literature

Dealing with Death 2

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It wasn’t fair.

This was the only thought that was a constant in his mind at this moment.  Standing under a fluorescent light, peering past the glare of the mirror and the defeated brown eyes and into the hospital room where, under the wraps of white and pale green, his wife lay quiet.  Unmoving.  Dying.

It wasn’t fair.

Peter could feel his legs shaking beneath him, and heeded their pressure to fall back on the couch behind him, the material crunching beneath his own declared-unhealthy form.  A nurse wheeled a wheezing, whimpering, wizened man down the hall, his veiny arms clutching for dear life to his wheelchair.  At least he could use his voice.  Amelia couldn’t ask to tilt the blinds so the light wouldn’t radiate so brightly on her pale complexion.

Why did it have to be her?

Not two weeks ago, she and Peter were fully healthy and healthily full from a Thanksgiving feast with their families.  Laughing as Aunt Jenny recalled a creative tale of the youth who tried to intimidate her at work, only to find himself at the receiving end of a whooping from the hands of the state champion at Tae Kwon Do.  Everyone was so vibrant.

Now they were here.  The rest had gone on after the doctor’s assessment.  Laurie had offered to stay, but the seven year old was kept quiet by her ashen-faced mother.  Peter was all alone, watching as his wife fell closer and closer towards no return.  What could he do now?

The sound of shoes stepping in a brisk manner met his ears, but Peter paid no heed.  Probably just some doctor rushing to his next payment of insurance.  Life was moving on around his Amelia, even if it sounded so quiet.  The footsteps passed his leaned over, bulky form, and then paused.  Peter heard the click of Amelia’s door as it swung open, and looked up from his outstretched hands that cradled his head.

A dark-suited man had opened the door, his style of dress sharp.  The fluorescent light made his high thread-count jacket seem to shimmer, wrapped around a tall, lean figure.  A shock of slicked black hair peeked out from under the small hat he wore, reminiscent of old swing singers and private eyes.  If this man had seen Peter, he gave no indication.  He looked to be walking into the room.

“Hey.” Peter’s hoarse, tired voice spoke.  “What are you doing?”

The man in question paused, setting his raised leather polished shoe down slowly.  Turning his head to face Peter, the sorrowful widow-to-be realized the man’s eyes were hidden behind black tinted sunglasses.  An arched black eyebrow had risen from behind the eyewear.  Peter was taken enough with the man’s appearance that he missed the fact he’d responded.

“I said can you see me?” the mystery man asked.  He remained waiting at the open doorway separating Peter from his wife.

“Well, yes.  I can.” Peter answered.  “I can see you.”

The reaction he got puzzled Peter further.  The suited man sighed, stepping back into the hallway and closing the door.  He stepped over to Peter, shoes tapping all the way, before he stood before him, his shadow cast over Peter and hiding him from the light above.  “You can see me.  Lovely.” The man sighed and turned to sit beside Peter, folding one long leg to cross over the other as his thin arms crossed over his chest.  “And I thought this would be a simple drive-by and pickup.”

Peter was confused, and voiced such.  “What do you mean?” he questioned.

The figure clicked his tongue and reached into his suit jacket, retrieving a manila envelope before opening it.  “Amelia Drawlins, 39.  Born in 1974.  Daughter to Sam and Evelyn Drawlins.” He proceeded to recite, to Peter’s astonishment, a shortened timeline of his wife’s life so far.  “..And then 2013, where on December fifth, she would pass away due to heart failure.”  He finished and closed the folder he’d read from.

“B-but…what did you mean by earlier, the pick-up? And who are you anyway?” Peter questioned.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” the man responded, and he laughed harshly when Peter answered no.  “I really need to get my name out more.  Or just step out of the office more.”  He extended a wiry hand towards Peter, who took it in his sweaty own.

“My name is Death.  Call me D.”

Peter couldn’t have reacted moreso if he’d stuck his hand into a meat grinder.  He flinched back and away, scrambling to his feet with surprising speed.  He clutched his hand with its opposite, as if afraid it would suddenly detach.  “This is a joke, right?” Peter asked.

D shrugged his shoulders and answered him.  “Death is hardly a joke, though plenty alive think they can make it humorous.  No, Mr. Drawlins, this is no joke.  I am quite literally here and real.”

Peter could only gasp at the answer.  He stepped back, further distancing himself from the suited harbinger of the afterlife.  He looked over his shoulder and then down the opposing hallway.  Where had everyone gone?

“If you think you can run, go ahead and try.” D said, leaning back against the seat.  “You’ll find you can never escape me, no matter how fast or hard you run.” His grin terrified Peter.  It was the smile of a madman in the company of his prey, the predator telling his kill he’d chosen him for dinner.

“H-have you…come for me?” the mortal man asked, shaking in his position.

“You?” D. repeated before opening his folder and turning a few papers.  “No, no.  You have a ways to go.  Maybe.” He closed the folder again.  “Now, as for your wife, well…I was on my way to pick her up and go on with my day.” He then lost his jovial expression.  “And then you saw me.  Which is troublesome.”

The now feeling very mortal man gulped and edged towards his wife’s room.  “S-she…she isn’t dead yet.  She’s still alive.” He said.  “A-and besides, we’re both Catholics!  We serve the lord!” The aged lessons of religion his mother and father had pounded into him emerged in perhaps the first time in years.  “T-the Lord triumphs over Death!”

Peter was hoping for the man to flinch, or fall back at this declaration.  Instead, he watched as D. laughed.  It was a dry, harsh laugh.  One that was similar to the laugh his boss made when he requested a raise.  “Oh.  Oh, oh, oh.  You’re one of those types.” D. chuckled out as he stood up and walked to Peter, his stride getting him there in one and a half steps.

“Well, go on.  Perform the sign of the Cross.  Recite every prayer.  Call on every saint and deity you think will stop in their grand machinations for one mere mortal man.  I’ll wait.” D. folded his arms over his chest and waited.  Peter didn’t move out of fear, making D. shake his head.  “You humans and your religions.  So high and mighty in your beliefs.  You put so much stock in millennia old words that you even debate who goes where in the end.  Let me provide a little guidance.” He leaned forward, towering over Peter, and the air chilled as if winter had reared its sleepy head up from its slumber.

“Believe in whomever or whatever you wish to.  Persuade as many as you can to join your flocks.  Fight your wars and battles for supremacy.  In the end, you still come to one being.  The one who has walked behind you when you picked up your first spear, when the first sword was sharpened and struck down its foe.  I am he, and I am most certainly a reality.” The lights flickered at his grave tone, leaving Peter to tremble in awed silence.

The lights were restored and D. leaned back after he finished, letting Peter draw in another shaky breath.  The suited man stepped closer to the observation window, peering in silently at the prone woman.  “She’s who I’m here for.  And you got in my way.  So I want to know why.” D. said calmly.

Wringing hands and a heightened heart rate were the silent answer to the entity’s curiosity.  Peter ran a hand through his hair, the coarse texture wiping away the gathered sweat in his palm.  “Well, I don’t…I don’t want my wife to die.” He stated.  He had to believe she wasn’t gone yet.  He knew he wanted his wife to be back at his side, and for her to do that, he had to believe in her will to live.  No matter who or what he was talking to.

D. sighed and grumbled.  “If I had a soul for every line like that…” He sat down and looked over to Peter.  “So you want her to live, huh?” He motioned the mortal man over, and waited till he sat at the furthest end.  “Well, I can be fair, I suppose.  There’s a way she can live. But!”

Peter’s hopes suddenly paused, and the chills that had been sweeping up his spine ceased to flare.  “But?” he repeated, his attention focused on his company’s present words.

“I’m giving up a soul to be collected.  I require compensation.  An eye for an eye, a life for a life.” Those dark-tinted sunglasses turned towards him, focused now on the only other speaking being in his presence.  “If you’ve nothing to offer, then I can’t give her life back.”

“But…s-she’s alive!  I know she is!” Peter protested.  He went to the window and pointed at the glowing machines that monitored her vital signs.  To him, their being on was a sign of her vitality.  She was still amidst the living.
 
“You’re going to tell me, Death, whether or not someone is dead?” D. asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Fine then, Mr. Drawlins.” He said as he stood up and approached Peter.  For his part, Peter stood his ground for all of two seconds before he stumbled to the side, trying to keep away from his counterpart.  D. simply kept walking, one hand in his pocket, the other being held up at level with his chest.  The lights flickered again, and the cold chill intensified around Peter.  He shivered and rubbed at his forearms to try and gather heat.  He found no returned warmth as he looked back up at D.

As his eyes rose and met with D.’s own hidden eyes, the cold suddenly seemed to grip at him fiercely, working down his fingers and arms.  He shook them like one would to brush away dirt or water.  Yet the chill only persisted further across his being, the tell-tale Goosebumps marking the progress of the freezing grip traveling further towards his torso.  Peter soon found that his fingers weren’t able to twitch in fear any longer; they were too chilled to move.  His arms soon followed.  Likewise, his legs, keeping him in place yet moving no further, became like pillars of ice.  D. had not moved throughout this, the only movement being his hand slowly clenching into a fist.

When his limbs had been encased in the phantom cold, Peter sensed a new feeling start to grow within his chest, where his heart lay.  It was not a cold feeling, but a warm sensation that became prominent to his body.  His mind willed his hands to move, his arms to bend as if to try and pat out the fire burning within him.  What accompanied it made the sensation stranger to Peter; the feeling of something being torn, ripped from its rightful place but within him.  His body seemed to surge with an unknown energy to Peter, making him convulse once before slumping over.  His head lifted up, and beheld D., who now held a flame in his fist.

“Look upon your destiny, Peter Drawlins.  Know he who sits before you is not a mere mortal, but a being you’d do well to respect.” D. spoke solemnly.  Peter’s attention was not on D’s words, but his hand where the flame rested.  The fire was a blue and white hued flame, unwavering and bright against the dark clothes of the man holding it.  “This is your soul.  The inner brightness, the fortitude and will of what you call life.  I am its keeper, its harvester, the watcher and the punisher.  I command where it goes, what it does, however I please once it leaves the body, its vessel.”

For Peter’s part, D. could have been telling him the secret to immortality for all he cared.  His mind, his thoughts, had become solely focused upon the flame in D’s hands.  It called to him, with its warmth and contrasting glow against the darkness surrounding him.  He tried to lift a hand to reach out to the flame, but his body did not answer his call.  He could only look on in despondent want, at the mercy of Death’s hand.

D. finally released his hold on Peter, and the flame vanished.  As soon as it had, Peter’s being was overcome with intense warmth, and he flinched as he shook his body once more.  His arms responded, then his fingers, prickling and twitching to life.  When he realized he was able to move once more, he turned to D. as the figure in question dusted off the sleeve of his jacket casually.  To Peter, these events were life-changing.  To D, he was sure; it was as routine as picking up coffee from a local diner.

“You…you really are Death.” Peter whispered.

“And don’t you forget it.” D. said, turning back to look towards Amelia’s room.  The lights came to being once again, and the hospital hallway was right once more.  Yet Peter knew his perspective had changed.  If he survived this ordeal, and hopefully with his wife in tow, he would never again return to this hallway, this hospital even.  He did not want to be in a place where Death was surely a regular visitor.

“Now, I’m a busy deity, Peter.  I have other souls to collect, mostly due to you humans and your tendency to shoot first, shoot again, and ask questions later.  So I’ll be brief.”  Death turned and began to pace as Peter moved to sit back in the lounge sofa and listen with newfound attention.

“I’m here to collect Amelia’s soul.  Her time, be it sweet or far too bitter, has come.  You cannot stop me.  This is certain, as it is for all things of life.  However,” D. trailed off here as he glanced from the tile floor to Peter.  “That does not mean we cannot work out a deal.”

“A deal? You want me to bargain for my wife?” Peter asked.  With all he’d witnessed, it seemed almost ludicrous.  But then again, he reminded himself, he was sure this moment, this memory, is one he’ll look back on in wonder, curiosity, and most especially fear.

“By that tone, maybe I should just ignore you and go on my way.” D. said dryly, walking towards the door and placing his hand on the knob, intent on entering.
 
Peter envisioned for one moment his wife beneath the shadow of Death, the fire he’d beheld now leaving his wife’s body and rendering her a cold, empty shell of what was once life.  His being shivered, and before he knew next, was already catching D. at the wrist, preventing him from continuing.  If Death was shocked or surprised, or even offended, he did not show it.  “Please, no!  I want her to live!  What would you propose?” Peter questioned.  “What do I need to do?”

“You? You’re not the soul in question here.  That soul is right there.” He pointed towards Amelia with his free hand.  Peter, realizing he was still clutching to him, let him go and stepped back.  “Granted, she’s not in much position to argue her case.” An eyebrow peeked out over the sunglasses, and D. turned to eye Peter with a tilt of his head.  “Makes one wonder how she got there in the first place.”

Confusion struck Peter as he heard these words, then anger.  “What do you mean?  I would never hurt my wife.  I love her!” he said, defending himself from the accusation laid on him by D.’s own look.

“Oh, no, no!” D raised his hands up, as if to placate Peter.  “No, you wouldn’t do that!  Dear, good, virtuous husband Peter Drawlins would never willingly or consciously hurt his wife.”

Peter frowned at D.’s sarcastic tone and opened his mouth to protest, but was robbed of his defense by D.’s persistence.  “Knowingly, willingly, no.  You did not.  And yet, you’re trying so hard to keep her alive.  Love can drive a mortal to do so many curious things.  I’ve witnessed them.  I got a chuckle when I watched a love-struck pair of teens wind up killing themselves for their love, neither knowing the other was alive when they were right before each other’s eyes.  Such is the fallout from family feuds and blood spilt for a maiden’s hand.” D. shifted his stance and crossed his arms over his chest.  “But I have to wonder…is it love alone that motivates your desperation?  Or is there more?” He walked forward, and Peter stepped back only to bump into a support pillar for the hallway.

“I’ve seen many a soul beg and plead for mercy out of guilt or shame.  Seeking some understanding, some sort of mercy from Death.” His grin was haunting, frightening and even sickening to Peter’s consciousness.  “The mercy of Death is but its own name.  Terrible, harsh, and final.  I know you, Peter Drawlins.  I know your winding road.  How you turned down your family business for your own career.  How you managed to build your own home with your own two hands.”

D.’s words struck at Peter, fear gripping his throat into silence as he held his head in his hands while Death continued.  “I watched when you refused to help your brother in law, Morris Winstead.  When he wanted a job and you only pointed him away.  I saw how you pinched your pocket when it came time to shop for Christmas for your family.  Your coldly logical denial of letting little Samantha go to Girl Scout’s camp.” D.’s tone became a whisper as he drew close, kneeling down to Peter’s level.  His voice was soft, a whisper, but to Peter’s rapidly crashing mind and swelling guilt, he was as audible as a rock concert at New Year’s.  “Your shrewdness in purchasing cheap, low-quality food that may or may not have been cleared by health officials as safe to eat for a Thanksgiving dinner.  A dinner eaten by your family, specifically, your wife.”

The wetness on Peter’s face was no longer trails of sweat from fear or strain.  Shame was the paintbrush that colored the tears dripping from his clenched eyes.  “What was I supposed to do?  Money was tight!  It was all gone!” he pleaded, refusing to open his eyes and look upon his accuser.

“And where did it go, Peter?  Certainly not to your wife’s favorite church.  You haven’t entered its doors since you became an ordained member of the church of 416 Cherrywood Road.  A place you tend to also sleep, change clothes at, eat, watch television, and of course, bemoan your lack of wealth.  And look now!  The bills for this visit must have been astronomical.  I can only wonder how much this will cost you once they process her body and bill you for what you did to her.  Indirectly, of course.” Peter could hear the grin on Death’s words.  It was the joker’s grin, the malicious and cruel smile of he who knew that his target was putty in his hands.

He knew not what to say.  There was no defense for his actions, knowing what they had caused.  They spoke leaps and bounds more than any reasoning he could give, any persuasion he could hope to have.  He managed to stumble to his feet, D. no doubt looking on, and shuffled to the viewing window to look upon his wife.  He felt now his failure, the weight of his past and how he’d done wrong.  He rested his forehead against the glass, his palms spread against the surface as he wept between words.  “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…” His sobs and sniffs were the only sound audible in the hallway for a time, until D. spoke once more.

“I’m quite sure, if she were conscious, and perhaps alive, she’d forgive you.” Peter almost did a double take at D.’s words.  The malice and viciousness before was gone, the feeling of soft rebuke now the only audible sound within.  “However, she is neither right now, and I am certainly no redeemer. So it may be best to stem those apologies until they can be better heard.”

Peter only nodded and wiped at his face.  Outstretched hands from D. revealed a white handkerchief, which Peter accepted, wiping at his eyes and face to strike away the emotional breakdown of before.  “So…what now?” he asked.

“I take Amelia’s soul, get a new handkerchief, and go collect the next fool who decided to kick the bucket too early.  Maybe a quiet evening with a book.” D. remarked.  Peter’s shoulders sagged at this.  “Or perhaps you and I can make a deal.” The man’s head shot up with rapt attention on the dark-suited figure, eyes pleading.

“I undo the harm to Amelia, and her soul, and give you a chance to redeem both her and yourself.  Easily done.  But I would need compensation from you.” D. turned to face Peter and the mortal did his best to meet the gaze behind those dark glasses.  “So what can you offer me to make it worth my time to expend such effort?  What insurance can you give me that I will not find you here once more, weeping over your foolishness and the harm you wrought upon your family?”

Peter’s mind scrambled for words, forcing the man to close his mouth, lest he say something wrong.  “I-I…” he stuttered.  “I will do my best to make my family happy.  No matter the cost.  We’ll even go back to church!”

D. snorted.  “You speak as if church matters to me.  Remember well who I am.  However, I find these terms agreeable.” He reached into his jacket and retrieved a folded paper.  Undoing it and laying it on the stand next to the lounge sofa, he indicated Peter to sign.  When he approached, he found it necessary to ask, “Why can’t I read this?”

“Because if you could read it, you’d be doing my job and I’d be in the Bahamas.  Now sign the contract unless you’re having second thoughts?” D. teased.  Peter’s hand was a blur across the bottom of the contract, his red-inked name the only other color aside from black text.  When he wrote the last letter, the pen and paper vanished into thin air, and he blinked before turning back to D., who tucked something back into his jacket pocket.

“Good.  I’ll be watching you, Peter Drawlins.  If you try to worm your way out of this contract, I’ll have both your souls ablaze before you can comprehend it.” D. adjusted his glasses and straightened his jacket before turning to leave.

“Death!” Peter called to him suddenly, and the dark-suited figure glanced back with a raised eyebrow.  “W-where do I go now?” He asked.

“Well, probably the best idea would be to wake up.” His simply reply confused Peter, only for the words to echo as the hallway, hospital, and Death all faded to black.  When he blinked again, he found himself not in a hospital, but instead with a face pressed into soft linen sheets and a softer pillow.  He shot up in bed, glancing around in a panic, until his gaze fell upon his wife at his side.  His healthy, peach-skinned, rosy cheeked, beautiful living wife.

“Was it…just a dream?” he asked himself.  Checking the date on the nearby calendar, he found it was the day before Thanksgiving.  Was his interaction with Death, the hospital, his wife’s illness, all no more than just a mishap of consciousness?

He quickly showered, and headed out the door, car keys jingling in his clenched fist  If it really was just a dream, what in god’s name had he eaten the night before to see two weeks of such terrible sights in one night’s setting?  He thought as he drove, but let it go as he noticed the Turkey-themed decorations all about town.

Reaching the parking lot of the supermarket, he stepped out from the family car, popping his neck for cramming himself into such a tight space.  He glanced to the right and saw a street vendor peddling his wares of meat and vegetables at a discounted price.  The sign promoting himself was hand-made, and set at prices that would shock the managers of the market right across from him.  It was even adorned with a cheesy line of being “thankful” for such prices.  Peter had to laugh at the poor humor and started to approach it, when something bumped into his foot.  He looked down and raised an eyebrow that seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Before he could reach it, a gloved hand got to it first.

“Sorry about that, it must’ve slipped out of my grip.” Peter blinked and raised his eyes up at the figure the hand belonged to.  The chilly Wednesday morning compared little to the cold suddenly surging to his heart.

“Sometimes, I can just be so forgetful of what I’m doing.” D. said as he polished the apple off and took a small bite.  “Happy Thanksgiving!” he said as he patted Peter’s shoulder before walking towards the street vendor.

Had Peter looked on, he would’ve witnessed the vendor falling to his knees before the dark-suited man, and the terrifying grin of glee on Death’s face as he reached down towards the fallen man.  Instead, he was more focused on the sliding supermarket doors, nearly running to get away from the image still running in his head, the haunting twisted grin of the one who would haunt his dreams for years to come.
A sequel piece to Dealing with Death. When it comes to Death, there is no place he perhaps roams about more than hospitals. Even if we think of these buildings as places of healing, it is undeniable that his presence can be felt there. In this case, Death met such a man who was watching his wife slip away into darkness' grasp, and would do anything to get her back.

Took approximately 2 weeks or so to do this one. Please comment and critique as you see fit.
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Obmutescentdin's avatar
Your version of death always sounds more like what most think of God. But a super troll/businessman. Anywhosit, it was rather good kept me guessing how it would end. Really thought something was going to die. Mostly Peter. Cuz I hate cheap-o unshaven fat guys. Like myself but with more fluff.

One thing that I felt was out of place was the part saying. "I am literealy here and real" Just found that odd and kinda missused but hey! I do that oft, so meh.

Great continuation of your last, keeping death the troll he is. Good work Sylly :3