'Hello, Death. And how are you?' by Rhonda J. Jezek

Every now and then, the truck bounces. The flaps of the topper flip up for a moment and the clear light of a full moon streams into the back, revealing the dirty crates and soiled cardboard boxes that a handful of people are huddling on. It’s filthy, very filthy. Dust covers everything and occasionally one of the people will sneeze. At least it’s mostly dry, I suppose. Freezing to the point of death, though.

. . .And that’s what brings me here.

The carry-all’s heater is broken. Even if it wasn’t, it probably wouldn’t help these people. They’re huddling together for warmth, some wearing light jackets, the lucky wearing rather heavy ones, with gloves even. Fear is so thick it’s suffocating. Everyone’s hunched over, conserving their scant heat as best possible, looking up as the truck hits a bump, trying to see the world beyond the flaps.

Looking down at my feet, I see a small woman, very very pale. She’s got a coat, but she’s not wearing it. A heavy coat. Woolen, dark it is, and it’s pulled tight around two little children, a boy and a girl, about three or four years of age.

I’m not here for them, small small children.

I’m here for the pretty, pale woman who’s hunched over them, trying to keep them warm. In the blink of an eye I know everything about her, her hopes, her dreams. . .how badly she wants to leave this place. Suppression, hatred, on all sides, everywhere she goes.

For her children. . .willing to die for her children, and she will. Out of curiosity, for curiosity I feel, I look into the children’s futures, to discover what she’s dying for.

They shall arrive at an uncle’s house, an abusive uncle with little care for his niece and nephew. He shall harm them in many ways before throwing them out of the house as useless. Alone on the streets, they will learn to survive.

The boy has the mark of a destroyer on his heart. By twelve, he will have joined a local gang at his new location and will proceed into the bloody career of a hit man. I will see this boy many times before his end.

The girl has the mark of a fragile flower. Pretty, soft, but bends so easily at the touch of others, and she will bend to her brother’s much stronger will. He will use her without compassion, pushing her into prostitution where she will sell very very well, for like her mother, she is a delicate beauty.

Such wasted lives, really.

Yet, I see, her brother will leave the country sometime in his twenties, abandoning her to her fate, never to return. Weak, but sensible, this one. She will get up, dust herself off and get a respectable job. In this job she will meet a good man and marry. She shall provide a home of warmth and love, and her children shall be great.

Hm. If their mother knew these things, up till her son’s departure, would she still give her life for them? I look at the mother and, playing with Possibility, see her future if her children die and she lives.

She arrives at her brother’s house, torn with sorrow. She, too, will taste his abuse. But she will escape and go on to founding a children’s shelter, which shall help very many lives.

I, being Death, have never tasted of human life except to take it. I feel emotions; however, justice and morals do not affect me. So, struggles of the heart, which humans so often are in the clutches of, endlessly fascinate me. I make it my hobby to toy with lives as a sort of entertainment in my otherwise rather bleak existence.

So, watching this so very young mother weakly rub her children’s shoulders, I decide to test morality against motherly devotion. What better way to pass the time?

I hear a low groan escape her lips, then she breathes her last.

Mother? I whisper, young young mother. The woman’s head has dropped to her chest, yet now it jerks up, trying to listen. That is, her soul jerks up. Her body is still relaxed.

"Yes?" she calls, her voice hoarse. She is rigid with fear, and although her soul is no longer with flesh, she, not realizing she is dead dead, still shivers with cold.

Young mother, you are dead. I say. Her eyes glaze over with fear, probably expecting soldiers with guns to burst into the back of the carry-all and drag these poor refugees away. She’s rigid, alert for a moment, two, as I without empathy observe. She finally sees me, knows me, becoming more used to the ghost with every instant.

Her eyes widen, and as with most all of them, understanding hits with such great force it leaves her in shock. Trembling, blind, her mouth forming a little ‘o’ that quivers by reflex; she has no sense in her.

". . .D-dead?" she finally stammers. Some scream, but she didn’t. Good good mother, her first thought were those children. "But, my babies, I. . .no! No! . . .noNoNO! Please, I can’t! Not till they’re safe, I. . ." She ceases to stutter, simply too astounded. She runs her spectral hand over their tender brows, whispering "Death, please. Please don’t take me till they’re safe." She looks at me with eyes that hold no tears, for phantoms do not weep.

That is what I wish to discuss with you, Young Mother. I have a proposition you shall very very much be interested in. She looks confused but nods for me to continue.

These children shall lead destructive and bleak lives. They will be abused by your brother. The boy will destroy many with an expensive gun, the girl will lull people into pits of blackness and sin. The boy will wreck his sister, then disappear. She will die soon after, alone. Woman, these are your children, I leave you to think of this.

Yes, Death is capable of lying. But it isn’t quite a lie, you know. Although I saw their futures, there is the Chaos Factor to take into account. The daughter just might die after her brother disappears. Who’s to know? I am not Fate, I am Death. Completely different departments.

The young mother looks at her children, again in the numb state of shock. She reaches out tenderly to touch them, huddled together as they sleep sleep. She begins to sob the searing sobs of the Dead, the sobs that carry on winds that hiss and whistle, so torn is her heart.

"Why do you tell me this?" she whispers. " I did not want to know!" She screams, in the very heart of despair.

Ah, but now you do. Hear me out? I ask. Hope flecks in her eyes, and she nods, not eagerly, but intense.

Young Mother. I, being Death, can see into many possible futures. Let us say that you survive and your children pass on? You would go to your brother’s house, endure his abuse, then escape to a far, far far away place. In this place you would open a home for others’ children, a shelter. You would help many many, saving just as many lives as your own seed would destroy. I leave you to think of this.

She sobs without tears, knawing at her knuckle and I see that she is in the depth of turmoil, confusion. She can not respond. She does not understand. I will lead her lead her to understanding.

Young Mother, I give you a choice. Your children, or you. She looks up at me without comprehension.

I can give you back your life, the life that will help so so many. But you must release your children to me in return. You cannot all survive together. So, Young Mother, I grant you the decision of Life over Death. Do I take your destructive, wasted children, or you? She had been clutching her shoulders as I spoke, understanding a dawning light that illuminates her eyes as she looks up at me with the ferocity of a lioness protecting her cubs. Which, I suppose, she is.

"Do not tempt me with such a fate!" she screamed. "I will not play into your hands, whatever your game! How dare you give me such a choice! How dare you tell me such futures! Take me now! I made my decision before you said a word!"

Nod nod I nod, not surprised but surprised. She’s breathing heavily, though she’s not breathing, and all of her anger is channeled at me. Ah, the climax has been reached and now I know her decision, though I’ve always always known. And she always knew, too.

I extend myself to her, and a good deal of her ferocity has been worn away with her words, for she now looks at her children with a sorrow beyond sorrows, and bending over them, she whispers "I have given you life, twice. Please, my children, live to become honorable. I don’t believe it’s useless to hope, and I will hope for you till you join me. Be good now, mommy’s leaving." She shuts her eyes. "But not for forever."

She stands up and enters me, and I feel her hatred as she passes me and enters the Beyond Lands. Hatred for me, bright and hot. Not for taking her, all things end and she knew, but for making her hurt like that that. For torturing her emotions like that that.

How interesting, I think. I’ve felt such things before, but each time it’s new.

It ends. Her spirit is gone for good, and the body, having held onto her just until she entered the Beyond Lands, slumps over and onto the children. They squirm in their sleep, re-adjusting themselves till they can breathe easier. The other passengers know nothing of the dead woman in the back, and the truck travels on through the night.