The Day Death Lived

There was a time when Death loved to be feared.

Her hold on the human condition was that of a serpent, her existence the force of a natural disaster, the irrefutable ending every man had to face, if not accept: that they would die, every last one of them. 

They denied this cycle. They created medicine to lengthen life, vehicles for safer transport, weapons for self preservation. 

And yet, the more men fought her whims, the harder Death resisted.

Their pathetic pills only held off her attacks. Their vehicles crashed into one another and burned. And their weapons? Their weapons sent more souls to Death’s door than any disease she could contract in the depths of her cold, black heart. She loved how they feared her. It was her purpose. And one always enjoyed having their purpose unanimously agreed upon.

Man hated Death, and Death hated man.

The change didn’t happen all at once. It was slow, an unnoticed parasite in the back of Death’s mind, more of a question than anything: what was it like to live? She stared out of her window at the human souls weeping with one another; watched the animal spirits graze her hollow pastures – even though not a single seed was able to grow in this domain – a habit from life. These observations became questions. What was it the humans missed? Surely not pain or lies or the mundaneness of it all. Surely not work or school or constant arguments with their peers. And, in the end, thought Death, what else was there? The spirits of the wolves and deer confounded her. Even though they were dead, and neither could be eaten, they continued their chase, with the deer just as panicked, and the wolves just as predatory. For what purpose? They were equals now.

Death longed to understand. 

And one day, without ever really deciding to, she went to the surface.

She wanted to fully understand the lives of the living, and for that, she couldn't be feared. 

So she conjured up a disguise for herself, a mask, a mental image of the face she thought would most please the people of Earth. Hair, skin, clothing. She walked with her shoulders drooped, feigning the weight of an entire life of humanity instead of one afternoon. But it was difficult. Death wasn’t used to beating on the left side of her chest. Nor was she accustomed to breathing. Remembering to inhale and exhale constantly was a chore. She forgot for a considerable amount of time once, and nearly went blue. Walking was horrendous. She stared at her target in desperation: a small bakery with a green and white roof. If she were home, she would simply appear in front of the door. Blink, and she’d be gone.

This power wasn’t gone from her, of course. It would be quite easy. Just a quick pop in and out. Just to see what taste felt like – no. Tasted like. God. What a strange world.

But that was cheating. She had wanted to understand, put on a mask to fit in. She had to see it through. She was Death, for crying out loud! She did not need a short cut.

Before she could take a single step, she felt a tap on her arm. Needles pricked up on Death’s skin. She felt it. It was a small hand: a child’s. The little girl tapped Death’s arm again, and Death was surprised to see the child’s chubby fingers didn’t pass through her skin like water as they usually would. 

“My name is Teressa,” the little girl said.

The first thing Death thought was that it was strange to have someone approach her without confusion or terror in their features, strange to have their first words not be a shaky, “Who are you? Where am I? What’s happened? I’m dead? No – but that isn’t possible! There must be some mistake!”

The second thing Death thought was that no one had ever told her their name before. People didn’t really have those where she came from. They had purposes. Death, the ruler, obviously knew hers. And the others, well, their purpose had died the moment they did.

Death wondered if names were one of the things they missed.

“What’s yours?” The little girl asked.

Dead tried to say her name, but the word was nonsense to the girl’s ears. Everyone in Death’s domain spoke in a universal spirit language. Apparently, none of the living knew it. 

The girl nodded slowly, clearly not understanding, and ran off.

Death examined the bakery at the end of the street. She could smell the bread and cookies from where she stood. If she paid attention, she could feel the cool autumn chill of wind against her human skin, blowing her hair. She could hear people talking about unimportant topics and vehicles making grotesque revving sounds. She could taste saliva on her tongue where once there had only been the spirit of words in her mouth.

There was something to it, Death decided, this living business. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, but she wanted to explore it further. She wanted to stick around, not return to her dark domain, and she realized suddenly, with a twinge of disgust, that this must be what the humans felt when they thought of her. She had been here moments and wanted to stay just a little longer. And that was the curse of humanity: a little longer eventually runs out.

But Death was not human.

She could stay for as long as she liked.

So she did. Quietly learning English in her small brownstone on the corner by the bakery, constantly changing her appearance like she saw others on the street do occasionally, like she saw on the magazines so many of the women read. She held fast to her masks, her curiosity. Over the course of a year, Death created a life for herself.

Then it was time to go. She was a queen with a kingdom to run.

She gave away her worldly possessions and submerged to her domain, the mask peeling off of her skeleton and floating to the surface of memory, out of reach but not of mind. Later she would sit on her throne, looking out the window at the grazing spirits and weeping souls, and something new would grow in the space where her human heart had been: empathy.

How Death mourned life.