Southern Charm

Chapter Thirteen: Death
Date Written: 1/24/05
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Dee/Ryo
Warnings: Homosexuality, murder, hoodoo use, mentioned NC (non consent or rape) and the issues that go with it (I'm not going to write it, though, the closest I'll go is memories)
Disclaimer: Same as Chapter Zero
Spoilers: All the way up through book 7
Notes: I have been waiting to do this chapter for a while now. The end is near, guys.
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A ghost is an alleged non-corporeal manifestation of a dead person (or, rarely, an animal). It is often thought to be the spirit or soul of a person who has remained on Earth after death. According to some beliefs, a ghost may be the personality of a person after his or her death, and not tied directly to the soul or spirit. Every culture in the world carries stories about ghosts, but they vary across time and place, with disagreements both as to what ghosts are and whether they are just figments of imagination or a part of reality.

The city of New Orleans is sometimes called 'America's most haunted city' with numerous ghost reports, especially in the French Quarter which remained largely undamaged by Hurricane Katrina. New Orleans' ghosts include pirates from the 18th century, through 20th century specters.
--from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia
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My name is Jessica--well, it used to be. My mistress' master has renamed me since then--'Jennifer'.

Nothing against my new name, but I'm *not* Jennifer. I'm Jessica.

My mistress still calls me Jessica--out of earshot of Joe, that is. We may be zombies, but we still have emotions. The heart didn't die with our bodies.

Maybe I should back up and start at the beginning.

I used to be an accountant for a business in New Orleans, although I'm originally from Chicago. My mother was Mexican and I inherited her long black hair and slightly dark skin and my white father's bright blue eyes and crooked smile. I grew up bilingual and moved to Houston for work after college. The main company in Texas transfered me to New Orleans, which has a burgeoning Latino community as well as natural Spanish Creole roots.

I had only been in the city for a few weeks--I hadn't made any friends as of yet. I'm naturally quiet and shy--something I also inherited from my father--so I was lonely, but content.

Until that night. The worst night of my life.

As it turned out, it was the last, too. The first day of my descent into Hell.

It was... strange, the attack. I was ambushed from behind, my mouth covered with duct tape so I couldn't scream. Joe grabbed me from behind, holding my arm out while Marie--oh my mistress!--cut my arm. The blade *hurt* as it bit into my skin, and the blood was cool as it trickled down my elbow, tinking into the metal pail she held.

Marie apologized the entire time I bled, my strength flowed from my body along with my blood. I could hear mosquitoes buzzing around my ear, could see them landing on my arm to feast on the fresh blood. Joe cursed both of us when I collapsed back into his arms. He threw my limp body at Marie, who caught me and stroked my hair as I slid into darkness.
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I woke up to the sound of people talking. I was sitting propped up against a wall, and I could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around my ears, but I couldn't feel them biting me.

The not feeling was the scariest part. It probably was about that time that I knew I was dead.

I was shocked at the way the police reacted to my body--a few cracking jokes among each other. Afterwards, long afterwards, I came to realize that they had become used to seeing the dead, insulated to hiding the pain and anguish most feel at a crime scene.

I can't really blame them. I've become the same.

I followed by body instead of going to my parents' side. I hate to see them upset, and I already sorta knew how they'd react: Mom would break down and sob over the phone or fling her arms around the officer if they sent someone to the apartment. Dad would curse and storm around, blaming himself.

Instead, I went and watched my autopsy.

Have you ever sat and watched something happen, knowing you couldn't do a damn thing to stop them? An autopsy is kinda like that. All I could do was sit and watch as the forensic scientist cut my body open, my flesh parting easily under the scalpel as it had under Joe's knife. The only difference was that this time, there was no blood, no writhing or screaming on my part, no bone-rattling pain.

I watched with a morbid fascination as the pretty female doctor lifted my organs from my body and measured them, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. I had always been registered as an organ donor, but my body was long dead, the organs rendered useless.

Eventually, I was sewn back up--although the coolest part was watching her cut open my skull and weigh my brain--and shipped to a funeral home.

Attending your own funeral is a strange affair. I was dressed rather prettily, in one of my favorite outfits. The make-up looked heavy on my skin, and I never realized how *old* I really looked. It might have been that it was because my face was sunken, the skin already losing water.

My funeral was surprisingly full. My family and friends came in from Illinois, and a few of my coworkers came as well. It was actually quite touching.
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My parents planned to bury me in Chicago.

Joe got to me first.

He and Marie broke into the funeral home and stole my casket. The helplessness I felt was overwhelming, worse than it was when I was being cut up--they could *see me*. Marie was talking to me.

After that, everything got a little fuzzy. Marie later told me that it was because the necromancy ceremony took a lot of spirital energy from me. Apparently, everyone has a certain amount of spiritual energy in their blood, but only those with a higher concentration of it can unlock that potential magic.

Joe used the magic in my blood to turn my body into a puppet and my blood to be used in something equally unholy.

There is one little loophole Joe happened to overlook--since Marie was the one who preformed the ceremony, Marie is my mistress.

I don't *have* to take orders from Joe.