Free Death of the Body (Crossing Death) by Rick Chiantaretto

that my father was here, but only my frantic calls and heavy breathing broke the silence.
    I climbed the delicate wrought iron staircase with caution. The eerie silence bothered me, but my hope of finding a safe place, and more, of finding my father in it, outweighed any doubt or fear.
    I saw the corner of the desk expand as I climbed the stairs. As I approached the top, I spied a dark figure sitting in a throne-like chair. The lighting was dimmer up here, with only one lamp illuminating the yellowed pages of a book that sat on the desk.
    “Father?” I asked cautiously, inching forward, waiting for any sign of movement.
    There was no response from the dark figure. My father must have worn his dress robes in to work, or perhaps he had gone home to get them so he could better hide up here in the dark. I didn’t understand why he would need to hide. Concealing his identity, perhaps?
    “It really is me. It’s Edmund. Can you talk to me?”
    I took another step closer, half bracing for the sudden movement from the desk I was sure would happen any moment now. I didn’t want it to startle me.
    “I’m going to light this lamp.” I made my way through a maze of books. It was so unlike him to leave things lying about.
    “Are you asleep?”
    I waved my hand. A spark flew from the lamp on the desk to the one beside me. As the spark caught, the filament inside burst into a hazy orange, filling the room with light. My eyes, however, saw red. Sorrow and anger overwhelmed me.
    My father was there, his hand resting lightly atop a book on the desk. He wasn’t wearing any robes. The dark shadows his figure cast were from charred pieces of flesh that hung loosely from his bones, blackened by fire.
    My knees buckled. An ungodly howl tore through my body, starting from the tips of my toes and escaping from my mouth. My body convulsed, full of the relentless pain. I was only vaguely aware of knocking stack after stack of books to the ground and over the balcony. I writhed in agony, streams of tears gushing from my eyes. The muscles in my chest convulsed, forcing the air out of my lungs. I choked between sobs to refill them.
    I coughed spit and vomit as I took out my thirst for violence by throwing book after book as hard as I could manage. I continued until I had thrown a book through every one of the lamps, plunging the rooms into total darkness. When I no longer had the strength to throw another book, I curled into a ball under my father’s blackened feet and wished for death. I wanted to disappear, to sink into utter oblivion, anything to avoid the pain.
    I ran out of tears before I quit sobbing. I didn’t quit sobbing until my exhausted body succumbed to sleep.
     
    ***
    I don’t know how long I slept but it was broken by a bright light that stained my closed eyelids a burnt orange. The color reminded me of fire.
    For a moment I couldn’t open my eyes. They were glued together by too many tears and hours of sleep. When I finally did get them open, I was staring into a bright blue sky.
    I was sure I was dreaming because I could still smell the scent of old books. As I sat up, I was surprised to discover the ceiling of my father’s office looked exactly like the sky. The illusion made it appear as if there were no roof and I was sitting outside. It didn’t take me long, however, to make out the crossbeams and realize that carefully placed mirrors created the amazing scene above me. Clever dad, I thought.
    The horrors of the previous night returned with unsympathetic force. I turned to find the charred remains of my father still sitting at his desk, his hand on a book. But in the newfound light something else caught my eye. My father was holding a pen and had been writing a letter.
    I got close enough to see my name on the parchment he was writing. I snatched it from the desk, shook off the ash, and revealed my father’s last letter to me.
     
    Dearest Edmund,
    How I hope I get to deliver this letter in person, but I haven’t