Dirge - Beth Byrne

Beth rolls her eyes; she knows all of this already. Not that it isn't good subject matter - but really, how much longer are they going to talk about it? We get it. Down with Judeo-Christian ethics.


She pulls up the library, leaning back and searching for that article she just pirated last night on precognition. She pauses in her scrolling, then, reminded of that background check she'd meant to do on her father, and the genetics tree she was working on for the boy that jumped... Misgivings set in as she is impressed once more by just how many loose strings she is grabbing at in her quest for meaning.


But there's still that feeling that something is wrong.


Background check is out. She still hasn't been able to needle his name out of her grandparents. And the internet is shoddy here anyway.


Sighing, she scrolls down until she finds the article she's looking for.


Maybe this one knows why something's not right.
 
The class passes by almost without your notice. Absorbed in an article about divinatory techniques and alchemical formulae.


The body is lead within which gold lies entrapped. Hidden and particulate, until one masters the transmutation which shatters the cage, and reforms ones essence. In this way. the demiurge is defeated...


A place of death, or of transitions, or where both might take place. Here, light a flame, and speak the words that will open the way, and the gate will thus open. Step quickly across the threshold, and only a step; the shades who dwell therein will come and may be asked but three questions before demanding more dire recompense...


"...Read chapter 8, and the last section of chapter 9. Test in two weeks, remember."


Class is ended. Students shuffle out. Dincan is still putting notes away. Phoebe is staring at something in her hands - phone, maybe.
 
That's enough Phoebe for the day. Beth can't take many more emotionally fraught incidents. She packs up, glances at Dincan.


You know, it never occurred to me, but I should really ask for a professional opinion.


"Strictly philosophically speaking, sir, what would you say about the possibility of there being..." She pauses, unsure of how to phrase it. Her best try comes out as, "well, more to the world. I don't mean religion, I know we covered Aquinas ages ago, more like... a deeper layer."


Great. I never realized how crazy that sounded out loud. Ten dollars says he looks at me like I'm an idiot.


Can't take that bet - oh god is she having conversations with herself now - or at least not with those odds.


Five dollars.


Deal.
 
Dincan raises an eyebrow, looks down, sighs, looks back up.


"Please let us not drag Plato and his infernal Forms into this. That, Ms. Byrne, is a puzzle for physicists and people who take Kant too seriously."
 
Huh. Five dollars in my favor.


Beth slings her bag over her shoulder and regards the man pensively. Platonic Forms, that's... Ah, right. All is but a shadow of its true nature. Allegory of the Cave. That... doesn't feel quite right but I should add it to the list - oh, I'm standing here not saying anything aren't I? "Not your purview, huh?"


If she'd been paying attention to the lesson she could have fallen back onto discussion of that. Alas, she'd been engrossed in her readings. They'd turned out to detail some old, heathen ritual. A place of death or transition, or both, well the obvious thought was a graveyard and there was one right over on-


Slow down, Beth. It was all just superstition, you know that...


-right over on Castillo Drive, ghost hunters visited the place all the time-


No substance to it, no experimental evidence...


-but it didn't say what kind of flame-


Not that I couldn't guess, I mean I'm sure a candle would do and if there's no experimental evidence why not test it myself?


-and what was that other part, "speak the words that will open the way" she thinks-


They didn't print those in the .pdf. Damnit.


With a jolt, she realizes she's lost track of the conversation. "Er, what was that? I missed it..." She does her best to look shamefaced, which doesn't turn out very well.
 
Dincan pinches the bridge of his nose.


"I said that thankfully, metaphysical philosophy usually benefits from scrutiny by the sciences. Let them ponder parallel universes while we focus on the right way to live in the one we have."


You're the only two people left in the room, now. And Dincan is buckling his battered old briefcase.
 
Beth frowns, but shrugs, migrating to the door. She pulls it open, but pauses before walking out, instead looking over her shoulder.


"Sir... If you aren't making every effort to view the world as it really is, are you really living the right way?" She grins in spite of herself. "Socrates would be rolling in his grave."


Then again, his grave was sort of an early one.
 
<p>Dincan smiles ruefully.</p>


<p>


"Sometimes it's wise to defer to other learned persons, Ms. Byrne. Hubris is the road to doom."</p>


<p>


Door clicks shut.</p>


<p>


Hallway is host to a few bored souls awaiting the next class in the room you left behind. </p>


<p>


The day passes in a haze of rain and shuffling feet; gray and statuesque tableaux in halls and thoroughfares.</p>
 
  • "Hubris is the road to doom," eh? When did this turn into a Shakespearean Lit class?




    This bag is killing me. Eager to dump her textbooks on her bed, Beth takes the stairs up to Ponce's second floor two at a time. When she reaches the door she moves to unlock it, listening for her roommates. Would the evening be spent in solitude, or would she migrate to the library to avoid their frightened glances?


    Ever since they saw my notebook they act like I'm gonna go axe crazy. Jesus fucking Christ.
 
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Someone is crying. You can hear it from the common area but not quite get a direction. Who is it more likely to be?
 
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Beth freezes in the middle of hauling her bag onto the counter, its weight falling with a loud thunk. Everyone's bawling today. Is it the rain? She listens for a moment but can't be quite sure who's making the racket - she'd assume it's Jessica, seems to be the more sensitive one, but...


She peers around the corner at Jessica's door before heading into her own room.
 
Door's closed. Definitely coming from in there, though.


You're sure you can see a smear of... something dark on the handle.
 
Beth's usual reaction to tears is to pull her jacket tighter around her and walk in the other direction, and the only thing preventing this near-automated response is that smear on the handle. That, coupled with the crying...


She stops. Takes stock of the situation. Peers more closely at the something - is it oil or soot or...? Listens more closely to the crying. Sad?


Frightened...?
 
On closer inspection, it's gone.


And it's most assuredly miserable crying. This close, this loud - you've rarely heard something so mournful.


There's a cold itch on the back of your neck, a shiver down your spine. Like someone walked over your grave.
 
That's a feeling she knows. Intimately. It used to be that she interpreted it as a sign to turn a blind eye, but these days it's what pushes her forward. And she was not seeing things - Beth Byrne doesn't see things unless they're damn well there.


That said, the handle's clean now. She arches a brow, swallows down the discomfort that always grips her when people express emotion, and reaches out to pull on the handle and gently open the door enough to peek in and see what's going on.
 
Jessica, lying face down on her bed. Crying into the pillow, hands either side of her head, clutching the frame.


Blood is slowly staining the fabric under her wrists.
 
Her phone is out of her pocket and into her hand before the shock even quite registers. Heart thudding, she tries to open the dialer on her touch screen with trembling fingers.


She's going to get the first responders here, pronto.


9-1-1. You know, all that research, and I never did any on how to prevent suicide.


It's a detached sort of state of mind. She hates the color red.
 
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When next you look up from your phone, the blood is gone. Only tears and snot staining the off-white pillow case.


She has not yet noticed you, but the weeping has died down; harsh breathing and occasional, muffled sobs.
 
"911, what's your emergen-"


Beth hangs up.


It was - it was just - I swear I saw -


Beth Byrne does not see things unless they're damn well there.


She leaves the room, closing the door loudly; she's beyond caring. Hefting her bag back off the counter where it lies she storms from the dorm, down the stairs, out the building, going nowhere in particular except out. The weight of the bag is a mere trifle to her now.


Am I schizophrenic? Do schizophrenics wonder if they're schizophrenic? Pretty sure I'm not having delusions of grandeur. Am I? Testing: Beth Byrne, does the world revolve around you? Answer: Sadly, no. Prognosis: Remains unclear. Fuck.


Something. Blood. Both disappeared. Illusory? Most logical explanation psychosis. Nonetheless unlikely. Must assume sanity for sake of argument. Assumptions make for terrible arguments. Fuck. Shit. Dicks.


Could be part of that elusive something which has shifted...


Her feet are headed towards the haphazardly placed grave markers of Huguenot Cemetery. It was created in the early 1800s, just before yellow fever hit, and then there were so many bodies one could hardly afford the time to line them all up nice and neat...
 
Someone is watching you from inside the cemetery; hands on the bars of the gate. An old man, dressed like he's stepped out of the 1880s.


The rain renders him indistinct, his expression tired and resigned.
 
She frowns. Normally the pirate tour guides are dressed in some imitation of the late 1700s, so this guy's a century off. Do the employees get to dress themselves? If so, someone should fire this guy.


Or not. May be the wrong time period, but it's shockingly accurate...


They tell ghost stories about this place.


After a steadying breath she approaches the gate, peering back at the man with a curious, if guarded, expression.
 
He watches you approach with an air of detached curiosity, but as you get closer he releases the bars and walks away, hands in pockets and head down. Out of sight behind the wall.
 
Beth is a little unnerved, but she shrugs it off. Standing so near the entrance, she figures - why not go in? It has long been a favored pastime of hers to roam the graveyard and try and decipher the tombstones. And if she sees the man again, so much the better.


They tell ghost stories about this place.


She reaches out to push the gate open and take a few steps inside.
 
Huguenot sprawls in the dimming light like a city in miniature, more peaceful than grim - even though as you cross the threshold there's a distinct feeling of pressure, like a heavy coat hung across the shoulders.


You can still see the costumed man, off in the distance, slouching to a destination unknown.
 
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She feels more grounded here, like she's being pulled closer to the earth. Perhaps a disturbing feeling to some, but Beth has never had an issue with digging deeper. The weight is probably just rainwater burdening her clothing, but she takes it as a sign to proceed, waist-high monuments to bygones standing as witnesses to her brisk steps towards the figure.


"Wait," she calls out, projecting clearly but not loudly; even tactless she does not feel at home with the idea of disturbing this place's peace.
 
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