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| Photo by Flowizm |
It is said that time waits for no one, and it’s true. Time is a curmudgeonly old codger, and if you manage to meet up with him, he’ll tell you at great length about people who missed their appointments with him by fractions of a second. You’ll get the distinct impression that he’s proud of being such a stickler, and you’d be right. Of course, that’s because he hasn't done much else. Apart from, you know, keeping time since the creation of such, he hasn't done anything or been anywhere. Tolerance comes with experience, and Time is shockingly ignorant. He’s simply kept moving time forward, and gotten increasingly bitter and hostile as the years go by.
Death, on the other hand, is nearly infinite in her patience. She waits without complaint. In fact, she does her best to arrive early, to be sure she isn't late. Instead, she waits calmly until the appointed time. And because she has been everywhere and done nearly everything, you’ll find that she is tolerant and respectful towards everyone she meets. People may not look forward to meeting her, but afterwards, most find they are glad they have.
Well, almost. Even Death has a limit. But she is not going to reach that limit today.
And so, Death waits.
She had arrived a few minutes ago, unnoticed. It was rare for anyone to notice Death, unless it was their time to meet her (or because she wanted to be noticed. It’s hard to order a taco if the server doesn't realize you’re there). The few people who did notice her tended to either be mentally ill, or to have had a last minute cancellation of a previous meeting. It wasn't good when people noticed her.
The last person who had noticed her, a forty year old man, had seen her while she was waiting to collect a teen-aged girl who was about to meet the business end of a nineteen eighty seven Nissan 280z. The man who saw her had fled, shrieking.
Embarrassing.
Now, Death stood waiting in the corner of an operating room. The person on the table, Brandon Cray, was about to die when his heart stopped after complications related to the anesthesia.
Death removed a cheap, plastic stopwatch from a pocket in her cloak. Once, she had carried great hourglasses made of finely stained and polished wood, and crystal clear glass, with black volcanic sand quietly hissing through to mark the passing of the last few moments of her current client’s life. However, beautiful though they are, big hourglasses are heavy and unwieldy, and it keeps getting more difficult to replace a broken one. A plastic stopwatch keeps better time and can be found in any discount store for about a dollar.
She still had a couple of hourglasses back at her apartment, for nostalgia’s sake.
Death clicked her retractable pen open, made a note on the checklist she had her clipboard and then started the stopwatch. From here, everything was carefully orchestrated.
At the moment, the operating room was fairly quiet. The surgeon murmured instructions, and a few machines beeped and whirred.
The contemplative mood was disturbed somewhat when the surgeon inhaled sharply and said, “oh fuck.”
Death checked her stopwatch and checked an item off the list. Everything according to plan so far.
The room erupted, as much as an operating room ever erupts, in a bustle of activity and urgent orders from the surgeon. Several of the machines were making quite a racket now.
Death stood and watched the proceedings, silent and patient. After a few moments, the soul of the man being operated on appeared on the other side of the room. He had sandy blonde hair, brown eyes and a bushy mustache. Death checked her notes, it seemed like he was a little early. She scanned down the list, looking for something she had missed.
She was a stickler for details, and she didn't like unexpected surprises when she was working.
A quick review of her plan revealed that he was about to be revived, briefly. Actually, it looked like he was in for two revivals. So, he was maybe a little bit of a go-getter in his rush to get out of his body, but it wasn't a big deal. Death exhaled, a sigh of relief.
Brandon’s soul watched the medical team intently as they worked to revive him. Then he happened to glance up, and he noticed Death. She wasn't paying attention to him yet – it wouldn't be right to collect him before the plan was complete – so she didn't realize he was staring at her.
Until he said, “You weren't here a minute ago. Who are you?”
Death started, and looked up. She glanced at her notes, and saw that he was going to be revived, the first time, in a matter of seconds. She gave him her best reassuring smile.
“Try not to worry about it,” Death said, calmly.
Then Brandon’s soul vanished. At the same time, there were a few cheers from the team working on his body.
Death made a couple of notes on her checklist, and glanced at her stopwatch. That was unusual, she thought. She wondered if perhaps Brandon was actually eager to die. It happened. Of course, those people usually weren't revived. Souls that want to stay dead are remarkably resilient in their efforts to make sure they do, in fact, stay dead.
Odd.
“OK, I think we need to get Brandon closed up,” Death heard the surgeon say. She checked off another item on her list.
Seconds later, the alarms and whistles all let loose again.
“Can we shut those off please?” the surgeon shouted. He sounded impatient. Death glanced up at him.
Stephen Patterson, 74, stroke while golfing. The details of a person’s demise were as immediately obvious to her as that person’s eye color, or the shoes they were wearing.
Dr. Patterson was muttering curses in between the orders he was giving to his team.
“Well that doesn't sound good at all,” Brandon’s soul said. He was standing next to Death now. “Do you think I’m going to pull through, here?”
Death was momentarily at a loss for words. She hated to tell him that he was going to have to die a third time before he was done.
“And who are you, anyway?” Brandon said. Then he was gone again.
“Got him!” Dr. Patterson shouted, triumphant.
Death blinked rapidly a few times, then looked back at her checklist again. She made a few more notes, one of which was, “what’s the story here?”, and checked off a couple more items.
Soon enough, the cacophony of alarms and shouting began again, and Brandon’s soul appeared once more. He looked a little exasperated now.
“How many more times am I going to have to do this?” he asked. It seemed to Death that he didn't actually want an answer to that question, but after making a couple more notes, she pressed the button that stopped her stopwatch, put it back in her pocket, and answered him.
“None,” Death said. “You’re done now, Brandon.”
She smiled gently at him and held out her hand, palm up. “Will you take my hand?”
Brandon looked at Death then, and she saw his confusion clear away.
“Of course, black cloak, lurking… You’re the Grim Reaper,” Brandon said. “I didn't think you were real, though.”
Death laughed, kindly. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at Brandon.
“I am Death, and you are done here,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
She was still holding her hand out for him to take.
“Do I have a choice?” Brandon said.
Death looked carefully at him, trying to determine if he was likely to run off. She didn't really care to chase souls down anymore, but she also hated coming across souls, centuries later, that really should have come with her the first time.
“Always,” Death said, “though, I think you’ll find coming with me preferable to the alternative.”
Brandon looked at Death for any hint of a threat, or a sign that she was simply messing with him. He shuddered, almost imperceptibly, and decided that she was telling the truth. He took her hand.
There was a sensation of falling, or at least movement, and then the two of them stood in a dark, dark place. Brandon was aware that he could see Death, but he couldn't see anything else. Blackness surrounded them.
“Is this the afterlife?” Brandon said. He voice shook a little bit, and it was obvious that he was very concerned that he was going to have to spend eternity in the dark.
“No, this is,” Death said, then paused, trying to decide on the right way to explain it. “This is a waiting room. A lobby. You’re just passing through here on your way to the afterlife.”
“But we’re just standing here,” Brandon said.
“Yes, we are,” Death said. She pointed then, to a tiny light glimmering in the distance. “Look, and watch.”
The light grew and intensified, and after a few seconds, Brandon realized that it wasn't growing, it was getting closer. Whatever it was that was making all that light was travelling towards them at an incredible speed. Brighter, closer, more brilliant, and suddenly, it stopped, mere feet away from them.
As his eyes adjusted to the brilliance of the light, Brandon saw that what was in front of him was a massive pair of doors. They were ornately carved, and apparently radiating light from within. The doors swung open, and even more light poured out. It was too brilliant to see anything then.
“Is this the entrance to Heaven?” Brandon asked Death.
Death smiled, and said, “I really couldn't say. You’ll have to find out for yourself.”
Brandon shielded his eyes, and walked through the doorway. Seconds later, Death was alone in the dark once more. She checked off the last item on Brandon’s list, and stepped back into our world.
She was outside of the hospital now. She’d barely had time to get her bearings again when her phone beeped at her, alerting her to her next appointment.
Once, she had carried a small iron bell, hanging from her belt, to alert her to the next death. It would begin chiming a few moments before she needed to collect someone, its chimes getting more incessant as the crucial moment approached. However, times had changed, and technology had made some of her tools obsolete. Like her treasured hourglasses, the bell now stayed in her apartment, a token of times past.
Of course she loved her bell, but the phone was a hell of a lot more convenient when it came to doing her job. It even told her the address she needed to go to next. Sometimes, aesthetics have to be sacrificed in favor of utility.
Her motorcycle was parked nearby. It had been a gift from Ares. He’d commissioned Hephaistos to build it for him, only to discover that motorcycles weren't really his thing. He’d also had a bit of a crush on Death, which may have had an impact on his decision.
The motorcycle was low, and long, and very black. Its chrome shone like an exquisite silver mirror.
She didn't need a motorcycle to get around. She could just appear where ever she needed to be, simply by thinking about it. However, sometimes, utility can be sacrificed in favor of aesthetics too.
And Death loved her bike.
She swung her leg over the saddle, and the engine roared to life, as it always did, its exhaust thundering away even though no one would hear it or notice it. If someone had been watching, which they weren't, they would have seen Death rocket across the hospital’s parking lot, blue flames shooting from the exhaust pipes, the engines roar making building shake and car alarms go off, before suddenly vanishing as though she had never been there at all.
