Moonjuice

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, contemplating whether climbing two flights of stairs would kill him. If a squadron of auto-immune specialists from every corner of the globe was to be believed, then yeah. Dropping dead from overexertion was well within the realm of possibility. He had yet to thank Vika for calling in all those favors. Oscar put send Vik the white vintage up ten notches on his to-do list.

A set of grimy stairs and a long hallway stood between him and Shiloh’s apartment – today’s primary objective. The task at hand wasn’t insurmountable, not like what the giant slayers of old or even modern-day hunters had to undertake. Just stairs and a hallway. Sucking his teeth, that’s what Oscar chanted in his mind. Just stairs and a hallway. And if the worst struck him, he figured there were more godawful ways to die than in the pursuit of atonement.

Oscar placed a blue suede housed foot onto a concrete step and pushed down. Pressure streaked a hot iron line from heel to knee to thigh to hip. The sensation burrowed into the ball-and-socket joint and then, with Oscar’s shifting weight, detonated in a firework so strong it so strong it yanked a kitten-like mewl from his throat. He staggered sideways, elbow clipping the dark green railing, and clutched onto the cool metal.

What unsettled Oscar most – more than the concept of death or leaving things unsaid – was the sensation of his body eroding. How cuts and bruises overstayed their welcome, lingering like a freeloading house guest. How his nails chipped and cracked easier than dried out sculptor’s clay. How his hair, no matter what conditioner he used or how he styled it, invoked the image of chimera fur. Oscar’s body rang out routine death dings, a morbid little alarm clock. Muscle aches and joint pains and a persistent malaise. He breathed through this one, hip screeching, the little gap in his front teeth making soft baby whistles.

If he allowed himself a blip of positivity, dropping dead in a stairwell would be hilarious. Wheezing breaths gave way to stuttered giggle. He doubted his colleagues at the lab would agree. A Brighton-nominated magician curled up in a corner like a dehydrated cilik. Oh no, they couldn’t have that. A death like that would be too mundane, too pathetic, and far too human. Regardless, Oscar imagined chortles at his wake. Full-bellied and riotous and tearful. He pictured his colleagues sharing stories of their collective stupidity.

Supervisor Vika would tell stories she played no active part in. While the others would bicker about where to start, Vika would seize the audience, arms thrown out, bracelets jingling and proclaim, “A horror show! At the crack of dawn in that workshop. All three of these fools unconscious. Nearly had a heart attack myself – Oscar was laid out star style in the middle of the floor, Zapps melting into the corner, and Simon face down on the center table, arms dangling.”

All of that because the group’s habitual hot plate tea brewer Simon mixed up his baggies and made concentrated sleeping draught instead of his usual midday perk up. Simon, of course, would get huffy at the story and bring up his contributions to the long nights when they had to wait for a magic to finish binding. “Who makes your coffee in the morning? Who makes the sourgrass soup and poor man’s noodles for the lot of you? I’m allowed a blunder or two.”

He wondered if Shiloh, seeing this wispy corpse man on her doorstep, would laugh at him. She’d have every right. The irony was immaculate. With the hot iron ache muffled to a light throbbing, Oscar started again, distracting himself from the pain with little memories. Finding Zapps’ inspirational sticky notes around the workshop whenever an experiment failed. Leg after leg. Supervisor Vika joining an impromptu golf session at three in the morning using meter sticks as clubs. One foot in front of the other. Oscar chugging three vials of bluemist and giving himself an arrythmia.

He used both hands to hoist himself up two flights of stairs. Oscar let the momentum of this monumental accomplishment carry him forward, tripping over his own feet to apartment 313. Trotting to a stop in front of Shiloh’s door, the adrenaline petered out alongside him. Fatigue crept into the space left behind. A chill swept his skin. Oscar wheezed out a string of coughs, stuttering lungs forcing him over at the waist. He coughed until metal tickled his tastebuds. Straightening up took effort. He wondered if Shiloh would care. He knew better than to guess, but Oscar hadn’t gotten as far as he had in life by making cautious decisions.

He knocked on the door, playing out all the worst possible outcomes in his head. She could spit in his face. “I know I said I’d be there, but I can’t come your showcase tonight. We’re so close to a breakthrough I can taste it.” Oscar had said. Or slam the door in his face. “I skipped the doctor’s appointment. Don’t worry, I feel great! I promise you I’m fine,” he’d said. Berate him right there in the hallway. Latches clunked behind heavy wood. “Because this, what I’m doing right now, is more important than you and what you want,” Oscar had said. Burst into tears and then berate him in the hallway. Oscar picked flecks of green from his fingernails. The door eased open. “You can keep the ring,” he’d said.

Shiloh had cut her hair. She had half of it up, rivulets of dark curls brushing her shoulders and dancing about her face. The theme of the day was red; red nails, red lips, red heart earrings, all to match glaring ruby red eyes. Honey slow, her eyes gave him a once over, the intensity threatening to flay the skin from his bones. Oscar rubbed at the faded cuffs on his cable knit cardigan. He’d never been muscular, but the new spaces between his shoulders, arms and the indigo cashmere spoke volumes.

A ghost of a snarl sprinted across her face. Shiloh did a little nod and cocked an eyebrow, prodding. He shoved out a chuckle that made his chest rattle and bringing up the taste of metal and bile. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m here,” he said, voice pitching up as he attempted to shoehorn the humor into it. Dribbles of sweat clung to his palms and throat.

Shiloh grimaced, looking over him again. “I don’t have to wonder. I can tell just by looking at you, Oscar.”

Heart thundering, Oscar opened his mouth only to clamp it shut as saliva pooled in the crevices of his mouth. He switched his response. “I was wrong. I’d like to give a longer apology but I think I’m gonna be sick. Can I use your bathroom?”

Shiloh stepped aside, black skirt swishing around his ankles. Muscle memory carried him down the hall to the bathroom – brain still registering little differences in the mad rush to the bathroom where Oscar’s stomach attempted to eject his soul into the toilet bowl. After a brief recovery period of several hours, Oscar found himself sinking into the living room couch, mouth tingling from mint fluoride. He guessed he’d have to leave a note for Vika to pick up the vintage.

Plushness cradled his bones. “I knew I made the right pick with this couch,” he muttered, falling to the side like a slowmo domino. Shiloh bustled back and forth. Oscar cringed listening to her heels thunk the hardwood. Like she’d always say when someone annoyed her, “Walk on and walk hard.”

“Do you have someone, Shiloh?”

“Does that really matter now?”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble if you do,” he waved his hand in a circle, “have someone.”

Oscar fidgeted, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Heelsteps trailed off to his left, near the kitchen which had been painted black. Shiloh had given the place a décor revamp. Instead of black and white minimalism, color had been seared into every corner. Twisty little sculptures sat on each end table. Paintings he’d bet his life savings were famous. A strawberry plant hung on the balcony.

“Who said magicians can’t be dumb? Lots of us are dumb as bricks. I am infamously dumb both at workshop and in person. I just happen to have good ideas every now and then. I’m just the idea guy.”

“Says the man who pioneered time dilation magic and got recruited by the government to create a serum to instantly heal wounds.”

“First of all, the mechanics of time dilation are stupidly simple. It’s like stretching out a rubber band, holding it as long as physically possible, and then letting it snap back once you’ve done what you need to do.”

“Oh yeah, grabbing ahold of the space time continuum is so simple.”

“And the serum is just me helping attach that temporal elasticity to an easily digestible liquid.”

“Uh huh, yeah sure, so while we’re on the topic of things that destroyed our relationship, how is the project going?”

Oscar winced, flopping back and covering his eyes with his arm. Cashmere tickled his nose.” Zapps and Simon will finish it. Simon knows all the deep, dark secrets to time dilation now. It’s not like they need me.” Time magic was notorious for its volatility and fussiness. He prayed Simon could execute without incident.

Shiloh’s steps thunked around the back of the couch and knocked his legs onto the floor. Oscar felt the reverberations of his feet hitting the floor all the way up to his lower back. Shiloh’s weight settled opposite him. Coolness pressed into the center of his chest. Oscar peaked an eye open. Shiloh was handing him a mug – his mug, the one with the purple pugs – filled with a cerulean crème liquid. Moonjuice. He blinked, taking the mug as he sat up, careful to maintain the space she’d set. “I understand wanting to torture me, but I just violently vomited out my entire day and you’re giving me moonjuice?”

“Virgin moonjuice,” she corrected with a touch of disdain.

Oscar snickered, “Is yours non-alcoholic too?”

Shiloh got a twisty smile on her face, one that emphasized the discomfort she often tried to hide in the name of courtesy and protecting other’s feelings. “My ex-fiancé is lying on my couch, dying. No, it is not non-alcoholic. I put half the damn cabinet in here.”

“I’m sorry, Shiloh.”

Shiloh took a deep drag of moonjuice, crossing her legs, “Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I never wanted an apology from you. You know how I operate. What’s done is done.” Her trust, once broken, was irreparable. Oscar nodded. He expected nothing less than a line in the sand. An acrid comfort nestled in his chest.

“How long do you have left?”

“They predicted anywhere from months to weeks. Personally, I think it’ll be quicker than that.”

“Can’t you use your magic? What’s time dilation good for if not this?”

Oscar barked a laugh that splintered.

“Shiloh,” he said, shaking his head, “I have been using it ever since I came out of the bathroom.”

***

Kasey Jones Ross is an avid fantasy lover, writing out of Houston, Texas with her three dogs. She recently graduated with a degree in Molecular Biology.