The Middle

Perched atop three night-shrouded thrones with wisps of shadows were the Kings and Queen of death. Fíodóir’s dull, blonde hair curls at her elbows, softening her sharp features and vibrant silver eyes. Bás had eyes like swirling black pools and his chin-length blond hair is tied at the nape of his neck, while Fírinne’s eyes are absent of colour and his hair sits just above his shoulders. The siblings share the same high cheekbones and sharp-cut jaws with slender figures. Fíodóir is Queen, weaving together the threads of venom, joy, colour, purity, and violence, and ensuring the fabric of the world stays intact. Bás is a King and he commands death, choosing when and how everything dies. Fírinne, the other King, chooses how souls spend their time in death. He decides whether they spend their afterlife in eternal pain or bliss. Together, they are the gods of fate.

The hospital smelled like lemons and death. Reeked of it, actually. The wheels on the stretcher and shouts of nurses and doctors thrummed in Scáthán’s ears like a symphony. She only urged death on as people rushed to prepare a defibrillator. She clung to darkness like a blanket, ordering the doctors not to save her. All summarily ignored her commands and carried on. She didn’t know what could have gone wrong. She lived alone, unmonitored in her home, she didn’t have a regular schedule so nobody could have noticed something was up, and she had always had a fascination with knives so there is no way her recent purchases could be found suspicious. Perhaps she made it too public? Perhaps the trail she chose was busier than she thought? She shut down the idea that she would survive. This was her moment and those stupid nurses and doctors were not going to stop her this time.

Someone shouted, “CLEAR!”

Scáthán attempted to shift her withering old body at the last minute. She wanted to use as much energy up as possible before the kick started her heart for what felt like the millionth time. Realistically, it was probably only the fifth. How many times could someone be brought back with a defibrillator? Honestly! Despite her attempts she was pinned down and couldn’t do much to avoid those aggravating electric pads. Darkness ebbed and flowed in her vision as she held onto the feeling of slipping away. Scáthán felt darkness take her, but she knew it wasn’t the right kind.

The air was cool and the crinkly hospital gown chafed against her skin. There were stitches and wraps covering her arms, legs and abdomen from where she had pinned herself to the tree. Another inefficient method to be remedied. A sad thought, considering how dramatic and beautiful she must have looked while pinned to that great oak with those blades. A familiar nurse strolled in with a disapproving look riddling her face.

“Really?” She huffed, “Why do you want to die? And in such odd ways!”

“They. Are. Dramatic,” Scáthán spelled out for her. “They create a lasting impression.” The nurse stared right at her, brows raised with a small smile, as though she was Scáthán’s daughter and she was lecturing her.

“As for your question, I want to die because I’m old. I’m ready.”

Scáthán would already be dead, too, if it wasn’t for her family’s stupid longevity, and if her attempts at death didn’t fail everytime.

“Why don’t you just use assisted suicide?”

“It’s not ​dramatic​,” Scáthán emphasized. The nurse just chuckled before strolling out.

Scáthán was released from the hospital’s care two days later only for her to wind up back on an emergency stretcher a month later. This time she had hung herself off of a gondola in the middle of the two mountains. By the time she was reached she was dead and now they had her body on a stretcher as they waited for her to be placed in a body bag and taken away. Death did not smell like lemons, or wreak of decaying bodies. Instead, it smelled like absolutely nothing. Scáthán found herself rising, only to fall over in shock. Her withered body was young. No more aches and pains and her papery, wrinkled hands were traded for smooth, strong ones.

“Hello, Scáthán,” three voices spoke in unison, “welcome to the Middle.”

Scáthán stood there, arms hanging by her sides.

“You’re beautiful,” her awestruck voice echoed through the space. The space was just dark. It had no walls or ceilings, just full darkness. The only things in the room were the three ethereal people who spoke to her from their thrones.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the Middle,” announced the woman.

“Between the realms of the living and dead,” clarified a man with hair pulled at the nape of his neck.

“My sister is Fíodóir, Queen of death,” He looked at the Queen before saying, “This is Bás, King of death.” The one speaking looked at Scáthán, “I am Fírinne, King of death.”

“We are the gods and goddesses who decide how you spend your afterlife.”

“What are my options?” Scáthán looked them each in the eyes trying to determine whether or not this was real. Was she going to wake up in a hospital bed like every time before?

“You may spend the afterlife in eternal misery,” the one introduced as Fíodóir grinned as she spoke. “Or you may live it in eternal bliss,” Bás’ grin was the equivalent of his sister’s when he finished.

“Do I get to choose?” Scáthán had her head tilted to the side.

“So many questions,” they said in a sing-song melody, “We have not had fun like this in ages.”

“Yes you may choose but we have the final say.”

“You are vain in every way,” Fírinne seemed to stare through her, “but you are a kind and generous person.”

“She seems like a snake,” Fíodóir said, examining Scáthán head to toe.

“Indeed but clever,” Bás was sizing her up, “she seems harmless.”

“Certainly not cruel enough for eternal misery,” Fírinne directed that at his sister.

“What would you prefer?” Bás was speaking again, “misery or bliss.”

“You can't seriously be asking that question?” Scáthán nearly laughed. The siblings raised their eyebrows. Fíodóir appeared annoyed while her brothers seemed amused at the disdain in Scáthán’s words. They just looked at her expectantly.

“Bliss,” she looked at them like it was obvious before grinding out, “please.”

The Kings and Queen of death looked at each other and nodded. Scáthán melted away into pure comfort and peace.