  “I’m not joking. Malachi is the former prince of the Mughal Empire.” He repeated and it sounded no more believable than it did a minute ago.

  “I have no words.” In fact my brain wanted to kick open my skull and make an escape because apparently rational thought was no longer needed.

  “It was hard for me to believe too.” He coughed once and I heard what sounded like a beep but he spoke a little louder. “Esther, Malachi isn’t just the prince of the Mughal Empire. He was once Romeo Montague to Juliet, Obinna the Great to Adaeze, Lancelot to Guinevere, Wei Xiao to Princess Changping—”

  “Grandpa.” I smiled only because I was so sure he was messing with me. “You’re trying to tell me, that Malachi Lord, the romance novelist, is the reincarnation of all of the most tragic and iconic heroes in all of history?”

  “Yes.” Came the reply. But not from Grandpa.

  I turned to see the very man…the tragic hero himself, leaning against the railing of the stairs. “Can I have some of that?” He nodded to the pot.

  “He’ll explain.”

  “Grandpa!” But he was gone leaving me with the man he’d just told me had lived five different times. Holding onto his side, he slumped towards me—no—towards the pot of food, and I stepped aside as I held the phone to my chest staring blankly at him as he took the spoon I’d been using to stir and filled the bowl until it was just barely overflowing. Putting the pot down, he lifted the bowl to his lips and drank deeply until there was nothing left but the rice, beef, and carrots. Then he turned to me, the circles around his eyes were still there but they weren’t as dark as they’d been before.

  “Do you mind if I finish this?” He pointed to the pot.

  Without saying a word I nodded that he could go ahead. And he did. He poured the rest into the bowl, grabbed a spoon and slowly sat on the floor, this time using the spoon to feed himself.

  “Is it okay?”

  “It’s horrible but I’m hungry,” he replied stuffing his face again.

  “Hey! You didn’t have to eat it you jerk! Put it back if it’s so horrible.”

  He snickered finally looking up from the bowl. “How are you going to make me when you’re too scared to move?”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “You circled around me slowly as if I were a monster you were trying to escape from.”

  “Sorry—”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m actually relieved you have the sense to be wary of men like me.” He stuck another bite into his mouth.

  “I’m not sure if you’re praising or insulting me,” I replied as I slowly sat down opposite him.

  “Both. Neither. I’m not sure either,” he stated as he continued eating.

  I sat in silence until he finished. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know how to explain…Alfred is the only one who I’ve ever told and he didn’t need much proof.”

  “Shame on him.” I was going to need proof and whole lot of it. “My grandfather is a science-fiction and thriller type man. Me? I’m a diehard romantic. So you can’t just tell me you were once Romeo Montague, the Romeo of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and just get an oh-that-sounds-legit pass from me.”

  “I was not Romeo Montague, the Romeo of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. William took liberties with our story. So did Arthur Brooke and before them both, Masuccio Salernitano. I was Romeo Montecchi of Verona and Juliet wasn’t Juliet but Giulietta Capuleti in 1378. We did not get married but swore to. I tried to escape to Egypt but was told that Giulietta needed to see me at the church we promised ourselves at. I arrived only to be knifed. Giulietta did not kill herself but died of a heart attack when she came to church to try and warn me that it was a setup. Also, there was never a Rosaline, why William added her I will never understand.”

  I had to put my hand on my head because it felt like the world was spinning. Where was I supposed to start with that? From the least important—that being the fact he’d just called one of the greatest writers of all time William as if he’d known him personally. Or should I start from the
most important—that he’d just completely ruined the story for me!

  “You…this… what…oh my god I don’t know who’s crazy anymore.” I threw my hands up. “No that’s a lie. I know I’m not crazy. Do you hear yourself?”

  He sighed as he stood and moved towards the sink. Turning on the faucet he set his bowl down and reached for the pot too. It was only when I started to get up from the floor that he spoke again.

  “I can’t make you believe me. In all honesty, I wish Alfred hadn’t told you. Do you think I want to be like this?” He paused as he squeezed the sponge tightly. “Do you know how painful it is to remember not only how you yourself died, but how the person you loved died?”

  I said nothing and he continued to scrub the bowl harder. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine times, that is how many times I have felt myself die, have watched her die. And some days I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, and I fear that if I close my eyes I will fall into another memory and watch helplessly as everything falls apart! I’m tired! I am tired of living like this! I wish I were insane, I swear to you that I do because at least there would be some type of drug that could spare me this agony! Instead, I have coffee to keep me up at night! NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE TIMES I have loved her and it has only led to our death. So screw it! Screw love. Screw romance! I do not want it! I’ll die alone in the woods before I go back to that again!”

  The bowl shattered as he flung it into the sink. He gripped the edge of the counter and hung his head. Slowly I moved closer and placed my hands over his.

  “I believe you and it’s…sad,” I whispered.

  He glanced up at me. “It’s worse than sad, it’s a nightmare. I don’t know why we are being punished like this—”

  He gripped his head again.

  “Another…memory?” I asked holding on to him quickly.

  “I’m going to lie down,” he whispered and pulled himself away from me.

  I watched as he walked, broken, tired, and every bit miserable, back to the stairs. He climbed up one at a time as if the weight of the world were trying to pull him back down. When he was gone, I turned to the broken bowl in the sink.

  “I told you he was romantic,” I whispered as I carefully picked up the pieces. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times he’d loved the same woman, the only woman in the world for him, his soulmate. It wasn’t sad because they died. It was sad because he didn’t seem to realize that she loved him back, all nine hundred and ninety-nine times, she’d loved him even though she knew it would kill them both and now he’d decided to reject her. That was the sad part.

  Maybe they will find themselves again?

  Wait, do I really, truly believe this?

  “Shit.” I looked down to see that I’d cut my finger on a shard of the broken bowl. Sticking my finger into my mouth, I quickly threw the broken bits into the trash and finished cleaning up.

  It didn’t matter if I believed it. He believed it and he was mourning because of it.

  8. THE LAND OF THE LIVING

  MALACHI

  BEEP…

  BEEP…

  BEEP…

  “What in the—”

  “It’s 8 a.m.”

  “Ah!” I hissed as the sun assaulted my eyes, forcing me to roll over. “Go away…” My voice trailed off as the smell of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, French toast, and best of all, coffee, filled my nose. Opening my eyes I saw the food sitting on a tray right beside my face. I was so mesmerized by it that I didn’t even notice her until she put a blue origami bear right next to the cutlery set she’d not only laid out but folded into a napkin.

  “Sit up and eat before it gets cold,” she ordered as she rose from her place in front of the tray and I saw her dark green leg warmers with the words Lieber Falls written down the sides of them in white disappear into my bathroom.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I sat up and I was dismayed to find that it looked nothing like my bedroom. It was immaculate. I didn’t think wood could shine and yet the floors of my bedroom were so perfect I was sure I could see my reflection. I glanced over to the side—

  “Where are my paintings?!”

  She popped her head back out my bathroom. “In the art room.”

  “Art room? What art room?”

  “The empty room next to the guest room. I also unpacked the rest of the boxes there.”

  There was an attic…wait, no. “You can’t just move my things—”

  “And you can’t just die.” She snapped grabbing the trash from my bathroom and heading towards the door. “You are alive. You might want to die. You might feel like you’re dying but you, Malachi Lord, are alive. And you are my responsibility. I didn’t come here for a vacation. I came here because I promised my grandfather that I’d help you produce your best work yet. However, in the week I’ve been here you haven’t written a single thing. You don’t even know what day it is unless I tell you.”

  “I managed to write well enough and live perfectly fine—”

  “What day is it?” she asked, her brown eyes staring at me. Her hair was pulled back into a thick curly ponytail.

  “I don’t need to answer to you. This is my house—”

  “Nope.” She pulled out her phone and read. “Property #283, Lieber Falls, Montana. Ownership: Penohxi Publishing House. Renter: Malachi Lord. I’m sending you the contract you obviously didn’t read.”

  I heard my phone vibrate on the ground but didn’t look at it as she continued with her commands.

  “You do not own this home. My grandfather, the man who has looked out for you since you were a child, owns this home. So I won’t let you treat it as badly as you treat yourself. The books you write, are also owned by Penohxi Publishing House, and maybe you don’t care about your work. But I care. Millions of people care. And we promised them that you would have a new book next year. I confirmed it online. So if need to spoon-feed you, I will. If I need to carry you on my back, I will. Not for you. But for my Grandpa, and for all the women I’ve become friends with who are waiting on you. I’m not going to let them down!”

  As she spoke her eyes teared up and I felt the urge to back away from her.

  She wiped her eyes with the arm of her maroon sweater. “What are you looking at? Eat! Join the land of the living. I had to ride into town for that breakfast.”

  “You rode my bike?!”

  “No. I bought a bicycle while you were trying to become one with your bed!” She hollered back. “And thanks for being grateful. I’m taking out the trash!”

  She muttered something in a language I didn’t understand as she exited. I stood there stunned for a moment before I slowly sank back into the middle of my bed. Reaching for the plate I took a bite of the bacon.

  “Damn it.” It was good…really good. I stuffed my face like a savage, eating the French toast in two bites before reaching for the fork before I once again noticed the blue watercolor origami bear.

  Open me.

  Carefully I opened it reading her ironically graceful handwriting in the center of the paper.

  “Gavin's Law: Live to start. Start to live.” ― Richie Norton.” I read the quote before reading her instructions under his name. “Step One: Eat. Step Two: Shave and shower, please. Step Three: Dress comfortably for a walk.”

  Subconsciously I reached up and touched the growth of hair that had sprouted on my cheek.

  Dropping the paper, I picked up my fork and ate quickly…a habit I couldn’t break apparently. Why? I wasn’t sure. But reaching for the coffee I drank it like I normally did but nearly gagged.

  “What in the—”

  “It’s decaf.” She walked back into my room like she owned the place…well, apparently she thought she did, though I’m sure Alfred probably didn’t intend for her to use that fact over me. Since I could pick up and move at any time Alfred rented places out for me so there wouldn’t be a paper trail in case I really wanted to disappear.

  “It’s not coffee if it’s decaf.”

&nbsp
; “Coffee is not good for you.”

  “Living isn’t good for me.”

  She made a face at me. “That because you’re living wrong.”

  “Really? And what makes you an expert at living—”

  “I’ve stepped outside.” She sat in front of me and placed a water bottle on the tray. “You don’t get to be an asshole because you’re in pain. Everyone has been or is in some pain—”

  “Not like this. You have no idea—”

  “My mother tried to kill me when I five,” she blurted out and I froze as she reached onto my plate and stole a piece of toast from me. “I don’t remember it much, I’ve blocked it out. I just remember her telling me it was bath time, and when I got in she held me under the water.”

  “I…” I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  She nodded slowly as she chewed then swallowed. “You know how…well you probably don’t know, but the children of big time Hollywood people…some of them don’t really do well when they grow up. Some say it’s the pressure, others say it was all the money and no supervision. Drugs, drinking, partying…one day when she was seventeen she was raped. She didn’t know by whom or how many. My grandfather was heartbroken and devoted his time to try and help her. He tried to find the men but never did, and when she found out about me she wanted an abortion. She asked for money for the procedure but instead she used it to get high. She used me to get money out of my grandfather before I was even born.”

  She inhaled deeply and relaxed again. “I think she thought she could always just get rid of me but waited too long. When she gave birth she left me on top of my Grandpa’s old Mercedes…right on top of the snow. My Grandfather named me Esther—the brightest star he’d ever seen—and relocated to New York, becoming my mom, my dad, and my grandfather.

  “When I was five, my mother returned, she was clean, she really, really tried to love me, but she couldn’t heal, she resented me and she tried to kill me. My grandpa kicked her out and I haven’t seen her since. But I love her. I forgive her. And I hope she’s alright wherever she is…because I understand that my pain should not blind me from other people’s pain. You’re in pain, Malachi, but you aren’t the only person on this planet suffering. No matter how many times it’s happened, you don’t get to say that no one hurts like you. That isn’t fair. Anyway, I’ll wait downstairs for you to get ready.”