A Conversation with Death.


“Humor me,” he said.


Humor him. As if it were some simple task to be accomplished. How does one go about entertaining such an imposing figure? I was scared to death. 



Death. How ironic. 



“Do you want to play chess?” I asked, skeptically. I had watched the The Seventh Seal for my literature class. Death liked playing chess, right? I wasn’t very confident in my own chess-playing abilities, but. . . it was a better option then instantaneously becoming his victim.



“Chess...” he seemed to ponder the word. “Such a cliché. No one ever suggests Monopoly or Twister or something more. . . modern.”


I tried to imagine playing Twister with this ominous figure sitting at the foot of my bed. “Do you want to play Monopoly?”



He let out a frustrated scoff. I guess monopolies don’t mean a whole lot when Death is knocking at the door. Or when he’s landing on your hotels and properties. Maybe Halo would have been a better choice. 


I stared at him for a few seconds, studying the character that sat so leisurely at the foot of my bed. He didn’t look much different than the way he was normally portrayed in movies and television shows -- black cloak, face shadowed by a menacing hood, a scythe. . . You know. A typical Grim Reaper type figure. Only his demeanor was different than I would have expected.

I stopped examining him and began thinking about what hobbies this creature might have besides  transporting souls to Hades or Limbo or the River Styx or wherever you went after you died. The phrase, “Dance of Death,” popped into my head. Maybe I’d have better luck there. 



“Do you, uh, want to... dance?” What an awkward question.

Wait. Dancing is symbolic of. . .



“No, I don’t want to dance!” he exclaimed -- much to my relief. “You’re testing my patience, mortal.” That was probably a bad thing.



I hastily rummaged through the data stored in whatever part of my brain it was that kept my long-term memories (Was that the hippocampus or the cerebrum or --?) 



Focus.

The only references to Death I could come up with led to bets or games or gambles where someone had to lose.  I realized that anything falling under these categories would probably lead to my demise. 



He spoke.

“Tell me what the point of living is, mortal. That is the question that everyone asks themselves before they die -- ‘Did I fulfill my purpose in life?’ Yet no one has given me a satisfactory answer.



“I’m tired of all of this foolishness. I’m tired of the games and metaphors,” he exclaimed. “I’m tired of, for lack of a better term, living as a glorified chauffeur between your earth and the afterlife.” 



He sounded a little pitiful. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. Maybe he’s depressed -- He was Death after all.



“I took this job because I thought it would give me a reason for existence. But,” he paused.

Was Death getting emotional?

“I feel so empty.”

Oh, boy.


“Well, what do you want to do with your life? Travel?” I took a stab in the dark. An interesting choice of words.



“Travel? Ha!” he said, sniffling quietly between words with his invisible nose. “I’ve been to every corner of this earth. I’ve been traveling for centuries.”



Was that really a sniffle I just heard? “You could. . . retire. Buy yourself a nice little beach house. Live out the rest of your days in peace and quiet.” How was I supposed to know what Death wanted out of life? Out of life. Man, was I on a roll tonight with my stupid puns.

“The rest of my days, huh? And what is that supposed to mean to an immortal?” he sighed. “Besides, its not like there are a lot of applicants just waiting around for my job. Someone’s got to do it. . .” His eyes, if they existed beneath that shadowy cowl, were probably staring off at his unreachable dreams, I guessed.



“Well,” I thought, “What do you enjoy?” 



He thought for a moment. This will be interesting.



“Show business,” was his response.



The statement was so sincerely matter-of-fact and completely unexpected that I laughed. Yes, me. Laugh in the face of Death. I had never suspected myself to be the type. But hey. Today had been full of surprises.



“Show business?” 



“Yes. Show business.”



What a strange creature this Death was. So ominous. So frightening. So... odd. I sat in silence and waited for Death to continue.



“Ever since I was a young little Reaper. . .”

Where could this conversation possibly be heading? I thought.



“Ever since I was a young little Reaper,” he continued, “I had such a great passion for music. For dance. For theater.” I looked at him skeptically. “Hey. The whole “Dance of Death” idea wasn’t something concocted by your breed, you know.”



I guess it made sense. Kind of. . . Ok. Maybe it didn’t. 



“Where was I?”



“The theater?” I offered.



“Oh, yes. Right. Well, I had such a passion for these things -- Ever heard Saint-Saens Danse Macabre? Simply magnificent!” he paused again. I had kind of pictured Death, if I had ever really considered meeting Death face-to-face, a little less passionate and well. . . less pitiful. “But it seems I’ve taken all of the great playwrights and composers and actors from this world.” He paused. “It was such a pity, taking Shakespeare. . .” His words trailed off as he contemplated distant memories until he shuddered and regained his composure. “You people are ruining the industry, you know.”

I nodded. Couldn’t disagree there. Although, he was the one murdering them. Or waltzing them into the afterlife. 


“Maybe you should stop killing off some of these people,” I suggested, as humbly and unassuming as I could manage. 



“Of course I’ve considered that, but to play around with a job like this would surely mean chaos.” He considered that a moment. “ Although I do love me some chaos occasionally. . .”


I feel as though Death probably had more important things he should have been doing than chilling on the foot of my bed that winter’s night, but I wasn’t going to be the one to send him off. Does Death ever visit without taking a life? That was the only reason Death would visit. At least, that’s what I had thought prior to this strange occurrence. Surely he wasn’t here purely for the conversation. . . 



“Well! I best be off,” he said, slightly more chipper than when he had arrived. It still sounded morose in a way I assumed only Death could manage. “Thank you for your time, mortal. This is not the last I will be seeing of you!” He placed an icy hand on my shoulder as he said this, and I felt a horrifying chill sweep through my body -- both at his words and at his touch.

“Will the next visit be for. . . uh. . . business or pleasure?” I asked.



Death let out a sincere, but terribly sinister laugh. “Do you really want to know?”



I thought for a second, “Not really.” 


Death laughed his horrible laugh again. I made a mental note not say anything that would give him cause to use it in the future. “Well, alright. I’ve got lots of work to do. Have a good life!” Laughter once more.


And with that, Death vanished in a display of black smoke that lingered in my room for a few seconds before fading into nothingness. The air began to warm again and I felt the ominous atmosphere begin to dissipate.

I sat in silence, with only the indentation of where he sat on my bed as proof that I hadn’t gone completely insane.



I sighed. As long as I wouldn’t see him for a very, very long t-- Damn.



Against my wall leaned a worn and bloodied scythe. I was pretty sure he’d be needing that in the near future.



Suddenly, I felt a familiar chill begin to seep back into the atmosphere and an ominous cloud form in the air around me. . . Welcome back.




((Word Count: 1334. Prompt: 2012 Family Guy Inspired Prompt --What if death can visit sometimes without taking a victim.))