Conversations with Death -1-

-1- Pain



It has become an usual occurrence lately. Not an unwelcome one, exactly. Despite it's strangeness, I have come to find his visits are intriguing, comforting even. So it's of no surprise when I feel his aura surround my door. Pulling the tea pot from the burner, I wait, wondering if he would ring the bell,or just knock.

He knocks softly, barely an audible sound.  It reminds me of his very spirit. Most who know of him, think he is hard, heartless. This could not be further from the truth. And his knock reflects that. He is unobtrusive, waiting for an answer, but not demanding one. It surprised me, the first time he came to visit me. Then again, he has not yet ceased to surprise me. Every misconception I possessed before has been broken by his gentle presence.

Unwilling to make him wait any longer, I open the door, a soft smile on my face. Ducking my head in respect, I hold it open, stepping back to allow him entrance into my humble abode. He moves past me, his steps quiet. We don't look at each other, not yet. I motion to the small table sitting in the middle of the room.

"You're just in time for tea," I tell him, knowing he already knows that. He chuckles lightly, looking over the set table. I'm glad I choose the formal tea set, the dainty cups and plates give off the sense of importance. And it is- important. Each of his visits are something like having a god, or a millionaire grace my small home. Ironic in the purest form. Whereas any sane person would shy away from being with him, I rather welcome the familiarity he brings to me.

He pulls out my chair, the sound of the legs scraping on the floor breaking the silence we hold. Ever the gentleman, he politely waits until I am seated before claiming his own. I lift the teapot, filling our cups and place his before him. The sweet smell drifts up into the air, forming a cozy cloud of ambiance. Offering him a tea sandwich and a cake, I watch as he pulls at the ribbon ties on his cape, lowering his black hood, and draping the garment over the back of his chair. His ebony hair falls around his face, partially hiding his pale face from me. For being someone so feared, he is actually quite beautiful in his own right. Pale, marble like skin and soulless black eyes compliments his hair. I remember the first time I saw him as such. It had confused me, honestly. I had pictured him in such a grotesque way, I never would have imagined him to resemble an angel.

I guess, I really shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he is one. An angel, you know. Avenging, and lost, but an angel nonetheless. I was afraid of him at first. Afraid of what he meant, what he was capable of. That was before I got to know him, and realized he was just as normal as anyone of us. Well, as normal as Death can be, anyway.

We sit in silence for a few moments, neither wanting to shatter the calm. I munch on a sandwich, gazing thoughtfully  at his form. New bandages cover his knuckles, and I smooth my hand over them.

"What have you been up to, to cause such injuries?" I ask him softly. He shrugs.

"You know it comes with the job." I nod. This is not the first set of injuries he has sustained, and I know they wouldn't be the last. How he obtains them, I know not. It is obvious, though, that they cause him much pain. Gingerly, he lifts the cup to his lips, his face slipping into a contented look. I know he enjoys the wonderful brew. It had not taken me long to discover his weakness for the drink. Since then, I make sure there is a fresh pot for him.

We shy away from talking about how his work is going. It's not something you ask Death. It sounds rather impolite and unfeeling to wonder how many have died since our last encounter. So I comment on the weather, and he asks how my little ones are. To an unobservant person, we might seem distant, not at ease with each other. How untrue that is. His presence sends a sort of peace over me, and I think I do the same. I cannot imagine him seeking me out as he does; if I did not.

Soon enough, we have finished our snack and sit back in our seats, considering each other. He knows I want to ask him something heavy. He cocks his head in my direction, a small smile on his features. Quietly, his haunting voice draws me in.

"You may ask, you know," he tells me. I nod, chewing on my lower lip. We have had many discussion pertaining to his role, and each time, I learn something invaluable.

"Does it hurt?" I ask. His black eyes widen, briefly.

"You know the answer to that. Did it hurt you?"

I shake my head. "I couldn't tell you, honestly. I wish I knew. But that's not what I mean." I sigh, knowing my question is personal. "Does it hurt you, when you take them?"

I wait, watching his eyes slide close. He sits, his body slightly stiff, and I wonder if I have offended him in someway. I want to reach out and touch him, but can't bring myself to intrude. Slowly, his black eyes open, and for once, I can see the rim of red around the pupils. The emotion in the dark depths is almost suffocating.

"You mean, do I feel anything when I claim a soul? When I have to collect a lover so soon after their marriage? When I have to take an old soul from their family?" He pauses, casting a glance at the delicately painted oval box sitting on a near-by shelf and his voice drops to a whisper. "Does it hurt me when I take the hand of an unborn child before his mother can hold him, even once?" He looks back at me, seeing deep into my very being. I hang my head, trying to stem the tears that threaten to fall.I know now my guise is too thin. He comprehends my hint all too well. "It's tomorrow, isn't it?"

I nod once again, not trusting my voice to answer him. The silence stretches thick between us. Finally, I take a deep breath, holding back my tears and answer him. "Five years. He'd be five tomorrow."

"That's a long time to mourn, you know." His statement isn't meant to hurt, only to state the obvious. I know that. But it doesn't make it feel any better. I look up at him.

"Why?" I ask, knowing it is the dumbest question possibly. I hate how needy my voice sounds. I'm stronger than this. He shakes his head, his hair swaying from side to side, like an inky curtain in the wind.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you take me too? You could have." The surprise that flashes in his eyes could have made me laugh. But this is no laughing matter.

"It wasn't your time," comes his answer, and suddenly, I'm angry, the fury flowing hot throughout my body. I clench my fists tightly, ignoring the pain my fingernails cutting into my palms cause me.

"And it was his? His time to leave before he even arrived? Don't give me that BS. And I don't want to hear it is only the natural order of things. I know that," I hiss, feeling my eyes fill once more. This time, I let them fall. They burn a path down both my cheeks. I wish they could burn my memories too.

He seems at a loss of words. I know he has had that question poised to him by many, many others, and yet it seems my asking has made it difficult to answer me. I see his hands snake out, covering my own with a light pressure. "It's not natural. Not for someone like him. But it had to be done."

I turn my hand over, clinging to his tightly. I'm angry, but not at him. He seems to understand this, and so squeezes it gently. "Alright." I sigh. "But why not me? Why have we met so many times, yet I'm still here?" He gazes into my face, his eyes reading me.

"You already know the answer to that." He gestures to the two closed doors in the hallway. "What anchors your soul here, and brings you back time and again? Do you know what you have told me when you have faced my final hand? Do you know the names you whisper when you have almost given up?" He pauses, a small smile pulling at his pale lips. "You have work to do, and three little ones who need their mommy. Can you really ask me to claim you and leave them behind?"

I shake my head silently. No, no matter how hopeless I have felt, nor how many times I have reached out to him, their little faces, their tiny little hearts pull me back to reality.

"You, of all people, know how hard you have fought. How could I take you, knowing you really don't want to go?"

"But," I counter, "All those other people, can you say they really are any different than me? Some had so much to live for. Why should they go, while I stay?" He lifts his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

"That I cannot answer. That is between them, and whatever force they believe in. I know, it doesn't seem right, nor does it make sense. Not even to me." He chuckles mirthlessly. "Must seem funny in some lights, Death not knowing why some life remains, while others are gone. I am after all, more the messenger than the boss." He raises a hand, seeing the look on my face. "I'm not passing blame. I'm just saying, I don't know all the answers to what you ask."

"At least answer me the first one I asked," I request. He acknowledges me with an incline of his head.

"You want to know if it hurts me when I claim a soul?" He looks down at his bandaged hands clasped in mine.

"Every time."

Soon after he leaves, although I know he will be back again. Closing the door on his retreating form, I ponder his answer. And find for now, it is enough.