Memory of Death

“My goodness! Let me help you up!,” Quinten said. He reached down to offer Jake a hand. Jake was in his early 20s and confused about how he got on the floor and why his shirt felt wet. He touched the moistness and looked down; his hands were coated with sticky dark red. His best white business shirt was stained red around the collar and down to his chest. He was about to panic when the stranger showed him a flourish of 100 dollar bills.

“I’m so sorry about your shirt, I didn’t see you there,” he held up a mostly empty bottle with traces of dark red inside it. “Spilled my ink all over you, this should replace the shirt, I hope?”

“Yeah,.. yeah. No sweat,” Jake accepted the cash and looked around the diner. It was surprisingly quiet for being so full of customers. Several families filled the tables and several singles lined the counter to eat in solitude with others. All eyes were on Quinten and Jake; as Jake looked around every gaze he met turned away in surprise and confusion. Almost as if they couldn’t remember what they had been staring at. The only reason Jake understood that was because he felt the same way when Quinten flashed the bills.

As Jake sat down to let his mind catch up, two police officers walked into the diner. Their ragged breathing hinted that they were on a chase; their quick scans around the diner made it more obvious.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” A waifish woman with bright green hair stepped out from behind the counter. Her name tag said, “Manager: Mundo”

“Uh,.. no.” One of the officers said, though he didn’t sound entirely positive; he continued glancing around the restaurant.

“No, we’re good,” the other one said with the same amount of minimal confidence. “Just checking if everything’s okay. And it looks like everything is okay!” Mundo laughed.

“Well have a seat, let me know when you’re ready to order.” After that, she walked to Quinten to take his order.

“That was quick thinking,” she winked when she reached the table.

“I’m sorry?” He asked; his voice crackled with nerves.

“The red ink you used to mask that guy’s bloodstains,” she giggled. “I didn’t know what to think when I saw you slice his throat open.”

“You remember that?!” Quinten asked. He sat up straighter on his seat and glanced at the cops in their booth. Mundo nodded.

“And I saw you bring him back to life too. But I can’t figure out why? Why kill him if you were going to bring him back to life?” Quinten nodded at the officers.

“I needed a quick getaway. Whenever I bring someone back to life, everyone forgets about me,” he shrugged. “It comes in handy sometimes.” Quinten tilted his head at Mundo. “How did you remember?”

“I’m like you in a lot of ways,” Mundo said. “Stick around, have some breakfast and I’ll explain it to you.

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