Death For Breakfast

                                    I

He really is a nice guy, Death. Totally different from what I had expected. We talked for a bit and I promise, I’ll explain that—but first, you should know that it all began with him asking a question.

           “Do you want to go now, or later?”

           I’d heard people refer to it with that word before, of course. Go. Lots of times actually. Like, what a way to go, or I think that’s how I’d like to go. Despite that, it still took me a moment to stumble into the realization that what he really meant by go (now or later) was die. You know what the worst part of the whole thing is? I truly had no idea what I wanted.

           When he arrived, I was in the middle of making one of my classic egg omelets—one of four foods I’d truly mastered over the course of twenty-something human years, with the other four being Chicken Tikka, Roast and Potatoes, and truly delicious chocolate-chip cookies made from scratch. None of this Toll-House-cookie-tube nonsense, no sir, not in this run-of-the-mill London flat. We have standards here at 623 Talbot Place. At 623 Talbot Place, every morning begins with a lovely cup of Earl Grey and one perfect omelet. Looking back now, though my experience is or was, admittedly, rather limited, I still like to think that my approach to Earth mornings is one of the best ever conceived by modern human standards.

           The pudgy, eggy mass slid off my spatula with ease, flopping right down into the soft sizzle of the pan when another sound entered the room, a wooden chair sliding a foot or so backwards on my worn linoleum floor. Pausing, I looked up from the pan and the perfect omelet, blankly looking at the bit of wall in front of my face. Someone had just sat at my table, which meant someone had broken into my flat because I live alone. 623 Talbot Place is a kingdom of one. I was still making up my mind whether I should turn or not, when Death spoke to me in—of all the damned things—an American accent.

           “Hello, Mark.”

           Jumping at the sound, I somehow turned 180 degrees before my feet once again touched the ground. Or, at least it felt that way, but it may have been more of a slide motion. Either way, that’s when I saw him. He looked to be sniffing at the air, but it was rather hard to tell behind the bone-white mask.

           “That smells really good,” he said. “What is it, anyway?”

           Behind me, the soft sizzle of the pan became a significantly louder one. “What the hell’s this?” I hoped my voice sounded brave and confident, but it most decidedly did not.

           “Now hold on, Mark,” he said, raising a gloved, alabaster index finger and wagging it back and forth. “I asked a question first. I think it’s only right I get an answer first, too.” Death’s white hand was resplendent against the long sleeves of the black cloak he wore. That part, to my relief, matched my expectations.

           “You know what?” he said, standing. “I’m the one that’s neglected to introduce himself.”

           “Yeah, that would be nice, I think.” A bit of egg at the end of my spatula fell with an audible splat.

           “I am Death,” he said, with a curt bow of his hooded, masked head. His hand gripped the back of the only other chair in the room (buying two felt prudent and hopeful, at the time) and pulled it back with that same, familiar low screech.

 “Nice to finally meet you, Mark. Have a seat.”

           “Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” I mumbled.

           “Why the hell not?”

           “Think I’ve burnt my omelet.”

                                                                       II

           “Quit stalling, son,” Death’s voice was surprisingly calm, but determined. “You have to choose before we go any further.” He sounded a bit like my mum, minus the accent— all my life she knew I never responded well to a raised voice, but she also knew that I wouldn’t back down if I saw any sign of weakness in her. There was no sign of weakness in Death, either.

           “Would you just give me a minute?!” It was hard not to feel put off. I’d just burned my breakfast and now there was a psychopath very calmly sitting in my kitchen. “How do I know you’re really Death? You could be some kind of lunatic.”

           He laughed a single, shrill “Ha!” and bolted up onto his feet. “Lunatic? A lunatic, really? Think some average Joe off the street would go to the trouble of getting in here—making no noise, mind you—only to sit down at your IKEA table? Does that sound like any lunatic you’ve ever heard of on TV?”

           “Well, what else am I supposed to think? I’d very much like it if you would leave!” I felt very out of sorts, by which I really mean I was downright terrified. A subtle tremor started in my knees, which I don’t think I’d felt since class presentations in Secondary school.

           Inside his face or mask, Death let out a long sigh all the while staring right at me. At least, I assumed he was staring. The mask was white, like the gloves on his hands, but seemed to be carved out of some strange material. One second, I thought it was wood, but the next I thought it might be a kind of ceramic. Maybe it was bone? Either way, the mask’s eyes were two perfect circles—each with an impenetrable darkness at their center. Nothing like a physical eye could be seen, if there was anything there at all and I couldn’t decide what was more terrifying. A Death that could see me without eyes, or a Death that had eyes I couldn’t find.

           “If you’re Death, well, where’s the scythe?” I asked nervously. “Why aren’t you all bones, then?”

           “You know, that’s just typical.” he replied. “Frickin’ mortals! All day long you believe what the television and the internet tell you—how to get thin, how to get thick, how to find love, what happened to these child actors? Number six will shock you!—but the literal Emissary of Eternity sits down to morning tea and your tiny little minds somehow manage to find a way to doubt that simple fact.”

           Now he sounded like mum once she’d had enough of my nonsense. “You don’t have to yell, you know.” Carefully, I slid the chair out, pulled it to my side of the table, and sat down with Death.

           He tapped his fingers on the table in a strange rhythm. From pinkie to index, each finger tapped in order quickly before pausing, then tapping once more all at once before repeating. The fingers moved in perfect timing without the slightest hint of irregularity—without any hint of mortality.

           I let out a long, heavy breath, the way I’ve been learning to at yoga class on Tuesdays. In through the nose, out through the mouth, my friends, the instructor always said. I wondered what she might have to say about the situation I presently found myself in and suddenly found that I was thinking about her a great deal all at once. I was pretty sure her name was Jill and that she was from Wales. I thought about the time a few weeks ago when I decided I was going to ask her to go for a bit of coffee with me, and the way I utterly failed to actually say anything when the opportunity arose. It went something like this. I called her name and she turned towards me. “Thanks for a great class, as always!”

           She said something clever in return.

           I could feel myself sweat, trying my best to hear the words coming out of her mouth.

           “Say, quick question for you, Jill.”

           “Yes?” she replied. Looking up with bright, blue eyes.

           “Would…um…”

           “Well, go on, silly. What is it?”

           “Would you…” I sighed. “…tell me where you got your yoga mat?” I watched actual pity grow in her face, almost like a—

           “HELLO?!” Death screamed, slamming both fists on his table with a loud cracking noise.

           The lights flickered on and off and in the fleeting moment of darkness, the colors of the world flipped—like the negative of a photograph—the kitchen was consumed by blackness and blue flames and Death’s mask changed into not a mask at all but a face, a living face, one full of wrath and fury. The next second it was gone and I could not be sure of what I’d seen, or if I’d seen it at all.

           “Stop! Fine!” I screamed, my hands still shielding my eyes against the flashing of the light and the hideous vision which was now burned onto the inside of my eyelids. “Please, just ask the question again. Slowly.”

           Death brought his gloved hands together in front of his mask in a prayer-like gesture and just sat there a moment. As he put his hands back down, I realized that the sleeves of his cloak seemed unaffected by gravity. They never slid down to reveal his forearm or moved in the slightest. “I’m only going to say this one more time, Mark.”

           Nodding, I swallowed the lump in my throat.

           “You are gonna die today and you cannot escape that. But I will let you choose to either die right now or wait until the appointed time. I will answer no further questions, until you do so.”

           The gravity of the moment failed for just a second, and that was all I needed. “Wait, does that mean I get to ask more questions?”

           “Damn you, Marcus Andrew Brown. You have until the count of three to live.”

           I suppose it should come as no surprise that death knew my full name, but somehow, it did. “Okay, but you just kind of walked into that one, you have to admit.”

           “One.” He counted on his right hand as he spoke.

           “No time like the present, I suppose. Carpe Diem and all that.”

           “Two.”

           “If I choose ‘later,’ does that mean we get to talk more?”

           He paused; the third finger of his right hand half-straightened in the air while I just looked into the bottomless pit-eyes of the impossibly white mask.

           “Is that your answer?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

           “It is.” Another moment of silence passed, and I watched Death straighten, sitting upright once more in his chair before relaxing into a more casual posture, leaning back slightly.

           “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” he replied.

           “Others may have mentioned it, yes.”

           “There’s a surprise.”

                                                                       III

           I tossed the omelet in the bin and poured a cup of tea for each of us. I did not know if he could (or would) drink it, but the prospect of only pouring a cup for myself still felt very rude. He said that I could ask him whatever I wanted but would only answer what he wanted until I…well, ran out of time.

           “So how does this work? Why do I even get to choose?”

           “Wow. Surprisingly, good question, Mr. Brown.”

           I took a sip of tea. “Please, just Marcus.”

           “Been a while since you said that to someone.” He was not asking a question but stating fact.

           “Ever since I moved away from home, yeah. I wondered what they would think of me not going by my birth name.”

           He nodded quietly.

           “Hey, I’m in a bit of a rush here.”

           “Damn right, you are!” He answered with a slap on his knee. “But basically, it’s up to me. Some people get a choice—some don’t. Most don’t even see me.”

           “So, why me, then?”

           “I’ll just let you ponder that one. Next.” To my absolute surprise, he picked up the saucer and the cup of tea—tapping it to his masked face—and made a soft slurping sound.

           Leaning in, I found the cup halfway empty. “Bloody hell.”

           “Don’t think too hard about it, it won’t help. Come on, what else?”

           “You said there was an ‘appointed time,’ what’s that about?”

           “Yup. Everybody’s got one. Whole damn world.”

           I stared at the little, green clock, ticking above us on the wall. “Can I know mine?”

           “You already know it’s soon, what does it matter? Besides, it’s against the rules.”

           “Who decides the rules?”

           I heard something like a chuckle beneath or inside the mask. “Now, we’re getting somewhere, Marcus.”

           Next, I asked if ‘he’ and ‘him’ were even the correct pronouns to refer to him and said that they were. Then, I asked if he had ever lived on Earth, to which, his reply was:

           “Yes and no.”

           “But how is that possible?”

           He raised both hands and shrugged. “There are other worlds than these.”

           “Is there life after death?” I asked him, sipping the last of my tea.

           “Hmmm… ‘life’ is a less accurate term, but yes.”

           “Well, that’s wonderful news!”

           He crossed his arms. “How do you figure?”

           “Well that must mean there’s a heaven and hell, right? Or something?”

           He made the prayer hands again, before speaking. “Better question—what if I told you that you’ve already experienced what Heaven and Hell both feel like before, lots of times, right here on Earth?”

           “What!?” I shouted, feeling like my brain had just tumbled out of my skull. “But…what does that mean?!”

           “Now, that would have been a good question.”

           “Well, I’m asking now!” I said, my voice gaining a shrill tone I could not stand.

           “Good for you. I like when you feel strongly about things.”

           “Well, which one am I getting then?”

           “Heaven or Hell, you mean?”

           “Yes, Heaven or Hell!” I felt almost nauseous at his calm demeanor.

           “Ugh, that’s boring!” He stood and looked around the room as he talked. “What if I told you Heaven and Hell aren’t the only choices? Even better, what if I told you that you could literally choose whichever one you wanted—do you think would you’d be able to pick?”

           His question filled my mind so completely, baffled me to such depths that all I could really focus on was the tinkling sound being made my empty teacup, shaking against the saucer in my hands.

           Death sat in his chair. Waiting. Listening.

           My confusion turned bitter. I crossed my arms and bit at the inside of my lip. My ears felt warm, and I couldn’t stop tapping my foot on the ground, making my chair squeak ever so slightly.

           He simply waited for me in silence, looking at the clock once before looking back at me as I breathed. In and out, first through the nose, then through my mouth.

           “Jill would be proud,” said Death. “You’ve really got the breathing thing down.”

           I pushed away thoughts of Jill—thoughts of never seeing Jill again—and found myself thinking of home. All the way back in Manchester. “Will my…will my parents be alright?”

           Death leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees with a sigh. “Linda and Winston, yes …they will learn a lot from your death.”

           “That wasn’t exactly comforting, is it?”

           “Life’s not always comfortable,” said Death. “There’s very little time now, friend.”

           “Time enough for one more question?”

           Death laced his fingers together and rested them on his lap. “Yes, today I think there is.”

           With some effort, I pushed out the words I knew were there. The ones I’d always wondered without ever knowing they were there at all. Until today. “What was my purpose? Why am I here? What was the meaning of my life?”

           It’s important, I think, to note that here Death gave a long whistle as he leaned back in his chair. “There’s a tall order, indeed, Marcus. I’m not even sure I could explain that one to you if I tried.”

           I whispered. “Please, try.”

           “Seen any Shakespeare?” he asked softly.

           I told him that I had, though it had been some time.

           “Do you remember Romeo’s friend, Mercutio?”

           “I…think so?” I replied, vaguely remembering some scenes. “Is he the one that dies in a swordfight, or something?”

           “That’s the one!”

           “Well, that’s depressing,” I said, looking down at the linoleum. “I’m just the dude who dies before the play even gets good.”

           “First of all, that’s very rude to William. Second of all, you’re missing the point.”

           “How’s that?” I asked.

           “Mercutio dies, yes, but at a pivotal moment. Before his death, the play is relatively lighthearted, but, once Mercutio falls…well, many other things fall with him.”

           I searched for the meaning in his words but struggled to find it. “But why Mercutio? Why my life?”

           “You are here to play a part, Marcus, just as your mom and dad have theirs—just as pretty Jill from Wales has hers. Your part influences that of others, which influence more and more parts which all influence yours in return. Mercutio’s death matters not because of how or why he died…but because of things he did while he lived.”

           Once more I found myself speechless before Death, trying to take everything in. I thought I heard a soft squeal somewhere and assumed it must be a kettle whistling loudly through the walls.

           “Mercutio’s a great part,” he said, leaning in once more. “Now that you’ve got an answer, though, I wonder…what will you do?”

           I reached into my pocket without really thinking. Felt around, finding my phone, and pulled it out. “I think I’m going to give Jill a call.”

           As the phone began to ring in my ear, Death stood up straight, so I did too. He was, strangely, the exact same height as me.

           “Mark?” said Jill on the phone.

           “Yes, Hi! Actually, thought, my name is Marcus.”

           “Well done, Mercutio,” said Death, and placed a hand on my shoulder just as the apartment burst into flames.