Drawn

A short rumination on the fascination of death from an unlikely source.

My sister once tried to explain to me why people are fascinated by horrific scenes. The sight of tangled metal, crumpled in impossible directions, makes one pause and glance, hoping for a fleeting glimpse of the occupants inside. People dangling from windows, trying to escape flames and billowing thick smoke becomes mesmerizing. One becomes captivated by someone clinging to a tree as raging waters try to draw them into the depths of the sea.

She told me that people look on with morbid curiosity because it reminds them of their own mortality. A bit simplistic, I scoffed. Yet it does not explain why that allure draws someone like myself to scenes like that. Why is it I will pause and look? My sister�s response was God only knows.

Once again I find myself being drawn. I shouldn�t because I do have an errand. But when I sensed the accident; it called to me. To a lonely mountain road made slick from the half-frozen rain drizzling down. Drawn to a sharp curve protected by a concrete barrier, scarred by other calamities. A new jagged score pointed to my attraction - a smouldering black ruin of a car.

Inside I can see what was once a tall man, his skin now scales of black hues; his hair wisps of smoke. From my quick glance, I can�t see what is left of his face, for he is slumped forward against the steering wheel. The only thing that is not dark about him is a hint of gold on his ring finger, mostly hidden by the flesh bubbled over it.

With my quick perusal, I wish I could describe the smells about me, but I can�t. Never could smell, for all I have is my sight - my main gift. With it I can see more than most, even my sister. All I need to do is focus and what once was or could be comes to me.

Around the tall man, there are various things strewn about because of the violence that visited the man and his car. Most are ruined as a result of the fire that consumed the car and the occupant. Yet all I have to do is focus, then I will see.

A small stuffed bear had been on the dashboard; now tufts of singed threads. Beside the man is a molten mass of plastic and metal that was once a cellphone. Ashes from what was paper before are sprinkled about the car, just grey dust. There are a few CDs strewn about, warped and blackened. From the faint markings on them, they were not original. In the back, a once solid car seat now looks like a piece of abstract art.

My sight is pulled back to the mouldering husk of what was once a man. What is scattered about him gives only hints of who he was. I want to know who he was once. Was I there when he was born? Is there a connection between us? With a quick thought, I focus on his back trouser pocket, to what defines a man.

His wallet tells me volumes. Amongst the half-melted pieces of plastic and charred paper, I can see Robert T. Lassiter. I do not recognize the photograph that was once his ID. He was forty-five years old. Manager at SyCorp. Father of three. Each one now a damaged picture in his wallet.

One daughter with flaming red hair and dimples looks around 12. There is a shyness as she coyly plays to the camera. A son, around 10, is looking not very happy. His face is speckled with freckles and his strawberry blonde hair is forcibly slicked back for the picture. And his youngest daughter, around 6, grinning and acting up for the lens. Her shoulder length blonde hair is as free as the spirit shining in her eyes. Now they are portraits singed and darkened which only I can see. Yet I do not recognize any of them.

With the remains of his credit cards, I can see his gym card. He had a library card and a discount card of a chain bookstore. And with the charred money, a couple of reminder notes of appointments that would not be kept. And one of a prescription that would never be filled.

Amongst the cooling change, Robert T. Lassiter had some petals. Rose petals. I am surprised that they survived the inferno that engulfed the car. Such delicate things should have been the first to be destroyed. Yet they weren�t.

There is more for me to learn but I do not have the time. My errand awaits me. It is not part of my duties to be here. I cannot be attached to the death. I have my calling. Someone is about to be born and I need to be there.

Yet I know my brother is coming. To take care of Robert T. Lassiter, help him find his peace. Bring him into the bosom of the one that created him. That is his duty. A new life is beginning and it is my task to help start it. Not to be about at the end. We all have our assigned charge. I have to leave this lonely car, which no human will find for hours.

Why am I drawn to these scenes of death? I know it isn�t because of my mortality, since I am immortal. Could it be to share in the tragedy? Then why am I so dispassionate? It may just be curiosity. Or is it that I am no different than human kind? I wish I could answer these questions. I suppose only God knows. But if I asked, would I get an answer?

Author's Note

Excluding grammar issues, the key thing is does the story work and do you get it?