Unique First fit her name like a glove, or at least this
was how her mother always put it. Unique came first
and was one of a kind. There was no one else like
her—and this was a damn good thing, to quote her
father, Dr. Ulysses First, who had never understood what genetic
malignancy blighted his only child.
Unique was a petite eighteen-year-old with long, shimmering
hair that was as black as ebony, and her skin was translucent
like milk glass, her lips full and pink. She believed that
her pale blue eyes could mesmerize whoever looked into them
and that by casting as little as a glance at someone she could
bend that person’s mind to fit her Purpose. Unique could
haunt someone for weeks, building up unbearable anticipation
until the final act, which was a necessary and frenzied release,
usually followed by a blackout.
“Hey, wake up, my car’s broke down.” She knocked on the
window of the Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler that was parked all
by itself at the Farmers’ Market on the fringes of downtown
Richmond. “I’m wondering if you got a phone?”
It was 4:00 A.M., pitch dark, and the parking lot was poorly
lit. Although Moses Custer knew very well that it wasn’t safe
to be out here alone at this hour, he had ignored his usual good
judgment after fighting with his wife and storming off in his
truck, where he intended to spend the night, alone and missing
in action, out by the vegetable stands. That would sure show
her, he always thought when their marital routine turned ugly.
He opened the door of his cab as the knocking on the glass
continued.
“Lordy, what’s a sweet little thing like you doing out here at
this hour?” Moses asked, confused and drunk, as he stared at
the creamy, delicate face smiling at him like an angel.
“You’re about to have a unique experience.” Unique said
the same thing she always did right before she moved in for
her Purpose.
“What’chu mean?” Moses puzzled. “What unique ’sperience?”
The answer came in a legion of demons that kicked and
pounded Moses and ripped at his hair and clothes. Explosions
and obscenities erupted from hell, and fire seared his muscles
and bones as savage forces beat and tore him to shreds and left
him dead and drove off in his truck. Moses hovered above his
dead self for a while, watching his mauled, lifeless body on
the tarmac. Blood streamed out from under his head as rain
smacked down, and one of his boots was off and his left arm
was at an angle that wasn’t natural. As Moses gazed down on
himself, a part of him was worn out and ready for Eternity
while another part of him regretted his life and grieved.
“My head’s ruined,” he moaned and began to sob as everything
went black. “Ohhh, my head’s ruined. Lord, I ain’t
ready! It ain’t my time yet!”
Complete darkness dissolved to a floating airspace from which
Moses watched pulsing emergency lights and urgent firemen,
paramedics, and police in yellow rain slickers with reflective tape
that glared like white fire. Flares hissed on wet pavement as a
heavy cold rain fell, and voices were excited and loud and made
no sense. It seemed people were yelling at him and it frightened
Moses and made him feel small and ashamed. He tried to open
his eyes, but it was as if they had been sewn shut.
“What happened to the angel?” he kept muttering. “She
said her car broke down.”
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