Dark Hearts

Death has come once again, but it may end differently than you expected...

 

 

Some say my job is one of the worst jobs in the world. Never having any other job in my existence, I would not know what to say to counter that. I was created for one purpose, and will have to fulfill that purpose until the end of time. Some would say my life is a lonely one, as I have no personal relationships with any living being. Love is wasted on me, for I have never felt it but once in my superficial existence. Love has become but a mere memory in my mind. I neither felt love for anyone, whether it be an inexperienced love or reciprocated love. Love was useless in my profession, and was not needed for every day procedures.

            In all accounts, my looks did not portray what I have gotten the reputation for. I am not a gray, decaying corpse but a mere man, as human as you who read this entry. Some would say I am handsome, or as handsome as you can be with the pallid complexion I have. My hair and eyes are black as pits; my frame wiry and bone thin. I appear to be in my mid thirties, but looks can be deceiving; I was wandering around when Puritans first landed on American soil. I wear black, but only for respectful reasons for I fear my victims deserve the most respect possible in their circumstances. Many have had unworthy deaths, or worse, early ones. How can I go about taking their souls if I do not show them some decency they may not have had while they were living?

            If you have not figured out my profession by now, I’m not sure you should be reading this. For only those who have lost a loved one or friend may realize I am the one to blame. The passing of the cherished are because of me, because of what I was chosen to do. That is right, I am Death. The figure who haunts the hospital corridors, the shadow at the foot of an old man’s bed, the cloud that covers the moon before a murder, are all one and the same.

            I was chosen by the Powers That Be to take the souls of the damned and send them on. I was chosen because of my past experiences, though I can’t tell you what they are, or when they occurred. My memory was drained the day I agreed to take the job, and I have known nothing else since. Perhaps I should explain in detail. When a certain man or woman dies, the Powers That Be make a choice. Usually the human is allowed to pass on and create a new life in the spiritual world. I have not seen this world, but I have heard it is exquisite. When a man or woman with a certain talent dies, a talent that the Powers That Be have an interest in, they are not given the choice to go to the spiritual world. The Powers That Be automatically employ them as Death and they go about wandering the world helping other souls be released from their human shells and ultimately, finding the way to paradise.

            I am not certain what talents the Powers That Be are looking for. Do not bother revoking whatever hobbies you have just for a chance to “pass on” to the Other World, as it will now be known. As I said, whatever memories you had as a human will be swept clean from your mind. Unfortunately, whatever memories you have as a Death will remain with you. Every starving child, every moaning soldier, every aching old woman will remain in your mind from the moment you step into the role as Death. I know I am not giving the job much credit, but the job is not supposed to be pleasant. At least, I hope it isn’t.

            I take the place of my many predecessors, men who have come before me to take this ultimate power of possession.  Each Death takes a small spot on the map to do business in, and no other Death can work there. Of course there is more than one Death, for it is tiring for one to do it alone, even if you are immortal. I was in charge of a few little towns and New York City. Do not trouble yourselves in asking why I was chosen over a matter of years, or if Death himself can die. Death has no end, only beginnings. At some point, the Powers That Be allow one Death to give up his position and “pass on” to the Other World, like his fellow humans. How The Powers choose is also beyond my abilities to answer. I reason they either feel that the Death’s power is waning, or perhaps they have overstocked the amount of people they have doing the job. Either way, after a certain amount of years, our contract with The Powers dissolves. Once I have completed my task, I will be able to move on.  I will no longer take lives, but spare them happily.

           This brings me to a young female doctor named Melanie Gable. Miss Gable had been a doctor for three years, having saved several people from myself by age thirty-one. Miss Gable had fascinated me from the start, being someone who had pulled humans out of my grasp more times than I have taken them. I knew her well, from observing her from the bedside of my awaiting victims. Truth be told, doctors of any kind have always interested me, because of their ability to give life, instead of seizing it. Yet, for reasons unknown to me, Melanie was different than the others.

            I have pulled many spirits out of their earth bound shells along with their thoughts and memories, so I know what the human thoughts of beauty are. So in all contexts, I can truthfully say Melanie was beautiful. Strawberry-blonde hair strayed in wisps around her round, smiling face. Eyes green as emeralds were laughing and sparkling most of the time, but were business-like when needed. A long, slender figure and natural creamy skin made her appear to be model material. Her smile was always kind, never condescending. It was also very contagious. After a day with Melanie, the most cantankerous old man, (and there were quite a few at the hospital) would be smiling and laughing as if he was on a school trip. Her voice could switch from soothing to commanding in a heartbeat, depending on whether she was consoling a patient or giving orders to a nearby nurse. Melanie was a pure-hearted doctor, who tried her hardest to save her patients, and treated them like the pure-minded spirits they were.  It was too bad that she could not protect her own spirit.

            The date was March 4, 1999. I remember perfectly, for it was one of the strangest nights in my existence. I had done my usual round; my black book of human’s date of death in my jacket pocket for safe keeping. My surprise at the last human on my list was short-lived; every person has to die at some point. Melanie Gable was no exception. If my facts were correct, the thirty-nine year old woman was about to receive a massive heart attack, which would kill her instantly. Too much stress from all the doctor work, no doubt.

            Melanie lived in the suburbs of New York, a little farther from work than was truly necessary. Her morning commute was probably meaningless to the lovely little house and yard she occupied. She didn’t have time for yard work, so her patch of lawn was less than sublime, to put it kindly. Really, though, is anyone perfect? Certainly not a doctor who is busy saving lives. I merely glanced at the yard, focusing on the front door. I can pass through doors and walls, like the rumors claim. It’s all a matter concentration, and determination. If you think you can’t pass through the wall, then you simply cannot pass through the wall. I, however, have had years of experience, so I made it inside the house easily. I easily dodged the clutter in the dainty kitchen, and climbed the stairs with the upmost care. Passing through walls and doors is part of the job, but I can still make a racket if I choose. Since it is easier to take a human’s soul when they are asleep, I pride myself on being able to wander through a house without making a sound.

After a few moments of searching I found Melanie’s room. The door was cracked, so I didn’t need to waste time concentrating on the flowery wallpaper. I stood over the woman’s bed, waiting. Melanie was sleeping lightly, tossing and turning often. I watched her face, trying to imagine the dream she was having. I have never been sure if people’s dreams change when they are about to die in their sleep. Do the pleasant dreams turn to nightmares, or do the dreams continue as if the body wasn’t dying? But I digress; dreams rarely matter to those who are dead.

Time went by slowly, as it always does before a death. Then, still in sleep, Melanie rolled over and whimpered. The time had come. In three minutes, Melanie’s spirit would release itself from its shell. I leaned over the bed, ready to take it from the body. As I looked into the face of the pretty doctor, something went terribly wrong.

            Something stirred within me, causing me to halt my descent into her chest. Melanie whimpered again, her perfect face scrunched up in pain. The stirring in my chest grew, and I realized that my hand hovered only an inch from her chest. For whatever reason, I pulled up, a curious sensation filling me. I couldn’t touch her. Some soft voice in my head was telling me not to. I watched as Melanie’s face relaxed, and she slowly slipped back into dreamless sleep.

            The heart attack was over. Melanie would live another year.

            I remained in the bedroom. Dawn was just creeping over the hills, shining softly through the window. Still puzzled by this unexpected experience, I sat down in one of the chairs near the bed and stared at the sleeping Melanie. She would be getting up soon, for a doctor’s work was never done. Time passed quickly, now that the threat of death was gone. Soon the room was lit with the unmistakable colors of day and the faithful trill of the old-fashioned alarm clock by the side of Melanie’s bed. Melanie rose slowly, stretching like a cat after a sun-bathed nap, completely unaware that she had almost died. The curious sensation filled me again, and for the life of me (or maybe I should rephrase that, “the existence of me”) I could not figure out what it was. I stayed frozen in the chair, watching as Melanie went to get her breakfast and do other morning traditions. The fluttering in my stomach would not go away, and I was determined to stay put until it did.

            For reasons unknown even to myself, I stayed in Melanie’s bedroom all day. When she returned to her bedroom around ten in the evening, I was still in the same chair, near the same window, in the same trance as I was that morning. I watched as Melanie yawned and put herself to bed, and waited for the dawn to rise again. The same fluttering in my stomach worsened as time wore on. Before I knew it, I was neglecting all my deathly duties and following the girl to work every day. I did not recognize the signs, did not understand the feelings whirling inside of me.

            Days turned into months, months turned into years.  One fateful night, I was sitting quietly on the chair, watching and waiting. I am not ashamed to say that I was starting to like watching her sleep. It had become a pleasure, watching her, and almost amusing that she did not know. I had the strange desire to give her something, like many of her grateful patients did. I snorted gently at my whimsical fantasies. What would I get her, flowers? If I did, they would be brown and brittle, certainly not like the bright, ornate ones she had been getting. Death does not go around picking daisies in a field. Anything I touch would go directly to its maker. I sat back in my chair, continuing in my ritual. The night was like any other, or so it seemed.

            I had forgotten my duties as Death. People who should have been dying continued to live. I could not imagine doing anything other than staying in that little, cluttered house with Melanie, despite the fact that she knew nothing of my existence. I had never felt anything like this combination of pleasure and pain. Pleasure at being with her, pain because I knew she had no clue I was even there. I was selfish, I know. Being with her and watching her had become my main priority, for some reason I was not sure of yet. I was content to simply stay where I was forever, but I had not realized that I was being watched as well.

Clanging and screeching filled my mind, the cacophony of voices bringing me the dreadful realization. The Powers That Be found out where I was. The Powers did not bode well that I was neglecting my duties, and wanted to know why I spent my time sitting uselessly in a chair watching some petty shell of a human when her spirit should be with them. Their voices boomed and clashed in my head, making me a little nauseous. I thought sincerely about their question, and was quite surprised when I finally, finally understood the answer.

            I loved her.

            The clashing in my head stopped, giving me time to digest this interesting piece of news. Never before has Death fallen in love with a human. It isn’t impossible, of course, but very, very unlikely. I could hear the Powers discussing it. Many were romantics, but a few of the conservatives weren’t happy at all with my answer. They tossed about plans and punishments, while I rested there, a tool that was rusted and worthless. The whole time I stared at the woman I had fallen in love with, the pain and pleasure building up inside me. I was not sure how I would manage if the Powers That Be made me leave her. Maybe I’d die.

            I started to laugh, hysterical, at the idea that I, Death, would die because I could no longer see a human. The very fact that Death can’t die, just move on, escaped me. All I could think of was that if I left her, I would simply fade away. The laughter turned into sobs when I discovered that leaving her would be worse than being Death. I no longer felt any pleasure, just pain. Careless, merciless, pain that broke my silent heart and made me sob even harder.

            It was a long time until I stopped crying. It took me longer to learn that the Powers That Be had stopped debating. I didn’t bother asking them what my punishment was. I knew they would tell me in time.

            The Powers That Be spoke, their voices no longer pounding the inside of my head, but merely thumping gently against my skull. Their answer was not at all what I expected.

            They gave me another chance.

They would change me into a human once more, and I would have a choice when the short-lived human shell deteriorated. I could begin again as a Death, or could go off with the other human spirits. Whether I could win Melanie over and earn her love in return was my own problem. I had no doubt I would because if Death was able to feel something for a human, then surely a human was able to feel something for a former Death. The Powers spoke a word in my head, and I found myself out on the streets in front of Melanie’s apartment building, fully humanized and absolutely terrified of what would happen next.

            Here’s what did happen: I was able to woo Melanie and make her my wife. It wasn’t as easy as I had hoped, for she was quite headstrong. But again, I had centuries to perfect my skills of determination. So, after quite a few creative lies in the area of my past, she believed that I was a normal, human author by the name of James Adeth.  We have been married for fifty years, some of the happiest I have ever known. Two children, and three grandchildren later, I am still a popular suspense novelist, and am known in many book circles as “The Morbid Master”. A fitting title, don’t you think?

           Because of my links with Death, I am able to see Death when he comes. And he has. Only one final hour ago, he showed up next to me, a pallid looking boy of thirteen, probably new at this job.

            “Have you come for Melanie?” I asked. He shook his head, studying me with a gaze that could only be defined as “inquisitive”

            “I have come for you, former Death. I was instructed to name your choices. You may either go where all human spirits go after they have left their shells, or you may once again become Death.”

            I looked at this boy, and wondered if he had ever felt love for anyone, whether before or after he became Death.

            “Give me one more minute, friend. Then I will choose.”

           He has allowed me to finish this journal entry, and has watched me as I tenderly kissed my wife on the cheek. I had made my choice; I chose to meet my wife again in the realm where the spirits dwell, and will give this journal as a late wedding present.

            So I follow the new Death out of my human shell, and into eternity.

Reviews

[Scarlett Davis]

I love the different take on Death - many former humans, not just one deity or entity. Very streamlined and enjoyable.

[Audrey Owens]

This story begs the question; what DOES someone with that kind of profession feel about human kind? This had a sweet touch to it. He spared his love and was given another chance, elected to spend eternity with her and wait, although she won't know that until she dies. I like this a lot.