Interitum

  Copyright © 2021 Madison K. Matsuda

  All rights reserved

  This book is dedicated to the creator of its creator.

  Eternal thanks, Mom

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  DUO

  TRES

  QUATTUOR

  QUINQUE

  SEX

  SEPTEM

  OCTO

  NOVEM

  DECIM

  UNDECIM

  DUODECIM

  TREDECIM

  QUATTUORDECIM

  QUINDECIM

  SEDECIM

  SEPTENDECIM

  OCTODECIM

  NOVENDECIM

  VIGINTI

  VIGINTI ET UNIUS

  VIGINTI DUO

  VIGINTI TRES

  VIGINTI QUATTUOR

  VIGINTI QUINQUE

  VIGINTI SEX

  VIGINTI SEPTEM

  DUODETRIGINTA

  VIGINTI NOVEM

  TRIGINTA

  TRIGINTA UNUS

  TRIGINTA DUO

  TRIGINTA TRIBUS

  TRIGINTA QUATTUOR

  TRIGINTA QUINQUE

  TRIGINTA SEX

  TRIGINTA SEPTEM

  TRIGINTA OCTO

  TRIGNTA NOVEM

  QUADRAGINTA

  QUADRAGINTA UNUM

  QUADRAGINTA DUO

  QUADRAGINTA TRES

  QUADRAGINTA QUATTUOR

  QUADRAGINTA QUINQUE

  My Dearest One,

  Sooner or later, every person wakes to the day they will die. Some know to expect their departure, but most are oblivious that the sunrise will be their last. Today wasn’t supposed to be that day for you, but it will be.

  Thirteen broken bones, a collapsed lung, punctured spleen, two herniated discs, a bruised liver, severe internal hemorrhaging, and a cranial fracture. The world will conclude that these injuries alone caused your death. But you and I both know that your death is a choice.

  Would you have done things differently if you knew that dying isn’t as frightening as it seems?

  Perhaps.

  Many equate dying to the shock of being shoved off a cliff, tumbling into the sinister abyss below. In truth, it is as simple and gentle as a parent leading you by the hand to another room, one not so different from the one you left. However, humans seem to favor the first theory, perhaps in an attempt to prepare themselves for the worst. But this deception makes them waste limitless energy worrying about the unknown, evading death’s perceived clutches.

  Though, if people knew the truth, perhaps they wouldn’t drain every bit of life, every bit of joy out of their numbered days on Earth like they should. Maybe they would be all too eager to enter the next room and be blind to the gift of the first.

  So, would you have done things differently if you knew that dying isn’t as frightening as it seems?

  Perhaps not.

  But you will never know.

  Whether unplanned or orchestrated, the accident is an instrument of chance that allows you to define your own fate. And what a fate it is. Not one that you could’ve ever foreseen had you not been forced to make this pivotal choice, the repercussions of which will ripple throughout the rest of time.

  So, sleep fully and deeply. When you wake to the sunrise unawares, the work comes.

  Your death and your life, they begin.

  ONE

  S loane dreams of water. Warm water that rocks her gently and laps at her hair. She floats on her back, in the endless expanse, looking up at a cloudless orange sky. The water carries her soundlessly towards nothing.

  Sloane opens her eyes. She doesn’t feel the water beneath her anymore, just the mattress, familiar, worn to the curves of her body. The patchwork quilt her mom made is scrunched at her feet. The faded cosmos on her ceiling peer down, her planet mobile sways softly in the corner. Sun streams in through her window, painting yellow squares on her braided rug and the chipping blue paint of her desk.

  A warm shape shifts behind her back, and she flips over to cuddle her shepherd. Spitzer is annoyed at her movement, but she sighs and endures the hug patiently. Buried in a sea of cozy fur, Sloane wonders how a dream that feels more like a mediation exercise can leave her feeling so uneasy. Though, she supposes, things always seem spookier in dreams. Sloane rises, uninterested in sleep and its creepy orange sky.

  She shuffles over to the explosion of clothes that is her dresser and chucks her once-favorite tangerine shirt to the back of the drawer. The freckles on her cheeks don’t pop as much without it, but it’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make to get her mind off the dream. She slips on some shorts and digs around, finding a green t-shirt and a blue tank top. Sloane always loses with either color, each only highlighting one of her eyes. The blue pulls the sapphire flecks out of her stormy gray left eye, and the green emphasizes the cool forest tones of her right. She pulls on the blue shirt and drags a brush through her hair. Her violin sits eerily dormant on its stand; Sloane reminds herself to get some practice in later.

  Sloane races Spitzer down the stairs. Her mom is in her comfy jeans and ACDC t-shirt, stirring eggs, humming some Queen song. A few shades darker than Sloane’s, her unkempt red hair is pulled back into a messy knot. She’s wearing her bright cherry red lipstick, which means she’s teaching today. She says that her astronomy students focus better when she wears that color, but Sloane knows they’re just more focused on how beautiful she is.

  “How did you sleep, tadpole?” she asks, sprinkling pepper into the pan.

  “Like a weed-whacker apparently,” Sloane replies, opening the kiln of her pottery corner. The glaze on her new dish fired well, bringing the teal specks out in the clay. She takes a seat at the table, her mom hands her a plate of eggs.

  “Well, I spent the night dreaming of dirty things involving Idris Elba.” Her mom smiles, pulling the ketchup out of the fridge.

  “That’s great, mom. Thanks for the scarring mental image I can never un-see. Therapy is now a sure thing.” Sloane pours herself a splash of orange juice.

  Her mom laughs as she drowns her eggs in ketchup. “Have you given any more thought to what you’d like to do at the end of the summer?”

  Sloane slips Spitzer a strip of bacon. “There are a few ceramics shops I want to show some pieces to.” It’s been over a year since Sloane graduated high school. Tutoring and teaching violin have kept her busy enough, but her gap year is quickly disappearing. Adrian used his gap year properly, having some fun and securing a spot at the university where Sloane’s mother works. Sloane’s grades could have easily gotten her in too, but it never felt right to Sloane. “Do you want help grading?” She points to the stack of exam papers, trying to steer her mother away from her uncertain future.

  “No, that’s okay, you go spend time with Adrian,” her mom replies, trying to recover a lighter mood.

  “Alright.” Sloane stands up and puts her plate in the sink. “Well, we’re going to hang out at his place, and then I was thinking you and I could go see that movie; the funny one, with the dark, mysterious guy who—”

  “—only has eyes for that plain but relatable girl with no personality.” Her mom chuckles. “Yeah, that’ll be a good laugh.” She holds her plate down so Spitzer can lick off the remaining ketchup. “I’m dropping Sofia’s Astrology for Astronomers book off at her place before my class.”

  “Maybe Adrian and I will stop by and say hi too,” Sloane calls, grabbing her jacket from the hallway.

  “Using your cousin to make that boy uncomfortable for your own amusement, I’m so proud,” her mom says. Sloane heads out the door towards the bus stop.

  Sloane’s knock on Adrian’s apartment door is answered by Ches the pirate. “What be yer business here, ye landlubber?” he snarls in his best pirate voice. Ches is the
most intelligent seven-year-old anyone knows. He’s in the gifted program at his school and the indifferent owner of dozens of first-place trophies from school competitions: chess, math, the science fair. He can list off all the presidents in order or recite the first fifty digits of pi. He’s happy to be of service correcting people’s grammar and never lets anyone get away with stating an incorrect fact. The only time he pretends to be oblivious is when people comment on how smart he is.

  His current choice of attire surprises Sloane; she’s never known him to wear so much as a mask for Halloween. Yet, here he stands, decked out with a paper eye patch, a broom sword, and one of his father’s old shirts that goes down past his knees.

  “I’m here to steal your gold and pearls!” Sloane grabs at him, and he shrieks, escaping back into the living room. He squeals and jumps onto the sofa, swinging the broom. Sloane dodges his attacks, grabs him around the waist, and throws him on the couch, tickling him mercilessly. He writhes, squeals with laughter, kicks, and half-heartedly bats her away. The commotion brings Adrian’s mother, Elena, to the room. She may as well be Sloane’s mother, too, for all the years Sloane’s known the halls of this home. Elena’s always been pretty, with short black hair, olive eyes, a petite frame. There’s slight darkness under her eyes, the effect of having a child who never tires.

  “Alright, Mr. Pirate, let’s go to the playground so you can run off some of that outlaw energy!” Elena crouches down to his level, eyes twinkling, and flips up his paper eye patch. “What do you say, little scallywag?”

  “No, mum!” Ches sighs, clearly annoyed. “It’s not ‘Mr. Pirate,’ Blackbeard’s actual name was Captain Teach!” He pulls on his jacket.

  “Of course, my apologies, Captain.” Elena turns to Sloane with a weary smile.

  “How are you, love?” Elena asks. “Have you thought about the job I told you about?” She means the swim instructor position at the community center. She knows Sloane is as good a swimmer as Ches is smart.

  “Trying to employ me, Elena? Sounds like you’ve been colluding with my mother behind my back.” Elena’s eyes light up suddenly as she remembers something. She holds up a finger and goes to the kitchen, rummaging around. Sounds of shuffling cutlery and clicking cupboards are so familiar here; Elena is rarely out of the kitchen. She’s the most fantastic cook Sloane’s ever had the pleasure of mooching off of. She’s meticulous, making each piece by hand, even if it’s more easily bought at the store.

  She returns to Sloane, offering a sheet of paper with a recipe scribbled on it. “This is the frittata recipe that your mum wanted.” She looks proud that she remembered. Sloane thanks her and sticks the paper in her pocket. “Make sure she gets the real feta, none of that plastic stuff, okay?” Elena wrinkles her nose at the sound of cheap feta cheese.

  “I’ll have her milk the cow herself,” Sloane vows.

  “It’s sheep!” Ches calls from the door impatiently.

  “I’m glad you’re here to wake up Adrian. It’s not good for a teenage boy to sleep too much,” Elena says.

  “I have my orders.” Sloane waves Ches out the door. “Have fun pillaging the park, Blackbeard.” The door clicks behind them.

  The apartment isn’t anything remarkable, but the gray sofa in the corner is the comfiest seat Sloane’s ever met, and the kitchen is bright. Its warm yellow cabinets face the small dining area with the circular table and four mismatched wooden chairs. No piece of furniture is part of a proper set; that’s part of the home’s charm. Elena is thrifty by nature, so much of their furniture is from neighborhood yard sales or thrift stores. There are a few of Sloane’s handmade pieces strewn about: a hotplate, a few mugs, and a vase that hasn’t left the kitchen’s bar top for a decade.

  Sloane eases Adrian’s door open; it’s pitch black. She reminds herself to be cautious, having stepped on some heinous stray LEGOs in the past. It smells overwhelmingly of pizza. She shuffles around piles of clothes and video game controllers to get to his window. The curtains hiss across the rod, and light floods the room, illuminating the clothes, the pizza box, and the game cases strewn all over the room. A muffled groan sounds from under The Lord of the Rings bedspread.

  “C’mon, wake up, sleepyhead, let’s go! Your beauty sleep is wasting my day.” Sloane shakes him and is awarded a second groan.

  The sun reflects off the Doctor Who poster, right onto his sleeping form. His room is small, but the clutter makes it seem even tighter. In the corner next to his bed is a small old TV that he uses for gaming. A few drawers hang out of his dresser. The most prominent furniture piece, his burgeoning shelf of collectibles, leans against the wall behind Sloane. She stumbles a little on a lightsaber but catches herself on the corner of his desk, which is piled high with graphic novels.

  “Who goes there?” he mumbles.

  “It’s me.” He doesn’t budge. “Beyond the bed is coffee, cold pizza... Billie Piper.” At the sound of that last part, he peeks his squinted eyes out from underneath his covers.

  “No… you’re not Sloane,” he decides, pulling the comforter back over his head. “Go find my friend who is kind and merciful and would never disturb my sacred slumber.”

  Sloane lacks the proper motivators. She leaves and returns with coffee in his favorite “I’m not always right, you’re just always wrong” mug. She waves it in front of where his face is under his blanket. “I’ve never been very good at mercy,” she says, placing his magic morning elixir just out of reach, wafting the aroma towards the bed. Got him.

  Forty-five minutes and two cups of coffee later, he’s showered, dressed, and somewhat lucid. They scarf down some slices of cold pizza—the safe ones from the fridge, not the questionably old boxes in his room. They watch a couple of Billie Piper’s best Dr. Who episodes like Sloane promised and then venture out into the world. The plan is to make a few stops before trying out the new dumpling house that moved into what used to be the ballet studio.

  Adrian holds the door as they step out into the warm summer air. He’s always had this chivalrous streak in him, doing things like holding open doors. Sloane teases him for being archaic and harming gender equality, but she’s always secretly appreciated those habits. They’re proof of his consistency; she can always count on them.

  “His teacher assigned a project where they have to present a first-person biography of an influential person. Ches chose Blackbeard,” Adrian says.

  “Interesting choice,” Sloane says. “How influential was he, really?”

  “I’m sure the people he plundered at gunpoint found him extremely influential.” Adrian laughs. “Anyway, Ches decided the best way to get a good grade was to fully immerse himself in the Blackbeard mindset.” He grins and sips his coffee.

  “I remember your dress-up phase.” Sloane smirks. “You didn’t take off your Darth Vader outfit for two weeks. It was fused to your body.”

  “Because I looked damn good in it! I was the best-looking misunderstood Jedi at Manoa Elementary. No other seven-year-old could work those black robes and plastic chest plate like I did.” Sloane raises her hands in surrender. To his credit, he was in full Vader mode when he got kissed by Nalani Hale, the most popular girl at school. Though, the outfit shouldn’t take all the credit; Adrian was a cute boy without the mask. But that’s not what sparked their friendship when they first met.

  Sloane’s mom moved them to Oahu when she was five when the university offered her an “awesome teaching gig” that had “the most brilliant telescopes.” Of course, Sloane tried to make friends at school, but everyone already had their own groups, and apparently, no one was looking for new members. Potential ally is what Sloane saw in Adrian; he was the only other child in second grade who didn’t already belong to a particular clique.

  Adrian was born on the island to a Londoner and Detroiter who vowed their children would grow up in the warmth of the sun. He made school better, showing Sloane the ropes. He taught her which trees were the best for climbing (the ones with no ants and the most substantial
branches) and which children were the meanest (Lahela Kapule and Brody Lee). Even though he was a scrawny kid, the other girls thought twice before making fun of Sloane when they were together. Adrian swam with her at the community pool, even when he preferred the beach, with its crashing surf.

  Sloane looks up at him now. Adrian’s face has barely changed since they were children. His hair is still soft and the lightest shade of brown, like burnt honey. He still wears the same chocolate-rimmed glasses he did in middle school. Both Elena and Sloane have suggested he try contacts, but he insists that he’ll only wear contacts when they invent the robotic ones with x-ray vision or give him the answers to test questions.

  His quirk of a smile has always been arrogant, despite the complete lack of that trait in his personality. The only difference now is the square line of his jaw and the slight shade of stubble on his chin. And his father’s nose used to be too big on him, but he’s grown into it well. He wasn’t always taller than Sloane. She towered over him for most of their lives, but the teen years sent him shooting up to a lanky six foot two.

  He’s always been slim, but that never stopped him from taking on much bigger boys at school. In their sophomore year of high school, Kanuha Māhoe, the second-largest guy on the rugby team, asked Sloane to a dance. She politely declined, which, of course, obligated him to spread rumors about her. He told everyone that she had crabs because losers are always so original.

  That day, Adrian found her crying in the cafeteria. When he finally coaxed her into telling him what had happened, he walked right over to Kanuha and punched him square in the face. The whole cafeteria collectively flinched when they heard his nose crack. Kanuha looked stunned for a good five seconds, which gave Adrian a fair head start to run for his lanky life. A scrum formed around him, and the only way to escape was across the tabletops. Luckily it was the rugby and not the track team that chased Adrian out of the cafeteria and to the principal’s office, where he burst in, blurted a confession, and asked that his suspension take effect immediately. By the time he got back to school, Kanuha’s nose had healed crooked, someone else had crabs, and the scrum had moved on to other beatings.