O Death

A story I did in college based off of a song.

O Death

 

 

            Hospital visiting hours were coming to a close and Winston Whitaker’s final guest �" his lawyer �" was gathering papers and shoving them into his black leather briefcase.

“There‘s nothing to worry about, Sir. All of your affairs have now officially been taken care of,” the lawyer said, nervously.

“Sure,” the sickly-looking Mr. Whitaker said, “Absolutely nothing to worry about...”

The lawyer shuffled over to Mr. Whitaker’s bedside.  He gently put his hand on the shoulder of the old man in an attempt to comfort him.  “You should be proud of the life you’ve lived.  You’ve made quite a name for yourself, and the strength you had to lift yourself out of squalor is admired by everyone worldwide,” the lawyer stated, reassuringly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Mr. Whitaker closed his eyes to try and push the tears away.  “I used so many people to build my fortune, to change my life, but what did I ever do for those I crushed?”  He looked into the lawyer’s eyes, watching as the befuddled man searched his thoughts for just the right answer.

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Sir,” the lawyer whispered in response.

“What I’m trying to say is that I wish I had given back more.  That I had helped all those poor souls that raised me to the place that I was in when I was at the height of my life,” his eyes wandered away from the lawyer’s and fixated on a single wilted rose in a vase by the room door.  “But, it’s too late now.  Who would’ve imagined that one of the most powerful men in the United States would be dying from lung cancer?”  Mr. Whitaker said looking at all the machines and tubes surrounding the bed.

“Don’t worry about what you could have done, and just try to think about all the great things you have done.  That is the Winston Whitaker the world will always remember and admire,” the lawyer said with a grin as he straightened his black suit jacket, trying to look proper in the presence of the dying man’s greatness.

Mr. Whitaker looked down at the IV tube attached to his left hand.  “I guess so.”  He then looked up at the clock directly across from his bed.  “Jesus Christ, I didn’t realize that it was so late. Your wife must be wondering where you ran off to.”

The lawyer looked at his Rolex and said, “Oh no, she knows I’m with an important client.”

At that moment, a nurse tapped on the door, getting the attention of both men.  “Visiting hours are over now,” she said to the lawyer,  “You can come back tomorrow.”

The lawyer smiled and nodded in response.

“Well, I’d better be off then,” he said, and walked over to gather his briefcase.

“Have a good night,” Mr. Whitaker replied as the lawyer made his way towards the door.

“You too,” the lawyer said, his voice barely audible.

The hours ticked quietly by in the usually busy hospital.  Winston Whitaker spent hours looking at the tiled ceiling, hoping for Sleep to welcome him.  The nurses made their rounds checking on some of the more critical patients �" Mr. Whitaker included �" and the middle-aged receptionist sat at her desk staring blankly at the second hand of the hallway clock, hoping for something to help make the time go by quicker.

No one saw the woman enter the hospital and make her way towards the wing that housed Mr. Whitaker.  Even as she passed a janitor who was mindlessly mopping up a pile of vomit left by one of the patients, she attracted no attention.  She walked with bare feet and a flowing black toga past the nurse’s station, the only sign of her presence being a slight movement of a piece of paper.  The woman soon came to a stop in front of Mr. Whitaker’s door.

Mr. Whitaker suddenly had the strange feeling as though someone unseen was watching him.  He turned his head just enough to look at his door, but saw nothing.  The woman stood patiently in the doorway, just studying the old man.  As he tried to ignore the sensation, he felt a momentary light breeze and the room’s temperature drop ever so slightly.

The woman was now standing next to his bed, looking down into the ailing man’s eyes.  She ran her fingers gently over his cheek, and his body shivered.  Then, the woman put one hand on his chest and the other on his shoulder.

Mr. Whitaker suddenly blurted out as goose bumps formed all over his body, “Are those ice cold hands holding me now?  Death, is that you?”

The woman leaned forward, her long brunette hair dangling against Mr. Whitaker’s chest.  “Yes,” she whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t hear her.

“Are you coming to take me now?  Is it finally my time?”

She responded with an unheard, “Yes.”

  “Please, I beg you, give me another year to make things right!”  His eyes roamed over the room trying to figure out where he could direct his pleas.  “I just need more time!  I don’t want my soul to go to an undesirable place,” his breathing became heavier now.  “With just a little more time, I know I can change.  I can be a better person.”

Again, the woman whispered into his ear, “No one knows where the soul goes.  I am Death.  It is my job to open the door to either Heaven or Hell.  Pleading with me will not help you, for I have no mercy.  Though you cannot hear me speak, I must say, your fears are correct.  Your life has been marked by greed and selfishness.  It is likely that God does not want your soul, but the Devil surely invites it.”

The woman then moved away from Mr. Whitaker’s ear and put both of her hands on his chest.  Mr. Whitaker’s breathing now was deep and erratic, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“I know it may not mean all that much to you, but I promise to give you any amount of money if you will only make sure that I go to Heaven,” he said, tears now streaming down his cheeks and dampening the pillow on either side of his head.

The woman smiled at his pleas of desperation.  “You cannot offer me money to escape this unfortunate circumstance.  Nothing satisfies me but your soul.”

Mr. Whitaker continued to plead for his life as the woman’s hands slid up his chest and took hold of his neck.  He gagged as she started pulling his body toward her.  A translucent figure then snapped from the center of the old man’s body.  She looked at the form as a ball of light grew behind her.  The monitors attached to Mr. Whitaker’s body suddenly started sounding alarms.  As the nurses rushed in to try and save the feeble old man, the woman turned and began to drag Mr. Whitaker’s soul towards the light, where she then pushed him unceremoniously into it. 

The woman watched with a blank expression as the nurses and doctors tried in vain to bring the man back.  The ball of light dissolved and the machines hooked to Mr. Whitaker went silent.   As the doctors announced the passing of Mr. Whitaker, the woman walked out the door and through the hall to another room, another patient.

Author's Note

Still needs a little cleaning up, but it's short and simple.