City of Death

A stout conversation on life prompted Geraldine Snow’s bout with necromancy. This included recent dealings with amnesia, anemia and a thick, resolve to live. If only she could muster up enough strength to break out of here, then the real fun could begin.

Geraldine Snow was nearing her ninetieth birthday and each day awoke with sheer desperation to die. She wasn’t even sure if this was real or a dream. It bothered her so intensely that the idea of having to choke down more of the dry, overly sauced food and thickened water made her want to drop where she stood. You see, Geraldine Snow wasn’t ninety and she wasn’t sick or dying or decrepit.

It didn’t help the care facility her daughter Norah left her only played re-runs of broken VHS tapes with lines through every scene on a boxy television set strapped to a rolling cart. Visuals of old soaps and washed out celebrities who had probably died decades before played on a loupe in the sitting room. Geraldine didn’t even know what day or year it was. This couldn’t be all the world thought of her. Another remnant of a generation dead and gone. Nurses and orderlies tried their best to get her to relate, but it was no use. She remained cranky, unhappy and full of pent-up rage.

There was only so much a young woman could do trapped in the body of an old, dying woman. The spell must have read wrong, she must have said it backwards.

Dust covered double-sided lace curtains of a bleached mauve variety hung in three narrow bay-windows. Creaky rocking chairs tied with blue goose cushions sat empty and abandoned. Not even a breeze stirred their arched hoofs. Shelves of books that hadn’t been touched in years lie helpless.

Geraldine sat alone at what she assumed could only have been a foyer-table in some large estate where beautiful blooming roses and calla lilies called home—being pruned and prodded by a maid of some sort—which now housed the only set of neglected checkers. A large cloth rag with black and tan squares. A few red and black coins lie haphazardly waiting for the next set of unfortunate souls to try their hand. Problem was, no one else was up in the halls, no one was allowed out of their rooms—except for old Ms. Geraldine Snow. Why that was, was anyone’s guess.

They kept the other, more unruly guests at bay, tucked away in their beds, locked in rooms unable to enjoy the company of others.

“Geraldine,” a soft, sweet voice called from just outside the hall.

“It’s time for your medication. Remember what we said, if you listen you can come back out tomorrow.”

Geraldine sighed, having yet to realize a way to swallow the medication without it affecting her memory. She never got farther than this room. Every day, every night, leaning her closer into that wild sleep. That’s what they wanted after-all.

If only they knew. If only they knew who they had in their midst. Their voices would catch in their throats. Their eyes would fall to the ground. Their hearts would skip and settle, before stopping completely. If only.

But for now, Geraldine Snow waited for the highest bidder to auction off what was left of her dying soul—and what a waste that was.