Decisions, Decisions
by Mab
Blair blinked. Whatever he'd expected, this stony desert under a dark star-sprinkled sky wasn't it. The seven foot tall skeleton, dressed in black robes, was a little surprising too.
“Well,” Blair said, nervously eyeing the ambulatory figure carrying a scythe in its naked metacarpals and phalanges, “this is generic.”
“THAT'S ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT.” The skeleton's eye sockets blazed blue, and Blair wondered why the colour blue always seemed to mark his and Jim's eldritch experiences. “HAVE YOU MADE YOUR MIND UP YET? IT'S JUST THAT THIS IS ONE OF MY BUSY TIMES.”
Blair felt at a loss. “Excuse me?”
The skeleton shrugged its bony shoulders as if it would sigh. “I REALLY PREFER THE MORE CUT AND DRIED PARTS OF THE DUTY, BUT GIVEN THAT YOU ARE, IN A MINOR WAY, A PERSONIFICATION I'M HERE AS SOMETHING OF A FORMALITY. JUST IN CASE.”
Blair hoped that he didn't look as stupidly blank as he felt. “Make up my mind? I'm, uh, I'm - look; you're Death, aren't you?
“ONE OF THEM.”
Blair swallowed. The last thing he remembered was – what? Stress, confusion, noise. A driving impact into his chest, another into his gut. Jim's shout of rage and grief.
“So, I'm dead, right?”
Death tapped its foot. “EVENTUALLY. SO IF YOU COULD PERMIT ME TO DO THE HONOURS.” It lifted the scythe.
“Wait, wait,” Blair yelped, dancing back a little. “You said 'eventually'. So, I'm not dead yet?”
“YOU ARE AT THE EDGE OF THE JOURNEY.”
Blair looked out over the trackless expanse all around them.
“So if I'm not dead, why are you here?”
The voice, deep and measureless, weighted in Blair's skull with a tone that was almost petulant.
“BLOWED IF I KNOW. I DON'T USUALLY ATTEND ON EVERY TOM, DICK AND HARRY. LOOK, JUST A MINUTE.” It fumbled within its robes and drew out a small notebook, which it quickly thumbed through. “AH, HERE WE ARE. MINOR ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATIONS; SEE TRUE LOVE, DESTINED LOVE, LOVE AGAINST THE ODDS.” If it had possessed the muscles to create eyebrow ridges, Blair felt that they would have risen as it read the last sentence. “DON'T TOUCH THE HAIR.”
Blair self-consciously pushed the mass of curls back from his face. “Oookay. And this means what, precisely?”
“YOU ARE SYMBOLIC, AND YOU ARE MAYBE DYING AND SO I AM HERE TOO. SYMBOLICALLY.” There was a tone of distaste in Death's voice. “REALLY, I'VE GOT OTHER THINGS TO DO, YOU KNOW.”
Blair shivered. “Maybe dying?”
“TWO BULLETS, MASSIVE BLOOD LOSS, THE USUAL.”
“But I don't have to die, do I? I mean, if I came back because of the power of love and everything, that would be pretty symbolic too, right? And you could get on with all that important business. 'Cause, honestly, man, I don't want to keep you or anything.”
Death stooped down in what Blair felt was an oddly conspiratorial manner. “IT WOULD HURT TO GO BACK. A LOT.”
Blair swallowed again. “Wouldn't be the first time.”
“TELL YOU WHAT. IF YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT THIS, YOU WANT TO GO BACK THAT WAY.” It jerked a bony thumb in a direction that looked like all the other directions to Blair.
“Uh, okay. Thanks.”
“YOU'RE WELCOME.”
Blair trekked a long time. When he saw the edge of blue-lit jungle, he knew he was where he was meant to be. But then, if you couldn't trust in one of life's certainties, what could you trust in?
Return to Story Index