Diandra Thompson

Death, As You Like It

A Short Story by Diandra Thompson

Diandra Thompson

Death, As You Like It She walked gingerly past the people bustling down the cold streets of New York. White chaos flurried everywhere, blanketing the city in a false layer of innocence. The ice cut into them, chilling mercilessly, startling them to the world, and awakening them to the absolute presence of winter.

She felt no cold, not even the wind lashing at her hands and face. Her breath made no cloud of heat. Still, she attempted to blend in, to rub at her fingers as if they were numb, to sink deeper into her coat. Those were the gestures that allowed her precious anonymity. It was better that way.

Nameless, she was every face you ever longed for and could not remember, every girl that ever smiled at you before walking away, and as such, Tammy/Jessica/Rachael made her way into Central Park, where a pulsing light beckoned to her and a destiny yearned to be fulfilled.

Suddenly, she felt an electric crackle of energy shoot through her body. The air rippled, then became solid again. She stopped to notice the changes in herself. Her hands were small and delicate, pink with a warmth she in truth did not possess. She wore a yellow summer dress that billowed in the December wind. Her feet were bare, but that didnt matter. She had become Anastasia.

Anastasia ran down the path and through the trees, the light blinking like a star in the night sky. It drew her nearer and nearer, desperately pleading to be extinguished. And so it would be. Her feet made sounds neither on the cement nor on the snow. As she rounded the final bend, a tune escaped from her throat and made its way, cheerily, from her lips. It sounded something like Evening Star.

Finally, she reached the place from which the light had been shining. A man sat on the frigid ground, his torso slumped against a park bench. His hand was wrapped around a bottle in a brown paper bag. A spark of recognition registered in his eyes.

Diandra Thompson

Anastasia? he slurred.

Anastasia turned and ran through the maze of bushes. She looked behind her once, and indeed, he was following. Then the tune became whole and the song rang out gently into the night:

Evening Star, sentimental evening star Tell me do you see, where my love can be? She heard him call behind her, Anastasia, honey, come back. And still she ambled through the dark. His breathing, ragged, and the beat of his heart, wild and pounding, were all she heard, save for a voice, a voice that wasnt her own:

To the moon, I breathe a sigh, a prayer to My life, my love, somewhere, send your beam From the land where angels dream..........

Finally she arrived. The lake of ice cast an ethereal whiteout in sharp contrast to the pitch of the night sky. Her voice caught in her throat. He was close behind. She called to him, Hurry, Daddy.

She felt his rough, bony hand slip into hers, and his breathing quieted. He said airily, as if from a dream, Anastasia. She couldnt look at him, not yet.

Anastasia slipped her hand from his, and started on the ice, never once feeling the cold on her bare feet. Then, she heard his clumsy steps, trying to find sure footing, behind her. Her feet never slipped. She walked out to the center of the lake, ignoring the snow that had begun to fall again, harder than before. The crystalline flakes brushed at her arms and shoulders softly.

Diandra Thompson

She looked up to the sky, and to the stars, and to something far and beyond that which the eye could see. It brought her comfort, the knowing and the watching and the waiting. And finally, when she heard him right behind her, she turned around.

His hair was dark and tangled. A wiry beard did nothing more than accentuate his gaunt cheeks. An oversized coat failed to conceal his ripped jeans. His face shone with memories, both joyous and sad, and his hazel eyes were stung with tears. He was a man, once a father, and here was his little Anastasia, just as hed last seen her.

He dropped to his knees to hug her. Despite his appearance, he possessed such warmth, and she found herself hugging him back, holding on tight, wishing she could be everything he wanted her to be. He whispered, his voice choked with emotion, My little angel. She whispered back, so quietly, so gently, and so sadly, No.

After a brief eternity, she pulled back and gazed into his eyes, letting her small, delicate, pink fingers run down his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and finally his cold, chapped lips. Tired eyes closed forevermore. His body slumped gently onto the ice.

Singing that wretched, haunting song to him, and in a way to herself, she sat beside him until his body lost all warmth. A blanket of snow covered him, the same false comfort and cloak it gave the rest of the city. All the while she rubbed the ice with her fingers, waiting until the radiance had ebbed from his form. A draft blew across the ice, carrying the light somewhere she couldn't follow. As she watched it swirl heavenwards in a vortex of luminescence, her own low voice rang out like a sigh:

Is it near or far? Tell me Evening Star.

She stood up, and once more, felt the formality of her winter coat and thick boots. She looked down at her hands. They were capable and strong. And terrible.