Chapter 4: Close My Body Now

 

“Yes, I’m— No, I’m telling you I am a relative.”

“Whzt famiblzz?”

“I’m his fiancee.”

“Fe dvvnt mentiffle a fia—”

“We’re going through a rough patch. Just let me talk to him. Please.” 

“Vevvy welp.”

“Thank you.”

Sammaël blinked its eyes open. It was in the hospital bed again. It was good to hear Sierra’s voice when it had been so horrifyingly interrupted before. The problem was that there were a lot of other things fighting for Sammaël’s attention as well, just like the first time. The nauseating smell of the hospital. The background beeps and boops and muttered voices. The burning brightness of the overhead fluorescent lights. 

It decided not to speak of its headache. “I remember everything,” it said to the ashtray woman, who seemed satisfied with its answer. “Abe Douglas. Engaged to Sierra Guthrie. My insurance information should be in order.” It sat upright, which proved to be something of a mistake. Its head was pounding, but it didn’t want to risk doing something about that. Its control of things like time and space was clearly more limited in this form. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sierra said, rubbing her face. “Of course money is the first thing you think of.” Sammaël frowned for a moment, then remembered that Sierra experienced time completely linearly. She would not remember their previous conversation. 

“Very well, Mister Douglas,” the woman said. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough. I wish to leave.” It swung its legs off the side of the bed, then winced. “I would appreciate something for the pain, however.”

The woman shrugged and made for the door. “That should be covered. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“What the fuck, Abe?” Sierra said. “You get into a fight with Morris and manage to crack your own head open? You haven’t caused enough sh—”

“I am not Abraham Douglas,” Sammaël said. “That was a lie for her benefit. Lying is not pleasant.” It stood up and walked over to Sierra. “We have had this conversation already, so I will try to make this as swift and painless as possible.” Sierra frowned. “I am not Abraham Douglas. He died when his head hit that wall. I am a creature beyond your comprehension, inhabiting his body. I wish t—”

That was about as far as he got before Sierra’s hand struck him square in the face with a Thwack that was as satisfying aurally as it was painful. The sound echoed through the room and bounced around Sammaël’s head like a hyperreactive hamster in a tumble dryer. 

“Ow,” it said. 

“How fucking dare you make light of this, Abe,” Sierra said. “I don’t care about your shit, I don’t care about this weird… thing you’re pulling, and I want this so fucking clear you can see yourself in the reflection, I don’t care about you.”

“Ah, yes,” Sammaël said. “That requires clarification. Hrm.” It paused for a moment. It realized that this Sierra had never received an apology, and therefore had no reason to treat it with kindness. On the other hand, there was the strange sense that it had already apologized. “Please look in my eyes, and know that I’m sorry about this.”

Doing the trick again, letting its eyes be a reflection of the infinite cosmos that was its home, it looked Sierra in the eyes before she could protest or look away. It wasn’t an elegant solution, but it was not in the mood to have a repeat of the same conversation again. Sierra’s expression went from annoyance to shock, then abject terror. 

She started stammering and fell to her knees, crawling backwards. “Wh-wh-what— How— What—”

“Hrm,” Sammaël said, “this is not the desired outcome. I am sorry, that was more abrupt than it should have been. Do not fear, I do not intend to harm you.” Its words seemed to fall on deaf ears, reduced as she was to a gibbering mess. It took a step closer and kneeled down, next to her. “Sierra, you are not in danger. Please calm down.”

She nodded, her eyes wide as she looked at it, reaching for her purse. Just then, the nurse walked in, and Sammaël looked over at her. She looked Sammaël in the eyes and screamed. It realized it should have probably turned the eyes back off. It looked back at Sierra just in time to see her shove a pocket knife — something it knew she had for protection but never used — into its neck. 

“Ghrbl,” Sammaël said, and died again. 

 

“I’m a relative.”

“Whzz fmzzly?”

“I’m… his fiancee.”

“He divn’t mentioffle a fia—”

“Just let me talk to him. Please.” 

“Verfy welp.”

“Thanks.”

Sammaël opened its eyes and gritted its jaw. That had been decidedly unpleasant. It tried not to think about the taste of its own blood, and tried not to think too much at all, because the headache was still there, along with the lingejring feeling of dying, which was almost as bad. 

“Sierra,” it said.

“Oh, he’s awake,” the nurse said. “Can I ask—”

“I am… I’m alright,” Sammaël said as it propped itself up. “My name is Abraham Douglas. Insurance is in order. Can I speak to Sierra in private, please?”

“You should be good to be discharged. How’s your head?” the nurse asked, ignoring its question. Sammaël looked her in the eyes.

“A headache. I would appreciate something for the pain.” Repeating the same words felt weird. Trite. Like it was wasting its time. On the other hand, trying to rush things hadn’t gone that well. 

The nurse nodded. “That should be covered. I’ll be back in just a moment.” She stood up and walked to the door. Sammaël looked at Sierra, who had been quiet this whole time. 

“Sierra, can we talk?” it asked. She nodded. 

“What happened, Abe?” her jaw was tight, and she looked at it with apprehension. 

“A fight with your brother. I hit my head. He is fine.” It sat on the edge of the bed then stood up on unstead legs, feeling lightheaded for a moment, then ran a hand over its throat. The sensation of the knife going in was still fresh in its memory. Sierra just looked at it. 

“Come on,” she said. “You look like shit. I’ll let you get cleaned up at my place. After that, I never want to see you again.”

“There is more,” Sammaël said. “Though perhaps that is best discussed in the car.” The nurse came back in with a small cup and a glass of water. Sammaël took the painkiller with a thank you, and then they made for the exit. Sierra seemed lost in thought, staring straight ahead, right up until they got to her car. 

“Morris already told me what happened,” she said. “But thank you for being honest.” She crossed her arms and glared at it. “Can’t say you didn’t have it coming, Abe.”

“I am lucky Morris didn’t kill me,” Sammaël said. “For what I did.”

“I — Yes. Exactly. What were you even thinking? Drinking? In Morris’ watering hole? What did you think was going to happen?”

“Confrontation was inevitable,” Sammaël said. “I was too far gone.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to be introspective like that,” Sierra said, then her expression softened as she unlocked the car. That hint of concern was back again. “Take it easy. Look… I don’t know what’s going on with you Abe, and frankly, I don’t know if I should care. But if this is some kind of cry for help.”

“It is,” Sammaël said. “I am not myself. I think the person I once was is dead.”

“Yeah, well,” Sierra said as she started the car, “I’ve heard that before.” She looked over and frowned when Sammaël did its seatbelt. “Christ, you really aren’t alright, are you? You’re getting yourself killed at this rate.”

“That’s certainly within the realm of possibility,” Sammaël said grimly. “Though I have every intention to keep that from happening. Sierra.”

“Abe.”

“I want to make things right. Do things right this time. I know that Ab— That I have hurt you in the past, and have said something to this effect before. You have been hurt. It is not my intention to shy away from the harm you and your family have suffered, but to avoid further harm, and maybe heal some of what was done.”

“Just like that? You can’t be fucking serious, Abe. And don’t use the passive voice with me. Own up to what you did. To me. On my fucking Wedding Day, Abe.”

“I am serious,” Sammaël said. “Then perhaps, the first thing you deserve is an apology.” Sammaël tried to find the right words. Should it keep up the pretense of being Abraham Douglas? That felt disingenuous. “You did not deserve any of it,” it said. “Your wedding, your reputation, was ruined, and I’m sorry. Genuinely, truly.” It took a deep breath. “I know this can not be simply fixed with words, and needs actions, but I hope that I can help you find healing and closure.”

“What the fuck,” Sierra mumbled. “Is this really happening? If this is some kind of play to get back together, Abe, I’m going to fucking kill—” Sammaël held up a hand. 

“That… won’t be necessary,” it said, rubbing its neck again. “I have no intention of courting you. I only want to help. Not make things right, but to help you move forward, and maybe move forward with my own new… life.”

“Why did y— hold on, why did you say it like that? Are you saying you had a near-death experience? If this is some kind of come-to-Jesus moment…”

“Something like that,” Sammaël said. “I… I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Her eyes immediately turned from calm yet confused to furious and her mouth became a thin line. “No, not… quite like that. You see… You could say I no longer… identify with the man Abraham Douglas.”

“Y-- You what?!” They’d just arrived at the house, but Sierra still hit the brakes a little too hard, and then stared at it like it had grown a second head.

“I am not Abraham Douglas, the man you once knew, who left you at the altar.”

“Elaborate, and you had better not be messing with me.” 

“I am not messing with you,” Sammaël said. “For a brief moment, after being hit by your brother, there was nothing. Blackness. Abraham Douglas died, and what… took his place was me. You could say there wasn’t much ego there to begin with—” Sierra scoffed. Sammaël didn’t quite understand where the humor was there, so it pushed on. “—but I had to construct something from scratch. And what was constructed is… not Abraham Douglas.”

“So… who is it, then?” Sierra said, still eyeing it suspiciously. 

“I am still learning that myself,” Sammaël said, looking at its hands. “But there is a lot of history associated with this body, this person, and I think I can not move forward without fixing that first. I thought I had an idea of how to do that, but then…” It thought back to Sierra slipping in the bathroom. “I think I do not, and that’s what I may need help with.” It saw itself in the mirror in the sunvisor overhead. “This facial hair must go, though. Whoever this is,” it said, pointing at itself, “does not want facial hair.”

“I thought… you would never shave off that rat on your upper lip. I’ve got a trimmer in my bathroom upstairs, if you’re serious about this. Is this… real?” They both got out of the car. Sammaël was pretty happy with the way the conversation was going, and Sierra seemed to be much more receptive to him this time. 

“Absolutely,” Sammaël said. “Abraham Douglas is dead.”

“Then what’s… your name?” 

“Sammaël,” Sammaël said. 

“I… Wh-- Okay, you know what, sure. I mean… It explains why you were such a shithead before.” She gave it a side-eye that made it very clear that she was keeping the possibility that it was still a shithead in the front of her mind and that it would be called out at the first sign of shitheadery.

“Wait, it does?” Sammaël frowned. That didn’t make sense. It hadn’t actually been Abraham.

Sierra shrugged as she opened the front door. “Yeah, I mean, if you’re transgender…”

“What’s transgender?”

“What?”

“What?”