Umbrella: “Ninety-Seven”

Like a repeat of yesterday, there he was, dazed eyes and a grey jumpsuit covered in grime and muck.

Droplet after droplet, blood dribbled off the clear umbrella hanging overhead, streams of red flowing like a river and sounding like tranquility. It showered around me, the soles of my feet standing in a puddle of rust-colored dreams and wishes. The smell was lovely though, like wet soil and fresh concrete, concealing the muggy, overwhelming, air of the city. Frankly, there was always something that made me uncomfortable, spaces too tight, congested traffic, enough noise to rip into every seam of my senses, and yet I couldn’t get enough. It was chaotic, the thrill of the unexpected never proving to disappoint.

To others, the blood looked like rain, but to me, it looked like finely sliced tears, the subtle weeping of thunder concealing the cries of the dearly departed. It was dreary and meek, but days like today I thrived the most, soaking the airborne misery into my skin.

Days like today the unexpected liked to expose itself.

Spinning the umbrella in my hand, giving the blood a good ole swirl around me, today is when I decided my next victim—that person was blissfully unaware, wiping the window clean inside the hotel room across from me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he missed a spot, the red pelting heavily against the smooth surface.

I stood on the roof of an adjacent building, no one bothered by my presence—not that they could see me, the perks to being a so-called demon, but I preferred to be called an “observer”.

So unsuspecting was the male janitor, scrubbing across unknown blemishes, that it was almost doleful. I’d been observing him for some time, practically family at this point, seeing the small mishaps in his life build into grander ones. He caught my eye one day while being harassed by a check-in, small compliments turning into intrusive fondling. The rage in his eyes was fierce, like a tiger ready to bare its fangs, but he did little about it, merely accepting the hands that trailed his body. There was something hidden behind his expression that scared even me, a sharpened dagger held high waiting to dig into flesh.

I’ve been a fan ever since.

He had desire, passion, and dedication, the perfect mix of ingredients for a “runner”, a small playing piece for a fun little game.

Every day humans ran and every day I observed them in a vain attempt to understand. They ran from their problems, their family, even themselves to try and say that they weren’t. No one believes they’re running unless it’s physical, beads of sweat coursing down weary skin, but so many souls are gasping, exhausted, about to fall over without realizing the strain they’ve induced. Humans were simple, only looking forward, rarely back, and fearing nightmares without realizing that they were already living one. They’d never wake no matter how much they ran or screamed, only in death did they truly “wake up”.

Maybe this was why they died so young and carelessly.

The streets below were bustling with busy cars and hurried bodies as the grey sun waned behind thick clouds. Lights of the city bloomed like flowers on the horizon, growing more and more as the day left its reach. It was beautiful, just like a dream.

Human dreams and ideation were where they truly thrived, no restraints, no limits, but still buckled by a fear that kept them from flying, shackled to the ground and cementing their feet, running. They strained to accomplish something that may or may not be achievable, but their pace and grit determined the winners and very few ever won, suffocating before making it. Never was there a moment’s rest for them—except for children, perhaps. Pure, innocent beings; merely being prepped for the marathon they were about to run until their last breath, not a care in the world. Oh, what poor things.

Oh, what a poor thing the janitor before me was, doing the same old job, in the same redundant rooms, listening to the same redundant chatter. Clean this, clean that, he deserved better. Young, handsome, kind, and a wide boxy smile that made any heart melt like warmed chocolate, suave and hard to resist. How terrible it was for his family to leave him at such a young age, abandoning him, running from their duties as parents. He often blamed himself, never the other way around. He wished he were better, stronger, perhaps a little smarter, something to get him out of this dead-end job and the opportunity to chase his dreams.

I wanted to help.

With a warm smile and empathetic words, I often talked to him while he was in the deep recesses of sleep, weaving my way into his thoughts and prying his innermost desires. He confided in me, enough to wonder why I was only a dream and not real—but oh, I was very real, my pale reflection and black smoldering eyes visible in the trickling rain.

He had a fancy for one of the regulars at the hotel, a well-groomed businessman with sharp eyes and a lean body. Although he knew a businessman would never look his way, not at a lowly janitor hired to clean the piss off his toilet, it was only a dream that he entertained, longing and praying with rosy eyes that maybe, just maybe, his fantasy would come true. It never hurt to dream. It never hurt to run as long as you maintained pace, but when is enough, enough?

Every time the businessman checked in on one of his trips, the janitor would hope, was this the day? Was this the day he would be whisked away from everything he tried so hard to ignore and run from? It was all he could do, exhausted and trying to breathe, but he had little time to stop, not when life drove so many nails into his back.

I wondered if he knew what that businessman actually did behind closed doors if he’d still yearn for his affections? It was uncertain, but as the blood flooded the streets, oozing off every crevasse, a part of me was curious to know. With the aid of a ” demon”, what would happen between a lowly janitor and a conman?

Some called it malicious. I call it caring. I am a demon after all, antler-like horns sprouting from my skull, and a wicked laugh, humans and I held very different opinions on the term—and unlike what some assume, I actually look more human than they realize, easily blending into the crowd along the sides of Main Street.

Despite popular stereotypes, I don’t chase people like some crazed beast either, I actually prefer to have coffee with them first. There’s no point when you’ve existed well beyond human memory. It gets boring. It’s more fun to pull the strings and watch as humans sprint into their own demise disguised as liberation.

Manipulative? Oh, no. I am quite benevolent, red-tinted passion tainting my lips and skin. Only in nightmares does one truly stop running, stricken with fear, mind wiped blank, and paralyzed into a small piece of nonexistence.

I was the nightmare.

I was here to white out the bad memories; paralyze the gullible and hopeful, all with a smile on my face. I granted wishes, a human’s wildest dreams.

I gave them the power to fly.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The rain never ceased, the pitter-patter sound cathartic to my ears. Peeking between my fingers and scrawled on the hilt of my umbrella were black stained numbers that read, “Ninety-Seven”. So, this was my ninety-seventh one. How unexpected and honestly tear-jerking, another personal possession to give out on loan and wait for its expectant return. It felt like only yesterday I handed my first to a much different subject, a young blonde with hopes of reprisal. She got it, holding the umbrella high above as she watched the blood flow, but with that same gore smeared hand, she fell, and with my same brilliant smile, I took back what was mine.

What a fond memory that was.

Clustered behind me on the flat and widespread rooftop were numerous umbrellas, spaced like a graveyard with tips down and standing like sticks in the mud. Each hilt had a number, scribbled in black ink, but all crossed out, previous people who had made efforts to better themselves, running, running, running, after I extended a hand.

Umbrellas did more than shield from the rain. They guarded from the sun, a symbol of happiness and canopy of the heavens, but no one ever looked at the shadow they created or darkness they so easily let themselves be enveloped in—captured in their own necessity for protection from something that could never save them.

How long till number ninety-seven joined them? Hm. Suppose it was time to find out.

Yanking a spare from the ground, I spun it in my hand. This would be a fun one; I could feel it, the static and excitement coursing through my veins. It was almost time for him to be off work, scurrying out of the hotel before more could be asked of him, but let’s just say someone stole his ride to heaven, the handle resting finely in my palm. His routine was so habitual he never looked where he was going; it made my job far too easy, humans so cautious, but easily bemused.

Casually strolling down the iron staircase on the side and into the darkened alleyway, I waited for my opportunity, counting down the seconds in my head.

Three, two, one, here he comes.

Swirling around the corner, a hard bump knocked into me, making me gasp as if I didn’t expect it. The other paused, shaking his head as the rain dripped down, his eyes meeting my gaze.

What a handsome boy, so frail, so unsuspecting. I wanted to reach out and cradle his cheek, but that would be progressing this relationship far too fast. I needed him to come to me, not the other way around. I knew he would, they always did. When running, you need water, a moment’s pause, and I was happy to give it—but only for a moment.

He bowed low, apologetically, but I smiled, wide and friendly. He didn’t need to apologize, not to me. He would only be doing me a favor.

“No, please it was my fault. I should have looked where I was going.” I reassured, glancing him up and down, “You look soaked! Running around in the rain can get you into trouble. Can I offer you this?” I extended the umbrella in my grip towards him.

He stared at my hand, hair wet and plastered to his brow with a dumbfounded expression. He wanted to question my reasons, highly understandable, but there was none except genuine kindness as I shook it towards him again, radiating friendliness. “Don’t worry, take it. Consider it a gift. It’s extra, as you can see. I found it. I have no use for another.”

I knew his nature, he didn’t turn down gracious offers, being a warm and caring soul himself, perhaps naive, but that came with being so young. Skeptical, but trusting, he hesitantly took the umbrella from my hand, unfastening and holding it over himself.

“Thank you.” He muttered in a deep sultry voice, different from the cute baby face he had.

I smiled even wider. “Please, no need to thank me, honor is all mine running into someone as attractive as you. Here—“ reaching into the pocket of my suit, I handed him a card with small details and a phone number on it, “If you’re interested in maybe working for me, give that number a call.” I chuckled, eyeing his grey and wrinkled uniform, “I’m sure it’s better than the job you currently have. You’re too handsome for a place like that.”

The boy stared again, puzzled at my second gesture, but I remained firm, as I always did, holding the stapled grin on my face and my arm unwavering. The longer he stared, the more I could see the questions churning in his mind, but also the sudden recognition. Our chats from his dreams resurfaced, eyes growing wider, but he tried not to express it. I knew humans liked to believe in omens and premonitions, dreams being “uncontrolled” occurrences. To see me standing before him now must have been fate, a once imaginary identity becoming very physical.

This was destined. He would tell himself.

He couldn’t see, but as the blood rained down on him, slipping down his broad shoulders and full lips, he looked so beautiful in red, the color wonderfully accenting his honey-colored skin.

I wanted to see him bathed in it with a look of madness.

Brushing off the dazed moment, he bowed again, coming to whatever conclusion he may have had. Expressing his thanks with a famous smile, one that would have melted my heart if I had one, followed by another apology for being unable to talk longer, he took the card from my hand, stowing it away before walking around me running down the street towards his destination.

He had a nice stride, long steps, great posture, and visible stamina. I watched him until he disappeared around the block, the blood of the rain dripping down my face and into the crook of my delighted grin.

I laughed, amused for the first time in a while.

He would call and he would make a deal with the devil, unknowingly becoming my plaything.“Runners” always did.

“I hope to hear from you soon, Damon,” I whispered when the boy was long gone, “I want to see you run.”