“Where am I again?” The Nigerian man sat before me rubbing his head. He was dark as night with short dreads and a thick accent that coated every word that passed his lips. Young, in his mid-twenties, but just as dead as I was.
“You’re in the Realm.” Crossing the floor of the white room, I sank down next to him, careful not to touch him. He attempted to look at me and instantly had to lie on the floor.
My dark braid fell over my should as I shifted, finding the perfect combination of comforting closeness and distance. Touching wouldn’t be beneficial for either one of us, especially with his energy all but pinging off the walls. Adjusting was difficult for everyone but some, like this man, took it extremely hard. I knew what that was like. I wasn’t supposed to be his Greeter but I had more patience than she had and unlike most, I enjoyed the job.
The man groaned, wrapping his arms around his head. Sitting silent, I gave him time. I have yet to find anyone that enjoyed being sucked through the Vortex. The motion is painful, disorientating. Essentially, the Vortex is having your soul ripped from the living world, and dropped into the Realm. When you land, you land hard.
Keeping my voice just above a whisper, I told him, “I’m Calla.”
This is where my story begins. At least this leg of it. My name is Callista, from Kalliste, Καλλίστη, the most beautiful. As a
girl, I was called Lista. No one, especially my mother felt I deserved my full
name. Now, I go by Calla. Calla is who I am. Lista is the girl I was, and
Callista is who I will never be.
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