Andrei Petrov 1990-20?? A loving husband, a loving father, and a loving friend.
The moment Bo opened the door, Maya rushed him and hugged his legs. He smiled and put his arm around her, laughing as the bags of groceries on his arm engulfed her.
"Hey!" she squealed, squirming out of his grasp.
"Help me put these groceries away, then," he said, kicking the door shut behind him and holding his arms at his sides, each one treated like a coat hanger, but for bag handles. He walked over to the kitchen table and set them all down with a thump. "Look, now I can give you a real hug."
Before he could turn around, Maya ambushed him from behind, hugging his waist as he was bent over the table, still getting one last bag off his arm. He freed his arm quickly so he could spin around and grab her, lifting her into the air and spinning her around before pulling her close into a big, tight hug. Her arms went around his neck, and her legs were wrapped around his back, holding on tightly.
He could see Mel walking into the kitchen and let go, letting Maya cling to him like the monkey she was.
"Aren't you getting a little old for that?"
Maya shot her mother a look, frowning. “What? No!"
"Not you," Mel said with a sigh. "You," she emphasized, looking at Bo.
Bo laughed. "Whaaaaat? Nooooo. Once a tree, always a tree."
Mel's previously stern look broke as her mouth upturned into a grin. She walked over to Bo and went up on her tip-toes. Bo bent down to bring his face to hers and simultaneously pried Maya off his chest and set her down on the floor. Mel pecked him on the lips.
"Did you get the mail?" she asked.
"Oh! Shoot. One second-" Bo darted for the door. "I'll get it now. Be back in a second."
He stepped out of the apartment, quickly locking the door behind him before he jogged down the hall, down the steps, and out the door, to the tower of mailboxes on the side of the building.
The lights on the side of the building were dim, and the sun was already down. The sidewalk was dusty and puddled from recent rain, and the air felt humid to step back out into.
It was almost midnight. He'd had a late shift that night because it was a holiday weekend and they'd gotten a lot of reservations. He'd been on his feet all day and by the time he'd gotten home, his mind was scattered. He absent-mindedly fumbled with his keys, looking for the one to their mailbox as he made his way over.
When his thumb felt the familiar shape he flipped the keys in his hand victoriously before turning to the wall of mailboxes, sticking the key in box number 14.
As he turned the key, he paused. He heard the faint shuffling of feet, but he couldn't see anything. At least, not on his good side. To his left, there was a small wall, making a nook for the mailboxes. It was probably just someone else arriving late and pulling up to the building, but he looked left anyway, out of curiosity.
And that wall was the last thing he'd ever see.
Pain coursed through his head like a beating drum. He could feel blood trickling down, but there was only darkness in front of him. He reached out, he felt a shirt, something, and grabbed. Pulled.
Something stabbed him in his side. In the ribs. It was quick, and his breathing quickly grew shallow. He didn't let go of the person's clothes and tried to throw them to the ground.
They fell to the ground together, and again, and again, the pain came sharp and all over. In his stomach, in his back, in his-
--<>--
As quickly as the pain came, it left.
Bo was in a world of darkness again, but this didn't feel like the time he was on an alien planet fighting an alien panther with big teeth. There was no clone body. There were no healing spells. This was real. He'd been attacked.
Had he survived? Did he come to? He pawed hesitantly at the ground beneath him.
Sand.
He could hear the lapping of waves nearby. Very nearby. Before he could think to fear, his heart started to race. His hands were trembling.
Maybe this was what death was like. Purgatory. Hell. Heaven. Whatever it was.
But even in death, he didn't get to see?
Sorrow welled up in his chest, and he slowly, slowly reached for his face. No eyes. Only scar tissue, and wretched, barely functional tear-ducts. He drew his hand away before sand could get in them and instead let the tears well up in the caverns of his eyes, like little wells, until they overflowed.
Maybe if he sat up, he could speed up the process, but he was too afraid to move.
He flopped his hand back down in the sand at his side. With quiet sniffs, he cried.
The Skull in the Jar 18??-2019 An irritating but loved friend.
The last week had been one of the worst weeks of my life, and that was saying a lot considering my childhood. I had spent the entirety of my time on this world getting confused for that Bartimaeus guy that Asmira and Nathaniel knew, but it had always just been annoying. Sometimes someone would get mad at me for something he did, but it was nothing like this.
This new guy was even worse than the ones before him. The first day we had run into him and his little shadowy friend, he had tried taking me out with some iron. And while I wasn't a ghost anymore, I still felt uncomfortable about it. Plus, if Nathaniel and Asmira hadn't shown up when they did, I was pretty sure torture was the next thing on the table.
And torture was something I really wasn't fond of.
We had been on the run from them ever since. We hadn't really gotten a chance to stop before now - we had been too busy trying to keep a step ahead of them. Because while we might have had our powers at our disposal, this guy also had a whole legion of spirits straight out of Nathaniel and Asmira's world.
Now, however, we were finally getting a break.
We had ended up at some little beach side town. Asmira, despite growing up in a desert, was apparently a good swimmer, and Nathaniel knew how to swim a little, too. I was the odd one out; I had never once learned how. I didn't plan to admit that any time soon.
So I had spent the afternoon wandering down the seashore and through the town. The sky was overcast, but the air was warm - it was the perfect day to be out and about. And I did have to admit that the fresh air was nice compared to what I had grown up with. It was far better than air in London, that was for sure.
I was just about to head back into town - and the inn we were staying in - when I realized I wasn't alone on this stretch of beach. There was a guy there, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he had just died. Partially from the tears streaming down his face, and partially from the fact that he was laying on the sand in bloody, torn clothes.
Curious, I headed over to him.
It was hard walking silently in the sand. I was sure he could hear me coming over - I had no idea how I was supposed to be any quieter. When I finally reached his side, I was surprised to realize that he was completely blind.
As Bo’s breaths quivered he felt a small breeze blow over him, brushing right up against his skin. He gingerly reached up to his chest, feeling the gaping hole where the knife must’ve pierced. His shirt felt crusted and bloodied, but under the fabric there was nothing. Not even a scar, just his skin.
He kept his hand in the hole like a pocket over his heart.
His chest felt tight as a knot and it ached. He thought of Maya, and Mel. He thought of his father.
Kazimir was supposed to have been released from jail in the morning. Him and his dad had talked about hugging each other in person for weeks. It would’ve been the first time in 20 years.
Bo’s hand turned into a fist inside his shirt and his legs curled up towards his chest. He didn’t want to sit up, but it was as if his body was contorting in pain, curling in a ball.
It wasn’t just that he would never see them again.
Recognition suddenly hit me like one of Lockwood and Co's magnesium flares.
I hadn't noticed at first because of the age and the eyes - and the unexpectedness - but that was Bo. I hadn't seen him that long ago, but it must have been a few years for him at least. And from the way his shirt was torn and how his once good eye was replaced by a fresh scar, I had a sneaking suspicion that his death hadn't been a peaceful one.
I barely knew him, but I still got a sinking feeling in my gut.
At least he hadn't had anyone outside of Wilson.
Now, how was I supposed to deal with someone who was blind? The only blind guy I knew had been another person living on the streets when I was a kid, and he had admittedly creeped me out enough that I didn't want to interact with him.
(Not because he was blind - the guy was just weird.)
"Hey," I said, giving a wave - only to remember a second later he couldn't see the wave. I tried to push back how upset I felt about seeing another person I knew (and liked) die.
Bo froze. He pulled his hand out of the hole in his shirt with one, stiff, abrupt movement and felt his skin tingling. He couldn’t see it, but a string of blue sparks of electricity sputtered around his fist for a brief moment as he turned his head toward the voice.
His breath quivered, like a shivering child in the rain. He could feel his hairs standing on end. This wasn’t just some empty beach in a void. There was someone there.
He couldn’t wipe away his tears with sandy hands, and it didn’t make sense to. He could still feel his chest heaving and the tears were still flowing.
“Who is it,” he asked emptily, his voice barely a whisper.
"Skull," I said. I was stupid for assuming he'd recognize my voice - it wasn't like he had seen me in my body much, anyways. My gaze dropped down to his fist. I hadn't missed the electricity that had shown up for a second. And seeing that Bo had been pretty normal the last time we were together, the electricity was the final nail in the coffin: Bo was dead.
"You died," I managed to get out - stupidly stating the obvious.
It had been ten years since he’d seen the ancient spirit in the boy’s body. The kid in the leather jacket, at the motel, avoiding his own stab wound. The memory came back like the memory of a dream, though he knew it was far from it.
He remembered Skull was from a place people went when they died, and when Skull described it, Bo distinctly recalled thinking he would never want to end up there, because it sounded like a sad place to be. Of course, he’d never said that out loud.
But he was there, now. In Skull’s world. He had to be. It was the only thing that made sense, and it was only confirmed when Skull told him what he already knew.
“... And yet, I’m not dead,” he said quietly. Just blind, and far, far away from home. Far away from family. Never to return.
"You're not," I confirmed. "You have a second chance now."
I glanced down at his pants. I couldn't see a phone anywhere in there - which was a shame, because I was pretty sure his friend would have been able to solve this in a matter of minutes.
"...You don't have another way of contacting your friend, do you?" I asked. "Besides texting?"
Bo patted his pockets, and couldn’t find his phone.
“No, I-“ he paused, checking again, even though he got the same result. Sand, holes where stab wounds used to be, crusted blood, and empty pockets. “-I don’t. She... I mean, she might as well be some version of god, but she’s not all-knowing. At least, I don’t think she chooses to be all the time. I don’t know. I don’t know.” He rested his forehead on his knees.
Bo kept his ear towards the sound of Skull's voice. He could hear the shifting of the sand, and Skull's voice drew nearer as he sat beside him. He couldn't think of something to say right there, at the moment. He felt like he was still coming to grips with what happened.
"Go back?" he asked, his words hushed. "I died. They - they probably had a funeral for me already. My wife, my daughter. My dad..."
He lifted his head before he thumped it down again against his knee.
"Isn't that kind of like cheating?" he asked, half-heartedly. He wanted to go back, he really did. But he felt like in all the movies and shows where people came back from the dead, they were never the same. Things always got messed up in some way.
"No and yes," I said. "No to the funeral, and yes to the cheating bit. Unless you've run into someone else from your world from the future, every moment since your death is the same on your home world, too."
I was probably like that. Nikko had been, too. It was Asmira, Megara and Eddie who were from times with differences - I had to hope that Bo wasn't like that, too.
He wasn't taking this well, but no one ever did. It was going to take some time to adjust. And Bo was doing a little better than others, at least.
"And you say cheating like it's a bad thing in this case," I argued. I sat a little straighter. "You died, Bo. You're not really that old - you deserve a second chance. And if life conveniently gives you a body after you die, you should take it.'
A strange kind of chill swept over his frame, even though the air was warm around him. The sound of the lapping waves ahead of him (at least, that's where he thought it was) only served to make everything more unsettling. It didn't feel right to be alive after dying. Yes, he was grateful for the second chance. There was no way for him not to be. He had loved ones to return to and longed to be with again.
He was only 40.
"Doesn't it make things complicated, though?" he asked. "Returning, after people think you died." He was thinking of death certificates. Legal minutiae. Social security numbers. Health insurance. Life insurance. All that and the moral implications of returning to a world where he was dead. He assumed his dead body would still be there. Skull said he'd been given another one.
That would mean there would be two Bo's. One dead, one living.
That kind of scared him, even though every path before him at the moment was terrifying.
"Does it mess anything up? Timelines... life and all that stuff. I don't really know much anymore." Was it right to go back? But what kind of question was that? His family needed him.
I had helped people come back to life twice - three times if you counted Eddie and Megara separately. I hadn't seen the last two since then, but I had seen Nikko. She was only a kid, and lived in a place where strange, magical powers were the norm. She probably didn't even know how half of the stuff Bo was mentioning worked.
(I didn't, either.)
"You're friends with someone who can magically appear in a closet and transport people to other worlds," I pointed out. "And it seemed like she wasn't the only magical person you knew. If you can't handle all of that, I'm sure one of them can."
Tons of cowering! Plus your name in the summer programme. A custom-designed banner. A cabin at Camp Half-Blood. Two shrines. I'll even throw in a Kymopoleia action figure. — Rick Riordan, The Blood of Olympus
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