Chapter Text
Along a nondescript stretch of American highway, a nondescript car turned along the exit to a rest stop. The car was whatever color, make and model existed within the common imagination, completely forgettable within the landscape. It was a part of the road it traveled on, concrete meeting rubber the way blood grazed the side of an artery. Living and breathing, car and driver, in the same manner as the pulsations of the interstate, the rustle of corn planted along the heartland, the slow and uneven breath of the country itself.
The car idled for a moment in the parking lot before the ignition was turned off, and then soon after the driver stepped out. Unlike the car, he had a distinctive visage. Hair too long to be in fashion, and the complexion of someone from a distant land. Even his clothes felt foreign, something in the cut and tailoring made it show too much skin, the fabric glistening in a pattern too bold for the humble farmers who lived in these parts.
All in all, the bearing of this man brought to one’s mind the image of a traveler, a merchant perhaps. A stranger to these parts, a visitor for unknown reasons.
He himself did not know the reason why he found himself in the middle of nowhere, in a part of the country where farmland met the wilderness. Brushland slowly gave way to trees, the air teemed with insects, many of them invasive species. The man gazed out at this tableau with vague disinterest, staring back at the stretch of road he had just driven on, empty for miles of any other vehicle. Calm enough that a tortoise was slowly making its way across the asphalt, its progress in danger of being ended by someone going at 90 mph at any time.
Yet no car came, and the tortoise disappeared into the underbrush. The traveler gave a sigh, did a few stretches, and then walked inside the rest stop’s bathroom.
The bathroom was relatively clean, not for any regularly scheduled maintenance, but because so few people frequented the area. As the door swung open the plastic bag lining the wastebasket fluttered forlornly like a ghost, the bin entirely empty. The entire place smelled of mildew and petrichor, and brought to mind the entrance of a cave. He didn’t really mind it; all he asked was for a functioning toilet and maybe some toilet paper still stocked on the roll.
The traveler made his way to the nearest stall and stared for a moment at the stagnant water in the bowl. Why was he here? Obviously it was because he had to pee, but now that he was standing here his bladder didn’t so much as twitch with the intent of relieving itself. Now that he had arrived at his destination (for he knew this to be his destination), he didn’t know why he had driven so far to this place.
Driving. All he had been doing was driving. His memories began with the road and ended in this dingy bathroom. He started to breathe faster, feeling unmoored from his body. With only a cursory glance to make sure the seat was dry, he sat down on the toilet without taking off his pants and stared at his hands.
They looked like strangers’ hands. Callused palms and fingertips without any distinctive pattern; nails cut short and painted black, the manicure peculiar in its high quality. As he stared he noticed a small glint on his pinky nail; there, etched softly in gold glitter, was a small symbol he knew immediately to be of a coin.
As he held out his hands for further inspection his eyes began to wander to the walls of the bathroom stall. The various obscenities and poetry left in ink and graphite. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people must have passed through this place and left not even a coin in remembrance.
From the phone numbers scrawled on the walls, and the discreet hole carved on the side of the wall, it was clear this was a popular cruising area, once upon a time.
His eyes lingered on the glory hole. A mural scrawled in permanent markers surrounded the gaping maw. Purple, red, and gold swirled around the hole in abstract; there was no representation of a body found within the work. Only the flow of colors settling on an implied shore; a river flowed through this glory hole. In some attempt at humor, someone—clearly not the original artist—had drawn a small boat below the hole.
The traveler’s lips quirked up in a smile.
“Fuck the ferryman, eh?”
His voice, soft and reedy, nevertheless scattered the tepid air of the bathroom. The weak florescent light flickered once and went out, suddenly casting the room in purple twilight. The floors shook, and for a moment he thought it was an earthquake; but the tiles continued to rumble, and the ancient pipes of the rest station groaned in a voice he heard inside of his head.
At last. You’re here.
“Sure am,” the traveler replied without thinking. Then, once his brain caught up with his mouth, he added, “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with, if I may ask?”
There was a pause before the groan responded, and when it did, he could pinpoint where the ‘voice’ originated. Someone was speaking on the other side of the glory hole.
You don’t remember me, then?
“You’re not really giving me many hints here. I don’t think I’ve encountered many spooky presences before.”
The light in the room dimmed as if in a sigh. Do you remember anything of yourself?
The traveler’s blood chilled for a moment as he reached back into his memory and found nothing but open road.
“I don’t think I do, to be honest. I remember driving in the interstate, pulling up here and then…well, starting to speak with you. You haven’t introduced yourself, by the way.”
He took this moment to peak into the stall on the other side. He couldn’t see any feet on the other side; he couldn’t see anything, to be honest, the entire stall shrouded in supernatural darkness.
It has been a while since I have needed a name.
“Really? Same boat as me, I guess.” He leaned back into the toilet and watched as the shadow from the other stall crept towards his feet, a tender, living thing. “It’s a funny kind of amnesia, isn’t it? I can name all fifty states and their capitals, but I can’t tell you who my parents are or what they look like.”
You don’t seem too disturbed by that fact.
“No,” he said calmly, “I guess I’m not. Just as I’m not too disturbed by you, whoever you are.” He moved his foot towards the shadow, and smiled as it slightly recoiled back, like a tentacle of a sea anemone. “I’m operating under three different theories at the moment. Either I’m dead and the afterlife is a dingy bathroom, I’m dreaming, or this is real but in a way that makes the rest of the world quite inconsequential. I shouldn’t be scared in any of these scenarios, because whatever danger I’m in has already come to pass, doesn’t exist, or doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.”
The shadow was silent, and the man tapped his foot nervously, inching towards the faint purple tendrils coming from the other side of the stall.
“Have I scared you away with my rambling? I guess that’s the only thing I remember about myself. I’m a talker; once you get me going it’s hard to shut me up.”
I am well aware. I have missed your voice.
“Well aren’t you a smooth talker. So, are we doing this?” He leaned back coquettishly on the toilet, his hands gripping the sides in flagrant disregard for hygiene. “I imagine the hole is there for its obvious purpose.”
You have no more questions? The god I knew was more curious.
“See now I have questions! You should have led with the fact that I’m a god; doesn’t nullify any of my theories but sure adds an interesting sprinkle. What was I a god of? Are you a god as well, or more of a devil? How did I stop being a god and end up in this squishy body?”
Whether it was the strangeness of the conversation or some older primordial urge, but he was starting to get hard from this conversation. One of his hands wandered to his pants and, perhaps belatedly, unbuttoned his pants and brushed his fingers against his slowly hardening cock.
Our pantheon lost its godhood more than a millennia ago. Some were scattered to sleep in mortal souls; others, like me, dissolved into the forces of nature from whence humans first gave us names.
“And am I meant to restore our godhood? Is that why I’m here talking to a shadow in the bathroom?”
Not exactly. You were not a god to move mountains; more a god of small but vital things. The world has survived without your influence.
“Then why reach out to me, if I was such a nothing god?”
You couldn’t be more wrong. You were everything to me.
His heart lurched. The purple shadows had become more bold and had begun coiling around his ankles.
“So this is more of a personal call, huh? Were we lovers when we were gods?”
For a time, too short for my liking. We were colleagues for much longer.
“Oho, we had a little work relationship going? Scandalous.”
I thought as much when we became lovers.
“Who made the first move, between you and me? You seem like a strong silent type, but I could be wrong.”
His hand was fully wrapped around his cock now, his thumb teasing its weeping head.
I…do not remember.
His hand paused the circular motions he was making. “What do you mean you don’t remember. I’m the one asking questions and you’re giving me answers.”
I have held onto as many memories as I could, in hopes we may meet again. Some of them are rightfully yours.
“Rightfully mine, huh? What memories don’t you have?”
My name. I gave it for you to keep, as you gave yours to me.
“Well that’s awfully romantic.” He was falling despite himself. There was something about this presence that made him feel at ease; the universe was smaller at this moment, confined solely to this bathroom and the conversation therein.
It almost seemed a shame to let it go. The thought of godhood and its expansive omnipotence was frightening in comparison to the safe confines of this cell.
“And what if I claim this godhood? Is it work or play? Is it worth it compared to being a human? I may not have any memories of my own but I know things, like how a hamburger tastes and what the trees look like in autumn. There’s some nice things about being human that I quite like.”
And yet there’s something missing inside of you. I have it; I can give it to you, if you wish.
“And how are you going to give it to me?”
You know exactly what I mean.
“So I do,” the man teased. “Even if we were lovers in a past life, we’re meeting for the first time now. So in this life, you’re the one to make the first move.”
If you insist.
With a hint of impatience, the shadowy tendrils wrapped around his ankles and pulled him up to standing and push him gently towards the glory hole.
You have been too long without worship. Allow me to rectify that.
“Whatever you say, boss,” he laughed, and without further hesitation inserted his cock inside.
He breached something viscous and cool on the other side. It coiled around his cock all the way to the base, and then drew him close until his body was pressed flush against the wall of the bathroom stall, his cheek against a piece of graffiti that read ‘Memento Mori.” The glory hole was slightly too high up for him, causing him to stand on his tiptoes. After a while, however, he no longer felt the strain in his ankles; it seemed almost as if he was floating in the air.
He didn’t last long as whatever on the other side, whether it was tentacle or tongue, rubbed and squeezed his cock to completion.
In his ecstasy, a name escaped his lips. The syllables escaped before he could commit them to memory.
Sweaty and spent, he staggered backwards leaned his back against the opposite wall.
I’m ready now. Reach inside.
He could do nothing else but obey, the glory hole stretching like flesh to accommodate his arm. He felt around in the viscous matter until something was brought into his palm. Closing his fingers around it, he pulled back and found himself holding a human heart.
“You’re giving me your heart?”
Not my heart. Yours. A fragment of yourself you gave to me for safekeeping.
“What do I do with it?”
Fill up the emptiness inside of you.
In mock eucharist the traveler brought the heart to his mouth and bit into it with sharpened teeth. As he chewed through the tough flesh memories returned. A childhood spent hidden in a cave. Crafting a lyre from a turtle shell. Wind blowing through his hair as he delivered divine messages throughout the gods’ domain.
Hermes. His name was Hermes. God of travelers, merchants and thieves. Messenger of Olympus, wherever that mountain now stood in the modern mortal realm. No domain existed that he didn’t have some part in, from fertility to death.
And it was in his connection to death that he remembered. The stale air of the shore of the River Styx. The waiting and the wailing of the souls as they watched the waters for the ferryman to come. His heart skipping a beat as he watched the boat approach, the oar held in muscular arms. A skeletal hand against his cheek.
“Cha—”
The bathroom shuddered, the dim fluorescent light found new life and bathed the room in golden light. The shadows curled round his ankles retreated into the stall and kept on retreating, disappearing.
Without his heart, Charon did not have enough power to remain here. In panic, Hermes scrambled onto the floor and crawled into the opposite stall where Charon was. For a brief moment he was held in smoke and shadow, but that wasn’t enough. After more than one thousand years, he wanted to see his lover again.
He pushed the door open and turned to look as he did.
Before the stall door swung fully open to reveal its emptiness, Hermes caught a glimpse of the presence he had been speaking to, and with whom he had made love with. A skeletal figure danced at the edges of the shadow, staring at him with one glowing purple eye.
He only caught his gaze for a moment, but the purple glow became seared into his memory. Its gaze was full of love.
“I’ll find you,” he swore. “I’ll find you again, and I’ll give you the piece of your heart you gave to me.”