Death and Amelia

Death and Amelia

    Death sighed.  He looked down at the body lying at his feet and at the confused soul floating above.  He wished the Guardian angel would hurry up and get here.  It wasn’t his job to show the newly departed where to go and explain what happened, but like always, the angel was late.  Again.

    They were always late now.  St. Peter had been having issues trying to find enough candidates to fill the role so the current angels were on double, sometimes triple duty.  With the chaos happening down on Earth, that didn’t leave a lot time for playing tour guide.  Many angels believed once their charge was dead, that poor soul was no longer their responsibility, although the job description stated otherwise.  It clearly explained that the last act of the Guardian Angel was to ensure the soul understood they were dead and to guide them to their next state. 

    The angels were picky about how they enforced that last bit.  If the person had been exceptionally good, the Angel was all too willing to make sure they were there for the last moments, sometimes even offering to help Death out and do the deed themselves.  Death shook his head.  Angels, so pompous; always strutting and beaming with pride when they got to escort the saints or martyrs up to St. Peter.  Even worse was when they were over a particularly evil person. Then the cheers and shouts were legion as the Angel prodded them on their way to Lucifer. It was enough to give God himself a migraine.

    Speaking of which, he really needed to get an appointment with God.  His secretary had been giving Death excuses for over a hundred years now and it was way past time Death be allowed to take a vacation.  It wasn’t his fault no one wanted to fill in.  This wasn’t supposed to be a permanent position. God had promised that over three thousand years ago.  He’d been fool enough to agree to step in when the previous Death had needed a vacation and now look where he was.  The old Death had decided to go on a reincarnation trip and was on his 14th lifetime, the old fool.

    Death checked his clipboard, ten-thousand more people to kill today.  He checked his watch and sighed.  If the angel didn’t hurry up he’d have no choice to either delegate the next thousand on the list to one of the Reapers or make a time-dimensional shift again.  He hated doing the time shift.  Gave him an upset stomach that lasted for hours!  No, he wouldn’t do a time-shift.  So that left delegating the job, which was only slightly more palatable.

    He hated having to delegate more work than necessary to the Reapers.  They were weak, impulsive, and prone to error.  He tried to give them only the bad souls so he wouldn’t have to feel too bad when they messed it up.  Death had always felt that if you want a job done right, you do it yourself.  But with the population of the world spinning out of control, it had been millennia since he’d been able to do the job himself.  God had made the decision to assign him helpers so there it was.  He was glad of their help during plaques and other natural disasters, when finesse was less of an issue than timeliness.  But even then, he still spent a great deal of time cleaning up their messes.

    Just last month he’d had to spend two hours at a castle in Ireland trying to convince the soul that had been haunting the place for two centuries to leave.  The reaper assigned to do the job had taken the soul from the body, but hadn’t waited for the Guardian Angel to show up and escort the soul to Heaven.  So the poor fool had been trying to chase the living from his home for the last two hundred years.  Death had a list a mile long of places where the souls had been forgotten, but keeping up with the current death list left little time for cleanup.  He supposed he should review his current staff and assign someone to do nothing but round up all the lost souls, although this would put a considerable damper on the tourism industry for haunted houses.
 
    Finally the Guardian Angel arrived, huffing and puffing and muttering about overtime, before pasting a fake smile on his face as he greeted the dearly departed.  Death blinked out by the time the angel had gotten to the “and you’re just going to love the food” part.  Death had heard it all a million times and honestly didn’t agree with it.  In his opinion, the food was better in Hell, at least the chefs didn’t skimp on the spice.

    Death popped into the pub, waving his hand to clear the smoke from in front of his face.  Too bad it wasn’t one of the non-smoking places.  Death really enjoyed hanging out in those once the day was gone.  The Americans had started to produce some really good ale lately, giving the Irish a run for their money. 

    He looked down at his clipboard, memorizing the picture that materialized on the open ticket before scanning the bar for the person that matched.  There he was, tall, heavily muscled with short brown hair carelessly swept back from his face. He was playing pool in the corner with his friends, betting how he would take home the cute chick over at the bar.

    Death smiled. That’s one bet that, here he looked down at the clipboard again, ah Jason, wouldn’t be able to redeem.  Death strolled over to Jason, waiting until he popped a boneless chicken wing into his mouth and then touched him on the shoulder.  He watched calmly while Jason’s face turned red, then purple, and then blue before his body fell onto the pool table, his pool stick clattering to the floor.  While his friends tried in vain to revive the man, Death watched as Jason’s soul popped out and hovered above the body, yelling in shock and surprise.  Death found an empty table and sat down to wait for Jason’s angel to show up.

    A few minutes later Jason wandered over and sat down next to Death, craning his neck to stare mournfully at the body that used to be his.  Death was glad when they figured it out this easily. Saved him from having to explain.

    “So, death by chicken wing?"

    Death shrugged. “I don’t decide how, there’s a whole department that does nothing but coordinate the details.  I simply show up and make it happen.  Not a bad way to go, compared to some.”

    Jason sighed, staring at the beautiful blonde sitting at the bar who hadn’t even looked over at the commotion going on in the back.  “Couldn’t have waited a few more hours?"

    Death tapped the clipboard, showing him the pages and pages of people scheduled to die that day.

“Sorry, I don’t set the times, I just keep the appointments.  Don’t worry, someone will be along shortly to explain everything to you, I’ll just sit here until they come, make sure no one forgets you.”

    Jason nodded, then got up and wandered back over to where his body lay, watching the chaos that followed and trying in vain to talk to his friends. 

    Death shook his head. Waste of time, that. Even the ones that understand they are dead usually hung around the body till the angels came to get them.  Death tried to remember his own event, but the details were hazy.  It had been over four thousand years ago so Death didn’t feel too bad at not remembering. It was such a mundane experience he wondered that people worried so much about it.  After all, what with reincarnation and the occasional person who got their death reversed, it was hardly a big deal.  But then again, he reasoned, it’s not like the average person knew what was waiting after they died, so he allowed whatever theatrics the newly departed chose to engage in.

    His favorite place was the rest homes.  Now there was a place he was welcome.  More often than not some crotchety old man or woman would turn around once he’d done the deed and berate him for taking his time.  Those souls wouldn’t even take a second look at their bodies, so glad were they to leave the shriveled husks behind.  Many had been lying forgotten in their beds for years, children and relatives never stopping by to visit. Their only company the cold rough hands of the nurses that would help feed or change them a few times a day.  Those were the souls that cackled in glee - glad the insurance companies and medical bills had eaten up the last of their savings so the ungrateful children inherited nothing.

    Death felt saddened at the modern way most societies handled the old.  In his day, the elderly had been revered and cared for; their passing from this world had taken place surrounded by loved ones, the local wise woman often made a brew to help make the passing into the next world easier.  The people now, they made their elderly suffer, convinced that life was only measured by its length, not its value.  He pitied the old, forced by children or by society to artificially extend their days by drugs and machines, propping up the dried out husks until life itself rejected the body.

    Several minutes had passed before Jason’s angel showed up and began giving instructions and answering questions.  Death blinked and moved on to the next appointment and Jason became simply another customer to have been served.

*********
    Death finished the last of the paperwork before closing the file and placing it in the out box on his desk. He put the quill back in the holder and the stopper on the ink bottle, then placed them back in their spot at the top of his desk.  He knew it was old fashioned. All of his Reapers chose to use computers. But a computer could never match the beautiful lines made by the quill or the soothing sound as it scratched across the parchment paper.  It just didn’t seem personal, typing words and names into a computer and clicking done on the files.  He felt they deserved better and so even though many laughed, he continued using the old way.  God humored him and had given him a secretary to enter the data into the computer once he’d left the office each day.
   
    Death stood, unbuttoning the heavy black robe and hanging it on the post next to his desk. The traditional scythe hung from its post as well, although it was more decorative than functional.  Once assigned the job of death, simply touching the living brought about their death, but he liked carrying the weapon anyway. Thought it added a touch of class.

    He stretched, hearing the bones creak as he bent over into a yoga pose, waiting for the muscles to relax.  It had been a very long day and he’d ended up time-shifting twice anyways because of those tardy angels.  He resolved to demand an appointment with God when he came in tomorrow.  It was way past time for a vacation and he’d just about had it with God’s secretary making excuses.

    Standing back up, Death grabbed his notebook, flipping through the pages, trying to find the name of that garden he’d visited a few days ago.  Ahh, there it was- McNeil’s Rose Garden just outside of Wichita, Kansas.  He loved roses, but being Death and all meant he couldn’t grow them, so once he was off-shift; he visited the gardens of the mortals, enjoying the beautiful sights and smells until it was time to go back to work.

    Death looked down at his clothes and frowned, then decided to wear something a little more upbeat than his drab brown suit.  Two blinks later, he stood in a pair of jeans and a pink Hawaiian shirt.  Satisfied, he blinked again and popped out in the quiet secluded park that was McNeil’s.  Spying an empty bench, Death headed over and sat down, closing his eyes as the last rays of the evening sun beamed down, warming up his cold flesh.

    “So, you come here often or are you waiting for someone in particular?"

    The voice startled Death, he couldn’t imagine who had tracked him down and why.  With a small growl of annoyance, Death opened his eyes and turned, prepared to berate whatever Angel or Reaper had invaded his solitude. The angry response died as he realized he was looking not at an Angel or a Reaper, but a young woman who happened to be very much alive.

    For a moment, Death was speechless as he simply stared at the young woman.  Never once, in all his years had anyone living seen him.  It was unheard of!  The Reapers, sure; they were careless and didn’t always take precautions, but Death, he was never that clumsy.  He looked around in horror, wondering how many of the other’s wandering around the garden could see him.

    “Relax”, she said. “No one else can see you, it’s just me."

    Somewhat pacified though still confused, Death scooted back a bit on the bench. He regarded the young woman, trying to solve the puzzle of why this mortal was able to see him.  She was pretty, mid-twenties if he had to guess, with chestnut brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across a cute button nose.  Her body was slightly plump, though far from fat.  He nodded in approval as he disliked the current trend for women to resemble starving waifs.

    She sat calmly, allowing him to look before reaching out her hand.  “I’m Amelia”, she said.  “Pleased to meet you”.

    Death instinctively reached out his hand, so astonished at being seen that he forgot who he was and barely managed to pull back a second before their fingers would have touched.

    “Sorry”, he gasped out.  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t shake your hand, you’ll uh...die.”

    “Oh” Amelia said, smacking her own head, “Sorry, that was stupid of me.  I should have known that you can’t actually touch me.” 

    She paused, tilting her head a bit as she regarded him back, taking in the jeans and the Hawaiian shirt.

    “I don’t know why, but I’ve always been able to see things; angels, demons, ghosts, you know, the lot.  I’ve even seen a few of your employees, although I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you.  I do hope I’m not intruding, it’s just that I’ve been intensely curious about you all my life and when I realized it was you sitting on the bench, I just couldn’t resist.  If I’m being a bother, please let me know and I’ll leave.  I’m sure you value your quiet time.” 

    The shock of realizing a human could see him and the horror of realizing he had almost accidentally killed her was wearing off.  Death regarded her for a moment more and then smiled, deciding to take advantage of this unexpected pleasure.  His only chance for conversation with humans was right after they died, and they rarely were in the mood for conversation about flowers or literature.  For the first time in his life, Death had the chance to talk about anything he wanted without waiting for Angels to show up, or panicked souls to stop flapping and wailing about.  And he had the chance to do it with a very attractive and pleasant looking woman.

    Death smiled and scooted a bit closer, turning his back on the roses, which for the first time in millennia had lost their appeal when compared to the living breathing woman sitting next to him. 

    “So,” he began. “What do you think of Hemingway?"

--The End--

Word count  2885
prompt used- what if death can visit sometimes without taking a victim.