the dead people won’t share their wi-fi

The flow of people is slowing down. It’s almost night here, but death doesn’t stop for anyone. All we can do is hope that it’ll take a short break.

I put my hand down heavy on the front desk, taking Moira’s attention from the large panel of wireless computer screens in front of her as she fills out online paperwork. I’ve been told that the DownSide’s technology reflects that on the UpSide, and evolves as things on the UpSide advance. The Waiting Room even has their own Wi-Fi network, but they still refuse to tell me the password. From the way the nurses giggle when I press the subject, I’m guessing it’s something questionable.

Moira looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot and hair askew. Her mascara is beginning to crumble and stick to the skin around her eyes as she stares blankly. “What do you need?”

I show her my watch, its leather buckle clasped tight around my wrist. It’s one of two- one shows the time in the DownSide, and the other back home. The UpSide watch is frozen at 7:19 A.M., but the running watch is nearing 9 P.M. “I gotta go. I have class in an hour- the asshole classmate one.”

She squints at the hands on my watch as if she doesn’t believe me, but sighs. “I thought it was Saturday there.”

I shake my head, already stepping towards the exit. “Nope, I wish. It’s Thursday.”

I’m gone before she responds, the door squeaking behind me, sounding uncomfortably like the groan of a soul in eternal punishment. I wish I didn’t know what that sounded like.

I toss my keys down into the dish by the door of the apartment and head straight for my room, quickly slipping on a more comfortable outfit, discarding my black dress clothes onto the floor near my bed.

I didn’t believe at first that the other side would have a dress code, nevertheless one that made us all resemble the Grim Reaper, and I made the mistake of showing up in casual dress on my first day. I never knew that the enraged spirit of an Irishwoman could be so menacing, but as she loomed over me with all five foot four of her, I knew that she would be quite the piece of work. Six years later, she hasn’t gotten any calmer, just a bit easier to deal with.

It seems like it’s been so long since I was a scared three-year-old having my father hold my hand in his, showing me how to feel the air for the edges of the Spirit Gate. I remember how I should have been watching for shimmers, ripples, anything. Instead I just looked up at him with admiration in my wide eyes. It’s hard to believe it was almost eighteen years ago.

I wish he was here now to see how far I’ve come. Him and my mom, both.

My seat is warm already when I sit down for my 8:30 AM Psych lecture, and I inadvertently make a face. I cast a glance over my shoulder, surveying the room for those dark figures that are sure to be hanging around. As expected, one sits in the seat next to a girl at the corner table, who is furiously staring at her notes, as if she’s trying to absorb the information through osmosis.

Arnold Baker. 75 at time of death. Natural causes.

I frown, wondering why he might still be left behind. Usually the cause of death gives some sort of clue, but I’m coming up with nothing. Either way, he needs to be taken care of.

I slip the knife out of my pocket and up my sleeve as I make my way to the pencil sharpener on the wall near her. Casually, the pencil falls out of my hands and rolls across the floor to the seat where the figure sits, but he has his back to me. The knife finds its way in between where his ribs would be and he fades away, leaving the girl staring at me.

I wave shyly and pick my pencil off the ground, scurrying to the sharpener. I grind it to a stump as I picture the look in the girl’s eyes- as if a weight had been taken away from her abruptly.

Returning to my seat, I wonder when the last time I killed one from that close was. Usually I would pull out my bow, but it’s hidden deep within my backpack, and I really don’t think that’s a good choice within a school.

People have a way of seeing what they want to see, though. In the same way that they can’t see the demons, they don’t ever seem to notice my weapons. Either way, I don’t like to take the chance. One wrong sighting and I’m in jail for armed assault.

I stare at the clock on the wall as I wait for the lecture to start, minutes ticking by before a boy slumps into the room. His hair is casually messy, a hoodie pulled over his head. He nods to three or four guys as he makes his way over to the table, throwing his backpack onto the floor next to us and practically falling into the chair.

Rowan Murphy. Class A Idiot and my seat partner, everyone. He’ll be here all week. Unfortunately.

He nods to me, pulling the hood off with one hand. The other roots around in his bag until he pulls out a half-eaten pencil. I ignore him and keep watching the clock. 8:35… 8:36…

At 8:39, Professor Evans finally walks into class, his balding head ruddy and flushed from the cold. He begins to talk in a scratchy voice before he even finishes unwrapping the scarf from around his mouth.

“Today we’ll be going over Sigmund Freud’s Parts of the Personality…”

I sigh. I’ve seen all types of personalities at work, from Moira’s hot-headed temper to Ginger, a nurse, who can’t go a sentence without calling someone honey. Nevertheless, I pull out my class notes and begin to write.

We don’t even get five minutes in before Rowan nudges with me with his shoulder. “Could you scoot the paper over?” He whispers out of the corner of his mouth, a slightly apologetic tone in his voice.

I shake my head, still taking notes. I hear him sigh next to me and scoot his chair over until we’re shoulder to shoulder. I scoot my chair farther in the opposite direction.

“I can’t understand him!” He complains lightly. “His voice is too gravelly.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that,” I shoot back. “Get your hearing checked.”

Apparently, I say this too loudly, as I manage to catch the professor’s attention even across the room. He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Graves.”

I don’t say anything.

“Is there a problem?”

I still don’t say anything, instead shaking my head. An outbreak of snickers ripples across the room.

Professor Evans pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger and turns his attention back to the PowerPoint, but not before gazing pointedly at me, as if to say, “Make one more wrong move and you’re getting an F.”

Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m still in college. I have my career lined up for the rest of my life, or until I can’t anymore. I’m destined for a life running back between the UpSide and the DownSide. I’m not sure where exactly it comes from, but every month, an envelope shows up on my nightstand filled to the brim with gold coins. It’s a pain trying to trade them in, but the banker has gotten used to my antics by this point.

Either way, I’m set for life. However long it lasts. With the patterns in my family, I’ll be lucky if I get twenty more years.

The rest of the lecture passes without incident, but I can feel Rowan’s eyes staring holes into the side of my head the whole time. I stay facing forward.

As everyone is filing out of the room, Rowan stays in his seat. He clears his throat as if he wants to say something.

I turn sharply. “Yes?”

His cheeks heat up, an unusual look on him. This is the kid who is adored by many, but something about him just pisses me off. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself as if he expects people to bend to his will, like with the notes. That’s just one part of the unspoken routine of Psych. Soon I’ll be needing a personal psychiatrist if I keep having to put up with him.

“I’m sorry that I got you in trouble with Evans. I really just can’t understand him.”

I grumble deep in my throat, somewhere between shock and annoyance, and wave him off. “It’s fine.”

To others, this behavior is endearing. To me, it’s annoying beyond belief. I can’t explain it, but it’s the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. Maybe I’m turning into Moira.

With that lovely thought, I exit the classroom, but I pause. I can’t help but turn and watch Rowan through the window of the door. He stares at where I had been sitting for a moment longer, then picks up his bags and hoists them over his shoulder. I see him rub his eye for a minute. Is he… crying?

I shake my head. I can’t pretend to understand him. Never have, never will. A small voice in my head reminds me that at least I won’t have to see him again until next Thursday.

If I would have known this was the last time I’d see him alive, maybe I would

have acted differently. Maybe I would have realized that the true asshole was me.

But I didn’t, and I will regret it until the day I die.