1.

To say that I was scared of death was an exaggeration. I did not fear it like other people, yet I had enough common sense to be wary enough of it. Death was not something that would keep me up at night, and it was something that I avoided at all costs. I had no need to give thought to how I would die, thinking that I would spend so much more time here before I moved on.

When my grandfather became gravely ill, I began to doubt my thoughts again. Perhaps death was a thing to be feared. It took people away from their loved ones and left the living with a sense of pain and misery. Death was not something to be taken lightly.

I was dancing when I received the phone call. It was to some pop song that was playing on the radio at the time. I remember the thudding bass and the fake, unoriginal voice of the lead singer that sounded like all the others that played on the radio. I remembered the way that the sun streamed in through my window, heating up my tiny room. I remember the cool breeze that wormed its way through that same window.

Most of all, I remembered the way that my eyes landed on the picture of me and my grandfather at the same time the phone rang. It had been taken three years previous. He had been sitting in his favorite armchair and I had been standing behind the chair, beaming at the camera. His sweet, gentle smile flashed through my mind as I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I asked, turning down the music.

“Devi,” my father said, his voice strained. “You need to come over to your grandfather’s house immediately.”

All I could see in that moment was his gentle smile and my happy one, lost, frozen in time...

“He’s gotten a lot worse. The doctor doesn’t think he’ll last for much longer. We brought him home for good.”

Death is a curious thing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The thing that I always loved about my grandparent’s house was how close it was to mine. It was three blocks away, and situated on a nice suburban street that housed young couples and elderly folk. Perfectly kept lawns with small children playing on them flashed through my mind as I ran down the sidewalk, my feet slapping against the pavement in a mocking rhythm.

I remember as a child coming to their house and playing with the other children in the neighborhood. My grandmother had always been the one to supply us with lemonade and cookies when we were tired and wanting a snack. My grandfather would sit us in front of him and he would regale us with tales so vivid and extraordinary that we had no choice but to believe him. It had been my older brother and I. My favorite tale was always the one about my grandfather lost at sea with only a friendly mermaid to guide his way safely to shore. My brother’s was his safari adventure.

At the time, my grandfather had been invincible. He had been the fearless adventurer and explorer, and would always have a joke up his sleeve to cheer us up or a gentle smile to assuage our fears. Now, in the past couple months all I could see was a crippled old man. My heart slowly broke, remembering how he used to be, but as I walked through the familiar house and up the stairs, my heart nearly shattered.

He was lying in the bed, too weak to barely move, and he was hooked up to a machine that helped him to breathe. Without a word, I walked past the family doctor and my father and sat down in the chair by his bed. Picking up my grandfather’s hand, I stared at the aged, tired face of the man who had been so crucial to me growing up. First I had lost my grandmother and now I was losing my grandfather.

My father clasped a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll give you a few minutes,” he said softly before the two of them walked out of the room. I was grateful for that; grateful for the silence that was left in their wake, broken only by my grandfather’s ragged breaths.

“Grandpa,” I said quietly. “It’s me; Devi. Remember?” I tried to keep my breathing even, and fought back the tears that were rising to my eyes. This still, fragile old man was not my grandfather. My grandfather was strong. He was not dying.

My grandfather’s magnificent blue eyes opened and turned to me. “Devi,” he croaked.

“How are you feeling?” It simply came out as a whisper. Reality was starting to set in. This was my grandfather, and he was dying. This was the last time I would ever speak to him. He was going to leave me forever.

Grandpa ignored my question and instead tried to squeeze my hand. “He’s been looking for me,” he breathed. “He’s been looking for me, but he won’t find me in time.”

My brow furrowed in confusion. “Who, Grandpa?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “You have to know what I did. I regret it so much... It doesn’t matter, now.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, slight panic starting to set in.

A deep sigh escaped him. “He was after me. I couldn’t get away... Instead, I let another be sacrificed for me. I killed someone to save my own life.” Tears fell down his wasted cheeks.

I sat, stunned. “Grampa.... You’re sick, you don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“No,” he said sharply, his eyes piercing mine. “I’m telling the truth. Promise me! Promise me that if he finds you...which he will, I have no doubt... Promise me you’ll fight him. Promise me you won’t be taken.”

“Grampa...” I swallowed thickly, noticing that his breaths were getting more ragged. Tears started running down my cheeks.

“Promise me!” His eyes held mine, despair shining out.

His last wish. He truly was dying. “I promise,” I choked out, shaking with sobs.

He let out a deep sigh, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I love you, Devi.”

“I love you too,” I whispered as his breathing slowed.

Soon it was silent in the room. He had held onto life...just to see me one last time...

Death is a curious thing.

Reviews

[TLK]

The dialogue with Grampa has too little history behind us. You TELL us that he WAS [alive], and therefore the character will miss him. But with more SHOWing of this, the reader could be implicated more in the death.

I'm no expert in writing novels, but I would hazard a guess to say that major pivotal points need to affect the CHARACTER very clearly -- and this one does. However, if it is a SEEN pivotal point, it should affect the READER too. A death in the first chapter, after a few hundred words, is very unlikely to do this.

Therefore, if the death is not something that needs to be explained to the reader -- i.e. it is more of a plot point than a key scene of emotional truth -- it should probably happen in the backstory.

Then again, nearly all writing should start with what was originally the second chapter / stanza / verse...