Hagiograph
The skies are gray, the light is dim, and the air is cold. But it is the same as any other day and so you do not mind. Work is relaxing in its dull kind of way, the thrum of monotony boring its way into your bones. Without it, you are not sure how you would continue to stand.
The library is not a bad place to work. You’d even wanted to work there when you were far younger, so there is a familiarity to it.
Someone calls out, “Casey!”
This is your name, in a kind of way. It doesn’t quite suit you, you feel, as though it were a set of hand-me-down clothes half a size too small. But it is the name that people call you by and you have grown to be fond of it.
You respond, and the words come haltingly, “Yes? What can I help you with.”
It’s one of your coworkers—Nico, you think—and they rarely talk to you. You’ve never given off the impression of someone who welcomes conversation. And although you never consciously decided that this is the person you wanted to be, it seems that this is the person you are.
Nico approaches you, face fresh and eyes shining. “Have you seen the posters? There’s supposed to be a shuttle incoming soon this week. For the Skyline.”
The Skyline. Your breath hitches, if only for a moment.
The shuttle comes but rarely—when the moon is waning, Venus is in retrograde, and the hearts of man are full of light. At least, that is a thing that people say.
There had been a draw to it, when you were younger. (Though there is still a draw to it now, if a different one.) The Skyline was the shuttle that took you off-planet. It is the kind of thing that people say they dream about at night, and in the morning, and whenever they close their eyes. You had dreamt of it, in part, but those were always other’s dreams. The Skyline was not your destiny. When it arrived, it had not come for you.
You blink and as you close your eyes your vision fills with neon glow.
“Do you want to try and take the Skyline?” Internally, you cringe at how stilted your words come. You should be more practiced at this.
“I mean. I’d think about it—if it came to me. Just to see where it would take me. But…” and here Nico shrugged, “Who knows. Lots of people go off-world. But not everyone.”
You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat and Nico seems to take this for agreement. He nods, head bobbing up and down.
“Well,” he says, “I guess there’s always a chance.”
Perhaps this is how people bond with their friends. Before you can mull this over forwards a bell rings as someone enters your quaint little library and there becomes something for Nico to attend to.
You had a friend when you were younger, do you remember? His name was John Mark and from the moment you met him you knew that all the world could be his. There was a power in his eyes and magnanimity in his heart. This is the friend that you remember. But it has been sometime since you last spoke to him. And you are not John Mark. You have never been John Mark.
You remember that he traveled upon the Skyline. Into the unknown of the upper air. Ad Astra.
People trickle in and out of the library, as they do. A few of them mention the coming Skyline, and you indulge them, as best as you are able. But mostly you shelve books. It is rote and repetitive, something you can do without thought. But it is something you are good at, and everybody needs things that they are good at.
You run your finger across the books, feeling every nick and bulge and flaw in their binding. There is an intimacy to old books, more than you have ever found in another person. Before you put them on the shelf, you flip through their pages, examining each of their innards.
One of them has had its white pages marred with blood, as is a thing that happens sometimes. You make sure to place it on the cart with all the other books similar.
More people go to Nico for help than to you; this is something that he is good at.
The clock ticks its way towards a full circle. Soon it will be lunch time and lunch is always a good thing. Listlessly, you stare out the window, listening to time tick away.
You turn away from the face reflected in the window before it talks to you.
As you do so, Nico calls out to you. “Ay, Casey, break’s almost coming. You want to grab something to eat?”
You shrug before you remember he cannot see you.
“Sure,” you find yourself saying.
There is another friend that you remember, and for some reason you can sometimes see the outline of her face shining in window panes as you pass. She was not John Mark. But this isn’t something you hold against Maya.
You are not Maya either.
She, in the end, was brave.
Your foot steps beat against the linoleum floor—and then upon the concrete outside. One-two. One-two. One-two. Nico is beside you and his feet carry a similar beat as you walk with him to the small restaurant that sits adjacent to the library. The paint on its doors is chipped and faded, but this only means that it has been loved, or so you would like to think.
You do not look up at the sky or at your surroundings during your brief walk, though Nico’s head keeps turning in this way and that, his attention always being wrested by something. It must be strange, being him. Although it would be strange to be anything but yourself.
Your bones are tired as you push the door open.
You are not happy, are you? Is it the job of a human to be happy? You do not want another job; you’re busy enough with the one you have now. And these are big questions to be having before lunch.
You watch as Nico’s eyes dart across the menu, and then as he opens up his wallet and does some mental arithmetic. He chooses half a grilled cheese. You stop him, because of course you do.
“I’m paying,” you say. “Get whatever you want.”
At first he argues. And then he apologizes, saying he hadn’t brought you out there to pay for his meal. It doesn’t matter. At last, profusely, he thanks you. You wouldn’t spend it on yourself anyway. You don’t need much to survive.
Nico talks to you as you eat—in between bites, in between silence. He asks you some questions about yourself but those never seem to go anywhere. So the two of you talk about movies instead, and you do your best to muster up some opinions. A major blockbuster had come out recently and you think you’ve seen it.
As the two of you get ready to return to the library Nico says, “Hey, Casey, some friends and I are gonna do some KTV in the evening. You’re welcome to come, if you want to.”
You tell him you’ll think about it.
Grey darkens into black as comes the falling night. You are in your apartment. It is small but each of its walls feel familiar. You didn’t do Karaoke with Nico. You’d considered it, even walked half-way there. But it seemed too much. You do not know why you are like this. You do not know why you have always been like this. But this is the thing that you are. Rain taps against your window and for a moment it almost seems like words.
You’d eaten a small dinner and so now you are doing your best to open a can of cat food. You do not own a cat, of course. But you know that there are some stray cats that prowl the streets at night and you don’t like the thought of them being wet and hungry, bodies so thin you can see all your ribs.
You cut yourself on the can opener and blood flows from your hand like water from the the rock. It hurts but you say nothing. You know what blood looks like, after all. So you find yourself a bandage and clean your countertop. You pause as you do so. The spilt blood seemed almost in the shape of a butterfly and you can almost see its red wings flutter. But then you wipe it all away, because you have things you must attend to.
The rain pounds outside and you know that you will get soaked if you go outside, even with a rain coat. Not that you have a rain coat. And the rain seems cold.
There are very few things that Casey is. But one of them is a person who puts out food for the stray cats every night. And so that is what you do, despite the rain. You walk down the stairs and step outside, into the tempest, allowing the winds to batter your body and the cold to seep into your bones as you set down the bowl of cat food.
You do not see any cats.
Later, you stand in the shower and let the water fall upon you. This time, at least, it is warm. Droplets trickle down your face like tears. It has been some time since you cried, hasn’t it? You could try and count the years but… droplets trickle down your face. You wrap your arms around yourself. This is something that feels safe
You wonder what it would take to break your body.
Do you remember that you saw John Mark, once, after he took the Skyline? He was radiant, as he always was. But somehow he’d seemed almost moreso on that day. You hadn’t talked to him; you hadn’t wanted to be a bother.
You could have spoken to him, you know. John Mark is many, many things. But ungracious has never been among them. If he had seen you his face would have lit up and he would have called out to you. But he didn’t.
And then he was gone, back on the Skyline.
It seems that some people are made for ascension.
Morning comes and you feel as good as you always have. Tiny whispers of sunlight do their best to break through the seething gray. They do not do a very good job, but that is not their fault.
You see the remnants of a poster discussing the impending Skyline. It is now stuck to the ground, its colors starting to bleed together. An old crow flutters down, from somewhere above, and starts to pick at it with its beak. You are not sure if this is a thing that crows often do. But you have never been judged by one of them; you decide not to judge it.
You move to the side as you pass it by, wanting to give it a respectful distance.
The bird looks up at you with one of its eyes. “Cloudy day.”
You stop and look around to see if anyone else is watching you. You see no one else. And so you look down at the crow and say. “It is, I suppose.”
The crow picks again at the damaged poster, tearing a long strip from it.
You start to walk away.
“You’ve been here a long time.” It seems that crows do not ask many questions.
You decide you do not want to disagree with the crow. “I have.”
“How much longer?”
“How much— what?”
“Nevermore.”
You think, for a moment, about telling the crow that it is the wrong kind of bird but you decide against it; you know too much about being the wrong kind of thing.
The crow flies away.
You decide to walk to the library more quickly.
Do you remember the last time you saw Maya?
Of course you do.
You will never forget that look in her eyes.
You are at the library now, surprisingly out of breath. But you calm yourself and try to let the monotony of work consume you. You let the ticking of the clock fill the air, and the same with the rustling of pages. There are both good things, expected things, and so you find yourself again in rhythm.
You wonder where Nico is. At times you look for him. You do not even know if he is working today. You are not a person who ever cares about what shifts your coworkers have. So you return to your work.
It is not until you find another bloody book that your breath fully eases. You are able to file this book away with the rest of its kin, putting it in its place. All things have a place.
For a moment, however, you wonder if the scattered blood looks like a butterfly.
You run into Nico, almost as an accident. It turns out that he is also working today. And you think you like this fact. At the very least, this is not a fact that you dislike.
You smile at him and you nod your head, as is your traditional way of greeting people. This way makes you feel safe.
“Hey, Casey,” Nico says.
He seems slightly more subdued than when last you spoke to him, and immediately you feel a pang of guilt at not going to karaoke.
“I’m sorry. About last night,” you say.
He shrugs. “Life happens. Maybe another time.” Nico offers you a smile.
You do your best to return it.
Time passes, as is its nature. You did not eat lunch with Nico; he went out with his sister instead. You did not mind, of course. You’ve eaten alone before and the silence is often peaceful.
And now you are in the darkening library as the world approaches nightfall. This is when you see the woman enter the library. Everything about her is pristine. Her suit is pressed and her hair is tied back. Her mouth is pressed into a line, neither smile nor frown. A pocket watch hangs from a breast pocket, a golden chain dangling. This is not the thing that catches your attention; many different kinds of people enter the library and the time has long since passed when any individual person might seem strange to you by manner of their dress or appearance.
She approaches you and this is an uncommon enough thing that it stands out. Her question is also something worth taking note of.
“Hello,” the woman says. “Are you Nico Del Rosario?”
You tell her that you are not.
“Where might I find him?”
There is some hesitation within you, some wondering who this woman is and what she wants with your coworker. But there is a presence about her that tells you she is not to be countermanded.
You gesture to where Nico should be positioned.
She thanks you and continues on her way.
You cannot help but watch her as she speaks with Nico, casting surreptitious in between your shelving of books. You cannot hear what they are saying, cannot even guess at what makes up their conversation. Whatever they are saying, Nico seems to be fine.
Another one of your books is bloody, and so you go to put it into the cart with the rest of them. When you return, you see the woman leading Nico outside. He gives you a thumbs-up on the way out.
After ten minutes, you decide that you need to know what is going on with Nico. Perhaps it is none of your business, but you feel the need to check on him. As you start making your way towards one of the side-exits, you hear a loud noise, like something backfiring.
You start to run.
You catch a glimpse of Maya’s face in one of the library windows, but you turn before it has the chance to speak. You hear the words ‘You know you c—’ but you are able to blot out the rest.
“Nico? Nico are you alright?” It is the first time that you have raised your voice in years and you had almost forgotten how. You stumble out onto the city streets, almost falling over yourself.
And then you see it.
There, beyond Nico and beyond the woman is a shuttle. You recognize it, don’t you? All silver and chrome and adorned with neon lights. It hovers in the alleyway like an omen. Emblazoned on its side is a single word: Skyline.
The conductor opens the door and steps out. You recognize their face, somewhere deep in your marrow. At this point and time, you cannot grab onto a name. But you cannot deny the earthshaking familiarity. A dark and winged thing circles it, but that is not important at the moment.
The conductor holds out a hand to Nico and the woman directs him onto the shuttle. As he is about to step aboard, he turns and sees you and smiles.
And you can’t you can’t you can’t you can’t—
You close your eyes as Nico boards the Skyline.
When you open them, he is gone. And so is the woman. All that is left in the alleyway is the Skyline and the conductor. And yourself. The Skyline has not yet disappeared.
In the library window, Maya is trying to tell you something.
The conductor turns to you. You take a step backwards and find yourself pressed right up against a wall, the bricks rough against your back.
They hold out a hand.
You close your eyes as you board the Skyline.
You close your eyes as John Mark boards the Skyline.
You close your eyes as Maya boards the Skyline.
You close your eyes as Nico boards the Skyline.
You close your eyes as you board the Skyline because you cannot stand to see yourself do it. It is not a thing that Casey does. And so Casey does not board the Skyline.
But you do.
Ad Astra.
