WATTYS 2023 SHORTLIST
Cara, a troubled college dropout, finds herself slowly falling for a handsome stranger - who turns out to be Death incarnate. But the arrival of a mysterious being puts Death's home for lost souls and his very existence at risk...
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The edge of town, my ass, I think to myself. By the time my little scooter and I make it to Sarah's family home, my face stings from the wind, the sun has completely set, and I'm convinced that there's maybe one more mile's worth of gas left in the tank. But my exhaustion immediately turns to rage when I pull up to the bleached driveway of the quintessential middle-class home. Every shutter is painted the same color, the blinds are drawn against the yellowish light of the streetlamp, and the yard is perfectly manicured like something out of the Edward Scissorhands. The house is two stories, has a single-car garage, and reeks of the American dream.
I think of Sarah and want to burn it down.
Easy, I tell myself. You're here to help Sarah by appealing to her father's senses. Perhaps following his daughter's death, he'd completely changed his ways. There could be hope, yet.
I feel like a burglar or a spy as I quietly approach the unassuming front door, and before I lose my nerve I knock my fist against the painted wood. No answer, but I can hear the grainy white noise of a television set coming from one of the front rooms. I try the bell instead, my anxiety steadily climbing the longer I stand there, a stranger in what seems to be a perfect neighborhood.
"Coming!" A gruff voice calls out. The voice mutters something about goddamn night owls and way past curfew before throwing open the door.
Sarah's father is shorter than I imagined he'd be. And much scruffier. If the grayness in his beard is any indication, he's either in his late fifties or has crossed over into his sixties. I don't know why, but he gives me the impression of a disgraced late-night host that's been off the air for a decade. His old t-shirt is caked with either cheese or whipped cream. I don't miss his double-take.
"Eh? And who are you?"
"My name is Cara Rossi. I came from Neverton and I–"
"I don't want any girl scout cookies," he grumbles, closing the door in my face. I leap forward and hold it open, desperate and somewhat offended.
"I am...was...Sarah's friend."
He freezes. And I wish that I could detect even a hint of grief, but his face gives nothing away as he sighs and loosens his grip on the door. "Why are you here?" He asks, his voice too calm.
"I just needed some closure." True enough.
His brows pull together in confusion and for a moment he hesitates at the door, then he sighs and turns around, motioning for me to come in. I keep my mouth shut as I enter the house and immediately find one of the most disheveled rooms I've ever encountered. My first thought is that Sarah's dad has permanently moved into the living room. The couch is piled with blankets and pillows and the cushions have been strewn about the room, some of them serving as precarious side-tables. The television set spouts doom and gloom, and there are more crucifixes than clear spaces on the walls. I smell something distinctly rotten and possibly microwaved.
