london

Bone white knuckles rapped the door before it opened wide.

Just a courtesy, nothing more before Death stepped inside.

In a bed there laid a man and all his hairs were white.

Death took his hand and helped him stand and walk into the night.

"You're not afraid," Death remarked, “you haven’t shed a tear.”

The man’s voice echoed in the dark, “what have I to fear?”

“The end is nigh,” Death replied, “and there’s no going back. Most men gnash their teeth and cry and fight against the fact.

“The greatest fear of all mankind has never been my scythe, it’s been the limit to their time; the ending of their life.”

The old man grinned with seldom teeth and said, "I understand, but I don't see you as a thief, but an outcome always planned."

Now Death had scarcely met a soul as curious as this. And so, distracted from his role, he paused short of abyss.

"Your words are wise, my tired friend, regale me with a tale of how a man can meet his end and not once fear or quail."

The old man closed his tired eyes, and spoke both firm and frail, "Few have ever called me wise, but I will share my tale:

"I made a living baking cakes, the prettiest you could buy. The best one that I ever baked is one that caught her eye.

“Now I shan't profane her fairness with humble words like mine, but her beauty had a rareness that saturates your mind.

“The first words that she spoke are: 'Does it make you glum, to know your precious works of art will all end up as crumbs?'

“I laughed, I'd never thought that way, but this was my reply: 'I suppose we must live for today, for tomorrow we die.'

“Months went by, we fell in love and life was verve and bliss. Even now, I daydream of her presence and her kiss.

“I saved up and I bought a ring with hopes to make her mine. But when I knelt, she slowly blinked and then she started crying.

“She told me of a rare disease she didn't have much time. Too scared to tell me lest I leave she kept it all inside.

“I held her that entire day; we wept a salty sea. But I told her 'We are here today, and that's enough for me.'

“Within a month I kissed my bride, the best day of my life. I swept her off her feet in pride and carried home my wife.

“Months went by, her health was poor; I rarely left her side. That's when you knocked on the door and helped her end the fight.

“Many folk have called me mad to put myself through that. And yes, today, I am still sad but that does not detract from every moment that we spent, the treasures of my days, just because each moment ends doesn't mean they go away.

“When everyhing begins or ends is hardly meaningful. Its beauty and value extends past time's constant pull.

“And so I find myself with Death but what have I to fear? I've enjoyed my every breath and lived my life in cheer.

“This ending does not change my past; my value won't decline. By simply being real I last in some moment of time."

Nobody knows where It came from. Some say the devil himself incubated It in his womb and birthed It from blood and bile to haunt mankind with Its horrors. Others say evil men in long white coats concocted It in unfeeling labs, fueled by the avarice of shadowy overlords. Others say It is a parasite, materializing from the shadows of the weakened mind, filling it with smoke and decay. And some say It’s nothing more than an unfortunate product of evolution or an impervious chain reaction—in other words, bad luck.

Whatever It is, I was twelve when It first sunk its barbed teeth into my father. I don’t think we really noticed It at first. But little by little It devoured him, each piece of my father replaced with calloused misery, until there was hardly anything of him left. And by the time we realized, it was too late. My father was nearly gone and It had replaced him. It was my father.

Every once in awhile when the conditions were right my father’s soul would resurface with a hearty laugh, a twinkle in his eyes, or a longer-than-expected embrace. These are my favorite memories of my father.

At other times, my father would sink so far beneath the surface that what stood in his place lost all resemblance. It would stand before me with twisted horns, acrid red eyes, and a forked tongue spewing rancor and spite.

And deep inside my father would watch. He would weep and thrash his limbs, forced to witness the horrors It kindled in his place. And when It slacked its grip he would emerge with tears, apologizing and begging for forgiveness. But empathy, conjured often enough, too swiftly wanes to apathy.

Towards the end, I suspect each resurfacing was prefaced by an ever more difficult battle. I do not know how often my father rose to fight It—how often he heeded the promise of Hope and lifted the unwieldy Sword of Change—but he eventually concluded the war against It was futile.

Perhaps, in a decisive battle, It raised the great obsidian Dagger of Despair and plunged it into Hope’s stomach. My father in shock as It unraveled Hope’s bloody red innards, strewing them about as a mockery of Ariadne’s yarn.

Or maybe my father simply grew doubtful of Hope, and abandoned it of his own accord.

Either way, hope became nothing more than a myth, and he was left alone to wander the labyrinth. The shadows of its walls no doubt converged with the passing of time, consuming him in their darkness. And in the darkness he drowned, his sunken lungs burned, and his skin blistered in agony. All he could do was watch It continue to devour him.

He saw his life wither away in Its control. He saw It wear his skin and sap his vitality. He saw It bleach the color from his eyes. He saw It sterilize the passions of his heart. He saw It spit at the sun until winter was endless. He saw It poison his mind, sowing resentment and wrath. He saw It living with his family, breaking their hearts, and eclipsing their future.

And eventually he could watch no more. He hated It more than he loved himself. And rather than watch It consume any more of him and his life, he would end It the only way he thought he could.

He raised a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

•••

As soon as I heard the gunshot I ran down the stairs and kicked open the locked door to his office. His body was crumpled on the floor with blood gurgling into a pool beneath his head, all the pain, anger, and strife spilling out of him. The remnants of a war.

It was dead. He had killed It. But It did not die without a cost. My father was dead too. One body. Two deaths.

This was my father’s final stand.

This was his victory.

•••

I don’t believe in life after death, but I still find shadows of both of them.

I find my father in my laugh. I find him in my mischief. I find him in my dreams. I try to hold onto these traces of him.

I find It when I hear my mother weep. I find It when the echo of a gunshot makes me flinch. I find It in my nightmares. I try to rid myself of these vestiges of It.

In the shadow of their death, I sometimes find myself longing to wander down the paths that could have been. My head speculates an alternate life with an unbroken father, and wonders if it is richer, happier, or more painless. If not that life, then one where my father found victory without death as a side effect. One where he found a way to get better; to still be here without Its curse. My heart aches for these fanciful paths. But hope for the past is a fool’s poison. The present is my dominion.