Darkheart

The Present: Firsts & Lasts

Jeremiah opened his eyes but could barely make out the room he was in. Whether his confusion could be blamed on the poor lighting or his poor choices . . . well, he hardly knew himself in those moments. His head pounded; his body hurt. He didn't think this was any place familiar--it smelled unfamiliar, like a potent combination of lemon cleaner and incense. He rolled over, thinking he was on the floor, and fell off the hard couch onto a coffee table, upsetting an array of bottles and paraphernalia. Nausea surged through his gut, but he managed to pick himself up and sit back on the couch just as someone wafted through a beaded curtain across from him.

"You up, then, sleepy?"

Her accent was soft but noticeable. British, maybe? South African? And she was stunning--dark braids hanging down her bare back, some crocheted halter top under which she clearly wore no bra and a pair of black sweatpants, a body lithe and brown and comfortable in itself--what on earth . . .? Where was he? Was he even the same person? Pale, freckled, lanky Jeremiah . . . he'd hardly been in the presence of anyone attractive let alone this potential goddess.

"Am I dead?" he murmured, running trembling hands through his orange curls.

The woman raised an amused eyebrow, leaned to pick up a few things off the floor. He couldn't help but examine the way her body moved, the way her hair and clothing shifted so effortlessly over her shimmering shoulders. "Do you want to be dead?"

Was it a trick question? Jeremiah took a few shallow breaths, decided to look at things a little differently. "If dead means I'm stuck here with you, then I don't think I'd mind."

"Oooh," she returned sarcastically, "well isn't that flattering."

He couldn't be dead. Everything felt too real: his clingy clothes, his wooziness, his bare feet against the cold floor.

The woman took some mercy on him. "You did say it was your first time, love. I can see you weren't lying."

Jeremiah's eyes widened. First time? What had he done? What had they done? "Wh-what are you talking about?" He--they--couldn't have done it. Not in his gross, disheveled state. How embarrassing--

"Coke. You see?" She waved a hand at the table, and for the first time Jeremiah looked at what he'd actually upset when he'd fallen--the leftovers of quite a party.

He pressed his long fingers to his face, looked through them, groaned. "I'm such an idiot," he admitted. "I'm the worst."

Sitting next to him, her semi-clothed upper body way too close to his own for his comfort, the woman put a hand on his back, between his shoulders. Jeremiah tensed at her touch. "Don't worry, love. You've done nothing to be ashamed of. Just had a little fun, that's all! And I'm sure you've deserved it. Why, look at you--you've never had a night of fun in your life, have you?"

"Not that kind of fun . . ." A sort of bitter laugh emerged from his throat as he pondered her words. "But you don't understand!" His face went back beneath his fingers; they tightened around his face up onto his skull.

"Understand what?"

Jeremiah pulled away, sat back into the corner of the couch. Trying not to look at her face for fear of losing himself in the curve of her lips, the charm of the small metal stud in her nose, he sighed. "Have you ever heard of Charles Byrne?"

She shook her head.

"No, of course you haven't. Why would you?" A somewhat condescending tone wormed into his words. "Charlie Byrne was a giant, from Ireland. This was a long time ago--true story, by the way. Seventeen-hundreds. He was something like eight feet tall. And all the doctors followed him his whole life, hoping to be the first to dissect him. John Hunter, the surgeon--he was the worst. Even asked Charles himself if he could have his body. But Charles . . . well, he was so scared of being dissected that he begged friends to bury him in a lead coffin when he died, but it didn't matter."