Choosing Death

The main character is Death. He has to go collect the soul of Margaret but he is faced with the choice between morality and law.

Frost cascaded across the windows, a suffocating parasite that festered in every crevice and lined every crack of 731 Crowley Street. It was a sort of cold that would soak through every stone and any linen to creep into the body of a man and run jagged icicle nails across his heart. He had already claimed five souls this evening due to the creeping frost, but that’s not why he was at 731 Crowley Street tonight, he was there for a different matter altogether. He opened his book, thick and leather bound, each page made of fine parchment, and upon it names, dates and addresses written in gold and red. Most of the names were gold, which is a good thing in the common opinion, but not in his. He liked the red names the most, and as it happened, Margaret of 731 Crowley Street had a name scrawled ever so neatly in red upon the page. He closed the heavy book and tucked it underneath his arm as he walked up the stone path to the door where Margaret lived. His black shoes shone moonlight as he walked without sound, leaving no footprint in the snow behind him. The door opened with the touch of his hand and stole with a ghostly quiet into the darkness within.

Not a candle was lit in Margaret’s house, as she was fast asleep in her bed upstairs. It was so foolish, why he was here, (though he secretly enjoyed it) and he never understood why humans would fall for such folly, because you see, Margaret had made a deal with Death, and he was here to collect. A child, he remembered as he silently passed over the hard floors, she asked to be pregnant. He recalled the husband dead as he fetched him shortly after Margaret had conceived. He could not remember his name, not that it matters really.

“Who are you?” It was a childish voice, but held no worry or fear. He paid no heed; it was not overly odd for people to see him when on their deathbeds, children could often see him as well, like this one here.

“Sir, this isn't your house, why are you here?” He turned to see her. Small and brown haired, the child had a determined expression.

“I am Death little girl, I suggest you leave me be unless you wish to meet your fait early,” It was an empty threat of course; her name was not scrawled upon the parchment today like Margaret’s.

“Are you here for mum?” He answered with silence and a cold, impatient look, “She’s not sick! You cannot take her!”

“Do you honestly believe that you can tell me who I can and cannot take child?”

“I will hurt you if I have to!” He laughed a dry, demeaning laugh that could curl paint off walls. Baby blue eyes started to swell with tears. “Please don’t take her! I’ll be all alone if you do.” He suddenly felt something. He would be unable to describe this feeling, as the poisoned thorns of his job mutilated and tainted his conscience a long time ago, but it would be the feeling of pity, of regret. He has been begged before, it was not new to him, but he could not help but feel a black itch of responsibility. It would be thought that he had many responsibilities, being who he is, but he only has to follow the book as fate writes it down, and add in his own red-inked deals. But this girl, he molded her bones, wound them in skin, laced through her hair and stitched in the imperfection. He created this child for Margaret of 731 Crowley Street, how could he not feel for something he made?

“It is my job,” His words were slow, sticking as if dry blood was trapping his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Why, why does she have to die now?” A quivering chin and clenched fists held back rivers of tears.

“That is the law of the universe child.”

“Not if you choose different!”

“I cannot, I am sorry. I want to say I wish you differently but…” His ashen hand wrapped around the railing, a cold-coiled snake.

“No! No please!” He took silent slow steps. Did he really have a choice? Has he ever had a choice? She seemed paralyzed beside the stairs, tears falling freely now.

Author's Note

As you can tell it's not finished, but I plan to keep adding on to it. It's for a writer's craft class and it's due in about a month. Please ignore grammar and spelling, I really need help with dialogue. Also, anything else you feel necessary to point out, add, omit, or change, feel free to voice so. :) Also title ideas please? I am really bad at that and that title is just a filler.

Reviews

[Peter Regal Whittam]

Title ideas:

"Death, He Grows Near."
"A Candle Burnt Out"
"The Spirits Call"

In hindsight, I'm not too good with titles either. Sorry!