Orgy of Souls

“No. Go home. Sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning when you’ve decided.”

11

Nkosi’s room allowed a measure of privacy, an oasis of dignity against the encroachment of an intractable trespasser. Like all of the rooms, a large bay window faced the rising sun. Painted a neutral taupe, not falsely cheery nor hope-crushingly dreary, the room was an austere testimony to Nkosi’s life. Samuel sat next to her bed and watched her for nearly an hour as she slept before she knew he was in the room. She waved meekly for him to draw near. Her breathing had grown shallow, her voice no louder than a whisper, lost in a swirl of semi-consciousness.

“Don’t you want your mirror?”

“The way I look? My eyes so big and hollow, like I’m already dead and I’m staring back from the other side.”

A Bible lay open on the stand that used to hold her meal trays. It mocked him. The deceitful strength that so long buoyed her had fled in the night. She couldn’t walk, her thin frame no longer capable of supporting her. She convulsed as if gripped by a terrible chill. Her weak voice, once so vibrant, unnerved Samuel.

“I hadn’t heard from your family. One of the nurses had to call me.”

“I just wanted to hide from everyone. No one should have to look at me.”

A paralyzing fear gripped him. He avoided meeting her eyes because every time he did, he became afraid. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her to be strong, that she was having a bad day; hope stuck in his throat. She didn’t have much longer—the disease consumed her so quickly, yet she stared at him as if he was supposed to have the answers.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

“I didn’t ask. Anything I want to know, I’ll find out soon enough. Oh, the way I must look. You can see my skull and bones. You look like you’re losing more weight, too.”

Samuel dropped his head. The Nkosi he knew faded in and out, already repeating her thoughts through the jumbled haze of her mind. The last thing he wanted was to talk about his own struggle with the virus. He eyed her long dull curls that puddled into her pillow.

“You think God abandoned us, don’t you?” Nkosi asked.

“Don’t you?”

“Hold my hand.”

Samuel wrapped his hand with hers. Her muscles tensed, and he knew she meant to pull him closer, so he leaned in.

“You have been God for me. You’ve wiped my tears and held my hand. Your presence...I feel Him through you. Don’t you see?”

“If I’m God, I’m doing a pretty lousy job of things.”

She coughed violently, all that remained of her barreling laugh, spittles of blood spraying her sheets. Not that he had anything to fear from them. “You’re doing better than you think.”

“I wish I had your faith.” He held her tighter.

“Mine? You’re funny. It’s been yours keeping me going all this time. But I’m so tired.” She folded into him like an exhausted dove. Still so beautiful, so loving, so trusting, his heart yearned toward her. She charged the very air around her, the air he breathed.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. I stare out the window and I want to see one more day. Keep looking out for your brother. He’d be lost without you.”

The words fell like loose dirt on a coffin. She closed her eyes, still smiling a bit. Her breath became shallower, settling into sleep.

12

Requiem, a hole in the wall night club, used to be a church. The refurbished sanctuary was now the main dance floor broken by rows of columns. Clusters of tables and chairs separated it from the lounge and bar area, the words “Entertainment one better than sterno enemas” painted on a nearby column. A dimly lit balcony ringed the main floor as huddles of shadows watched from above. Roadies scurried about the stage that had once supported a pulpit and choir loft, preparing for the band, Madonna’s Abortion, to play.

An overweight girl with a feather boa draped around her shoulders and her hair pulled up sat in a corner of the club. A crescent moon caught in a shower of stars advertised tarot readings. Her business cards read “The Witch Cottage.” The prospect intrigued Samson; he’d never gotten a tarot reading before. He sat down across from her, attempting to hide the condescending smirk etched on his face.

“How much?”

“Fifteen dollars. You can ask me as many questions as you like. Here, shuffle these cards.” She handed him a stack of well-worn, oversized cards. Samson shuffled them awkwardly then handed the deck back to her. She dealt them in front of him.

“How long will I be married?” he baited her. He wasn’t going to let this turn into one of those eerie moments. He suspected how this worked: the more he expressed on his face or in his voice, the more information she’d have for the con.

“You will end up alone,” she said as if she didn’t hear his question. Studying the cards with a brooding intensity, Samson wanted to lean over to see what she was reading. “If you did the right thing, which you won’t, things might work out. You’re being punished by the Divine. What you’ve put out is coming back to you.”