Troubles Of Death

I half haphazardly flip my hand through the air to turn the pages of the book before me. This book is just one of many, but it is how I decide who will die today. Names, names, and more names. I see their name, and then I see their life, and I choose how and when and who will die. It is what I have done for millenia, and it is what I will continue to do for millenia to come. So continuously I flip and point, and create passing scenarios for each person. I am impartial, and unbiased. I am Death itself. 

In mortal terms, I think of myself as closest to one of the gods they so like to worship. I am not inherently evil, death is a part of life just as good is a part of evil. I pick up my velvet black pen, feeling the weight of it in my hand like a sword, and begin to cross off names for the day. It starts like any other, I am brought wine and am left to swiftly decide times, dates, and mishaps. I see many lives flash before me, and while I am not callous, I am not particularly moved by the lives I see. There are many who are loved, who have loved, who have lost. However, their souls will serve the purpose of balance as life is given in return. Imagine my surprise when I lift my pen to strike a name, knowing it is their time, and hesitate before I cross the name. Cara Wilders. 

Her face flashed before me, as so many others have before, and I saw her humming in the kitchen. Her deep brown wavy hair fell forward across her face as she washed the dishes. Her golden brown eyes glimmering in the sunlight seeping in through the window. She was so beautifully average, and so simply being. She was to die in a car accident two days from today. I watched her, perhaps a moment longer than I should have, and those golden eyes suddenly looked up and froze. It was as if she could see my presence, as if she was looking right at me. I quickly returned to my realm and crossed the name, as it was meant to be, as I had already seen it. 

One would think that Death does not dream, or probably even sleep, and yet each night I rest my head like any mortal does. My living arrangement is much like one may imagine for a scholar. I have decor and furnishings and more books than any person could possibly imagine. My bed is made of lavish purple blankets, sheer curtains surrounding the frame as a sort of canopy. It is in my slumber that I see the deaths as they are meant to be. 

But this fateful night I tossed and turned and I only saw her. I saw her dancing as she brushed her teeth. I saw her smile at flowers as she walked through the park. I saw her as a nurse providing medical care to ungrateful people. I saw her whimper into her pillow after she lost her father. I witnessed her life unfolding in all of its simple complexity. I saw her in the kitchen humming that simple little song. I saw her golden eyes stare right into my being. I saw her death as it was meant to be, and heard her screams as the car became nothing more than beaten metal. I saw her trapped in that mangled car, and watched as the soul left those beautiful golden brown eyes. I opened my eyes, not knowing if I could bear to see anymore. I whisper her name into the nothingness, and hope that when I close my eyes again, I do not see her. 

One day until Cara Wilders is destined to die in a car accident. It is the first thing to cross my mind as I awaken in the early hours of dawn. In my dreams of her she smells of lilac, so I snap my fingers and my room is filled with the flower itself. The smell is not nearly as intoxicating as in my dreams, but still a welcome pleasantry. There’s a knock at my door, and I know it is time to continue my duties. I am bound by the laws of the universe to serve my purpose as Life also serves theirs. I make my way to the writing chambers, a large stone room with a beautifully decadent mahogany table and an eloquently crafted throne-like chair. The servants who fetch and knock are those who were so lost, they took death upon themselves, but here they know no pain. They are aware of their current states, and are allowed luxuries when they are not needed. I suppose it is close to what some may consider heaven, although not quite the same. That is something I do not know of, nor is it something I am to decide. 

Sitting here and looking at this book, I know I must continue with today’s work, but my mind is consumed by her. With the flash of every face I see, her face comes to me in between. I long to see her now, at this moment. I ask one of the servants to please fetch me the book from the day before, and they are visibly startled by my request. Understandably so, as it is not one I have made before, and it is not often that I make requests at all. Even so, they nod before scurrying off to procure the book, and return soon after to lay it gently in front of me. I thank them and insist they go about their day free from any responsibility, and they are more than happy to oblige. 

I carefully open the book, my thumb already layered between the pages I know her name lies between. I see her name in black scroll across the ancient page, and I rest my fingers over it. The image of her floats into focus and I see her curled up in her living room, reading. Her eyes flowing over the page, and her face crinkled with intrigue. I let myself sink deeper into her presence, and feel her heart beat faster as she reaches the end of one page, quickly turning to the next. What is it about her that I cannot escape? I lean in as I inhale the smell of lilac, and listen to the soft thump of her pulse. It is not until I have sunk too deep once more, that I realize I have closed my eyes whilst basking in this moment. When I open them, those golden eyes are fixated on me. I should be nothing, not even a noticeable mist, and yet I swear she is looking straight into my eyes. This time, I do not immediately pull away, if only to see what I may be witnessing. 

She drops her book to the floor, standing ever so slowly. Her eyes are locked on me, and mine on her. I can feel that she is not afraid, but in awe. I too am overwhelmed by a feeling of amazement as she takes slow but steady steps in my direction. My entire being feels as though it’s vibrating, as I realize she truly is seeing me, or at least some version of me. In all the millennia of my being, I have never been seen by a mortal soul I had already crossed from the pages. I feel drawn to her, like I could reach out and touch the smooth, flushed skin of her cheek. It is when she too is reaching towards me, that I recoil back to my desk, slamming the book closed. I shouldn’t have let myself become so close. Still, my mind is racing with the thought of her eyes as she looked at me, and how she reached towards me. She did not run, or cower, or hide. I do not return the book before heading to my sleeping chambers for the night, for I can’t bring myself to let go of her name. 

I have tossed and turned all night with the book in my arms. I have opened and closed it over and over to see her name bearing that mark, my mark, the mark of Death. As the dawn draws closer I only feel a semblance of panic rising, knowing today is the day that Cara has been deemed to die. Her death is tragic and frightening, and I am unable to watch the sun rise without hearing her scream echo in my mind. I look down at the book in my hands, flip to the page that holds her name, and begin to tear. Lightning cracks in broad daylight, and I feel it pierce my very being as the balance comes undone. Cara Wilders will not die today.