A CONVERSATION WITH DEATH

BY EASTON CLUCK

Death stopped at the beginning of the gravel driveway, staring at the house ahead of him. It was a dark night, and there was one light on in the house, showing the silhouette of a figure hunched over in a chair. Death sighed, starting his walk up the driveway he had become so familiar with.

He stopped on the porch, his first curled into a ball, hovering in front of the battered door. He really didn’t want to do this. He’d been around for thousands of years, seeing just about everything bad and awful in the world, and yet, it seemed, there was nothing quite as awful as this.

Death lowered his fist to the handle and let himself in. The old hinges creaked and moaned, a jarringly loud sound in the otherwise dead silent house.

As he walked down the hallway, he glanced at the shelves decorated with pictures of a family. Small mementos and items were gathering dust, as were the shelves themselves. There were a few photographs of a small family at different baseball games, all shiny-eyed and widely smiling. One of the photos was of a little girl being held by some costumed mascot, and she was giving him a peck on his furry cheek. Death picked up a worn-down baseball, years of mud and sweat partially washing away signatures on it. Part of the stitching came undone, revealing the wool yarn beneath the leather. 

Death placed the baseball back on the shelf and walked into the living room, where he saw the hunched figure. He took a seat across from the man, and suddenly the man woke up.

Disoriented at first, the man looked confused. He looked Death up and down, trying to process what was happening. Slowly, an idea formed in his head.

“Oh, shit,” the man mumbled, staring tiredly at Death. “Are you—? Did I … die?”

The man was extremely gaunt, and his clenched shoulders made him look like a twig. His face was pale with a sickly green tint to it, highlighting the dark bags under his eyes. He looked exhausted, his hair was disheveled, and he had barely taken off his tie before he had passed out on his armchair. But despite his ghastly, close-to-death appearance, the man had many years of his life left to live … hopefully. Death still had to convince him on that part.

“No,” he said simply. 

A small frown appeared on the man’s face. “Oh. Then why are you here? I mean, you are Death, right?”

“I am.”

The man was still expecting an answer to his question. Nothing but the faint creaking of the house’s old framing could be heard as the two sat silent. Death thought a little about his response before opening his mouth to speak.

“I suppose I’m here to urge you to live,” Death admitted. He paused once more. “You’ve attempted many times before.”

“I know,” the man answered defensively, crossing his arms over his bony figure. He looked away from Death, trying not to think about it. “There’s a reason for that.”

“I know,” Death echoed empathetically, but said nothing more.

“What does it even matter?” the man muttered, feeling insecure. “This is your job, isn’t it? Why can’t I just, I don’t know … do it for you?”

Death took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to say.

“My job isn’t—”

He cut himself off. There were rules he had to follow, he knew, and even in a situation like this, he couldn’t break them. The man looked confused, still expecting an answer, and Death sighed. As he thought of an answer, his eyes wandered around the room, and noticed more family photos standing on the fireplace mantel. They were mainly photos of a little girl with bright blonde hair and dark brown eyes, mirroring the image of the man in front of Death. In one of the photos, there was an older woman with slick brown hair and black eyes, her arms wrapped affectionately around the little girl on her lap. Both were smiling, their cheeks flushed pink as if they finished laughing at the best joke they’ve ever heard.

The frame looked intentionally shattered, and pieces of glass were strewn across the mantel and on the carpet.

“Whatever,” the man said, deciding he didn’t care about Death’s explanation.

He looked back to the man, who had noticed Death staring at the photo. The man seemed a little less composed now, and started nervously picking at the edge of the band-aid wrapped around his left thumb. He didn’t bother looking Death in the eyes anymore.

“Why do you care, anyway?” He continued flatly. “What’s the point?”

Death ignored the man’s questions, silently standing up from his seat and walking towards the fireplace. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the broken glass in the frame was painted with specks of dried blood, as was the stone mantel. Death decided to stay quiet as he picked up the photo of the woman and child, struggling to know what to say. The edges of the photo were slightly furled, the corners torn and beaten. He gently pulled out the bloody pieces of glass in the frame, placing them in a pile on the mantel.

“Why’d you punch the frame?” He asked, looking behind him. The man was unmoving in the chair, and Death noticed how scraggly and knotted the hair resting against the nape of his neck looked, as though he would continuously pluck and twist strands of hair until they became tangled.

Finally, after a few moments of silence, the man spoke up. “... I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “I just … got mad.”

“At the photo?” Death mused, setting the photo aside to pick up the rest of the glass on the floor.

The man turned to face Death, watching as the figure picked up each individual piece between his slender white fingers, placing them in the garbage can sitting close to him. “N-No,” he stuttered quickly. “At … them, I think.”

“Mmn.” Death picked up the can and brought it close to the mantel and brushed the pile of glass into it, the pieces clattering as they fell in. “Why is that, you think?”

He placed the can back down and brought the photo back to the man, handing it to him before taking his seat again in the armchair.

The man slowly looked at the photograph in his hands. With a trembling hand, he pulled the photo out of the frame and brought it closer to his face. He placed the frame on the table beside him, now gripping the photo with both hands. Death could see the man’s eyes water, but didn’t say anything.

“They left,” he uttered, his eyes glued to the photo. His bandaged thumb slowly rubbed the child’s head. “I loved them, and they left me.” The man choked up, and he lowered his head as he tried to hide his tears from Death. He placed the photo on his lap and wrapped his arms around himself for comfort.

Death allowed the man a moment to gather himself before he spoke.

“They didn’t mean to leave you,” he mumbled. “You know that, right?” The man didn’t say anything, but Death could see him nod ever so slightly. “And you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

The man was still looking down at his lap, and Death saw tears start to splatter onto the photo.

“If I just went with them, maybe they would still be here,” the man mumbled through uneven breaths. He tried to get himself to stop crying, which only caused him to hiccup a little. “Or … or maybe if I tried to—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Death repeated boldly. “There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent it, so you shouldn’t waste your time obsessing over what you could’ve done differently.”

“Oh, fuck off,” the man muttered harshly, picking his head up to look at Death. Death was taken aback by the intense look in the man’s eyes. “You didn’t know them. I did. I loved them.” The man’s voice cracked as he said this, and he sniffled. He seemed to lose his passion and slumped back in his chair again, gently grabbing the photo in his lap. “So don’t tell me that thinking about saving them is a waste of time.”

Death sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. The man was silent as he wiped his tears, and Death looked away to try to preserve the man’s dignity. 

He spotted a bar cart across the room and stood up, walking over to it. He grabbed the first bottle he spotted, a nearly-empty bottle of old whiskey and a crystal glass, and started pouring a drink as he walked back to his seat. The man eyed Death as he poured the drink, then offered the glass. He paused, but eventually took it from Death, taking a slow sip from it as Death placed the bottle on the table.

“You know, I’ve talked to them,” Death mumbled. The man slowly pulled the glass away, and a drop of whiskey trailed down his unshaven face. “They’re terribly nice people.”

The man sighed. “I know they are,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes back to the photo. He placed the glass against his cracked lips, but didn’t take a drink. 

“They care about you a lot,” Death offered. “They told me.”

The man shut his eyes, trying to keep calm. “Please,” he said abruptly. “Don’t.”

Death nodded slightly, but didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know if there was anything else to say, but knew the man wouldn’t start a conversation himself.

“What about your job?”

“What about it?” The man mumbled before finishing off his drink. He picked up the bottle on the table and poured himself more.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time there, no?”

The man glanced up to Death, a little skeptical. “I guess. How do you know that?”

Death was hesitant in his answer, unsure if he should be truthful to the man.

“I see everything,” he decided.

The man still looked doubtful, but shrugged as he placed the bottle back on the table. “Alright. But why does it matter?”

Death watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he drank the whiskey. He tried to think of a way to say what he was thinking, but couldn’t find the right words. “It doesn’t,” he finally said, giving up. “But does it matter to you?”

The man paused, thinking. “No. I stay overtime, I get more money, I can pay the bills. If I got paid more, I wouldn’t have to be there all the time.”

“Are you sure about that?” Death coaxed.

The man sighed, getting fed up. He set his glass on the table, looking at Death with tired eyes. “Why can’t you just say it with your chest, man?” He asked. “You obviously want me to say something, so stop dancing around the subject and just ask me.”

But Death didn’t. He didn’t want the man to react badly, so he took his time and thought carefully about his words.

“Is that the only reason you spend all your time working?” He asked tentatively. “I mean, you work a lot.”

“Yes, it is,” the man answered, growing a little agitated. The tears had dried on his face by now, leaving faint streaks that gently shined in the warm lamp light. Death noticed the man’s left hand balled into a fist, his thumb slowly running up and down his bent index finger. “What are you trying to say?”

Death took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve been around far longer than you can imagine. You are not the first person to go through this, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

“Obviously,” the man interjected with a scoff, rolling his eyes as he took another sip.

“What I’m saying is I know why people in these situations overwork themselves. Why they spend an extra hour, or two, or three at a job they hate, instead of just spending time at home.”

“Yeah?” The man muttered. “Why’s that?”

“You know why.”

The man frowned, and glanced down at the photo. “Maybe I do. But is that so bad?” He asked defensively. He downed his drink again and reached to pour himself another glass.

Death took the bottle before the man could, and set it beside his own chair.

“Well, it’s better than drinking your sorrows away,” Death mused. The man glanced at the bottle of whiskey, yearning for another sip. “But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy. When are you going to face what happened?”

“When I’m ready,” the man spat, leaning back in his chair. He tried setting the glass on the table, but overshot, and the glass fell straight to the floor. It shattered immediately. “Shit,” he muttered. “There goes another one.”

“It’s been nearly four years. You need to come to terms with it.”

“Or what?” The man challenged.

“... Or you might not make it.”

The man scoffed and pulled himself out of his seat. Stepping around the glass, he headed over to the bar cart again and uncorked a bottle of half-drunken rum. He pulled another glass off of the second shelf. “Listen asshole,” he said, pouring himself a drink, “do you know how many times I’ve tried?”

“Five,” Death answered evenly.

“Exactly.” He brought back the glass and the bottle, and as he was about to sit down, he stepped on a small sliver of glass. He winced and swore under his breath, but didn’t do anything about it, instead sitting back down. He placed the bottle next to his chair so that Death wouldn’t take that one away. “I’ve known I’m not able to do this alone. I’ve tried, and it didn’t work. So I’m pretty sure I won’t make it anyway.”

The man took a long swig from the glass, and choked as it went down. He cleared his throat, and his eyes were watering a little.

Death glanced down, and saw blood oozing out on the carpet from under his foot, staining the toe of his sock red. Trying not to mention it, Death looked back up to the man, who suddenly seemed interested in his own fingers, picking at the dead skin that was building up around his nails.

“What about getting better? Wouldn’t it feel so much better if you got help?” Death stressed.

“Don’t wanna get better,” the man answered simply. He brought his right hand to his mouth and started to bite at the dead skin on his index finger, peeling it off with his teeth. He lowered his hand and looked at it again, and noticed he was bleeding a little. He pinched at the skin, watching the blood build up and slowly slide down his finger. “Just wanna see them again.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Do you?” The man interrupted. He wiped his bloody finger on his wrinkled beige pants, and grabbed his glass again. He took another sip, allowing a long pause to build up between the two. “You’re some immortal god-being who doesn’t know what it’s like to lose somebody you loved. To lose everybody you loved. I don’t think you understand shit.”

Death was silent. In all honesty, the man was right. He didn’t know what it was like.

“You’re right,” he said. “Maybe I don’t. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

“I have,” the man muttered. “And I didn’t like it.”

Another silence fell between the two, and Death believed he was finally finished. There was nothing else for him to say to convince the man, and even if there was, the man wouldn’t have listened anyway. The man wiped the rum off his lips and wiped his finger on his pants again.

“That it?” He asked, leaning back in his chair. “You done with your whole spiel?”

“I’m sorry,” Death mumbled, truly meaning it. “I … I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never done this before.”

The man chuckled a little, but he wasn’t amused. “So then why are you here?” He took another drink from his glass before reaching beside him and pulling the bottle back up. “You pity me or some shit? I never asked you to be here.”

Death frowned at the man’s defensiveness. “No, I don’t. I think you’re sad, and quite pathetic, but I don’t pity you. You’ve had time to take the time to face this, but you chose not to.”

The man harshly placed the glass on the table, some rum sloshing onto the table and photo as he did so. “Shut up, asshole. Stop trying to act better than me. They were my wife and kid, and I don’t need some emotionless god telling me I’m a shit person for missing them.”

“That’s not what I’m—”

“Are you dense?” The man cried, pushing himself up. He towered over Death, but shifted so as to not put pressure on his injured foot. “I don’t want you here! Leave!”

Death tried to keep his composure, though it was becoming increasingly difficult with the man’s behavior. He slowly stood up as well, standing much taller than the man. The man looked a little intimidated, but still kept his chest puffed out as if to challenge Death. “Don’t you know how hard this is for me?”

The man scoffed, looking amused. “For you?”

Death didn’t back down. “Yeah. For me. You spent the past four years wallowing in your own self-pity, doing nothing for yourself, and now I’m supposed to be here to fix your mess!”

The man groaned loudly and shoved Death in the chest. “Why don’t you fucking get it?” He demanded, and his voice started to waver again. “I don’t want you to fix me! Everyone always wants to fix me, get me to be normal, but I don’t want them to!” He shoved Death again as tears started to spill. “I just want to die!”

With a final push, Death fell back into his seat. He stared at the man in shock, not sure what he should do. The man covered his face with his hands, and was now sobbing. Slowly, the man sat back down in his seat, keeping his face hidden. He planted his elbows on his legs, slowly shaking his head. 

The house was filled with the man’s cries, and Death decided he should leave. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, and gently placed his hand on the man’s shoulder before walking out of the living room.

Death sighed as he walked through the hallway. As he approached the door, he hesitated. He listened to the man’s sobs, and the clink of glass as he poured himself more rum. Death silently took the frayed baseball off the shelf and slipped it into his pocket before walking out of the house.

As he made his way back down the gravel driveway, he glanced back to the man’s house. The man had turned his light off, his house now engulfed in darkness. Death took another step and entered into his realm.

“Did you do it?” A frantic voice asked as soon as he reappeared into the cloudy gray mist.

Death looked down in front of him, where a short woman with straight brown hair and black eyes was standing in front of him. She was holding on to the hand of a small child with blonde hair falling over her shoulders, her wide brown eyes staring at Death in awe.

Death sighed and averted his gaze. “I did. I don’t know if he’ll listen to me, though.”

“Well, did you tell him that I’m watching him? A-And that I saw him trying to die?” The woman started to grow anxious. “I don’t want him to die—I don’t want him to be hurting—!”

Death gently placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I said only what I could say. There are rules I have to follow.”

He could see the fear and anger start to well up in her eyes. She looked like she was going to burst into tears, but took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You should go back now; make sure you and the kid get some rest.”

The woman nodded, opening her eyes. “Okay,” she repeated. “I will.”

Death gave a curt nod to her before kneeling down to the child’s level. The girl was intimidated at first, inching closer to the woman’s side. It didn’t faze Death that children were scared of him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old baseball from the man’s house and held it out to the child. “Your Daddy wanted me to give this to you,” he said gently.

The little girl was hesitant at first, but eventually grabbed the ball from his hand and held it close to her chest. Death stood back up and watched as the mother guided her child to the stairs that led them back to their afterlife. Dread rose in his chest, feeling as though he had only made the man feel worse.