The Contents of a Child's Fist

The First time I saw The Bookbinder's Wife, the sky was midnight blue, like a very heavy pool suspended above the earth and ready to dump its contents on the inhabitants below.

*A Few Facts You Should Know*

1. You are Going to Die.

2. It's nothing personal; it happens to everyone.

Have I introduced myself? Sorry. I'm Death; so you can take my word on the aforementioned. Most people don't understand those facts. Most of them ignore them until it is too late and then they scream and argue and complain when they realize that those statements are true.

I hate the screaming. I prefer people to come prepared.

And, to be fair, there are a good number who do. There are plenty of people who tried their best to live their best, and aren't upset to be finishing a race well run.

But even with the screamers, the dead aren't the worst part.

What kills me (no pun intended) are the living. I try not to look at them. They don't look good. Human's faces are easier to read than books. And I don't like reading them when I'm working. All the pain and loss they have written all over them as I come to take the soul of their dead compatriots.

It always makes me wonder, for the millionth time, what is worth it? What makes a human being able to pick up and move on? With all the pain and horror in their lives, what makes those lives worth living?

Death is easier. Trust me. One way or the other, it is easier.

Focusing on the colors of the sky, of the day, at the moment I come to retrieve a soul, helps distract me from face-reading.

But it doesn't always work.

It didn't work the night I first saw the Bookbinder's Wife.

She wasn't anybody's wife, yet. She was only a little girl, with a dirty-tearstained face, and dirty-dishwater-colored hair.

I was retrieving two souls that night, those of her parents.

She was crying silently, an older woman gripping her shoulder, as the child stared at the scene of the accident.

It's ugly, the way death is presented to people Resa. So many only see the violent end and the loss. The side of Death, they see, is brutal.

I assure you, I am not a brutal person. It's just the road to me that is hard.

I knelt in the burning wreckage of the automobile, invisible to everyone but those I had come to collect. The man's soul blinked at me blearily, sleepy and disoriented. The woman's soul was asleep. They let me gather them in my arms without protesting. The sleepiness was good. It allowed them to miss what I saw—the sadness left in the wake of their departure.

I shouldn't have looked back.

I knew better.

But I did.

There was one little girl. Holding something. I glanced at her hand and realized she was clutching a scrap of paper and a pencil stub in her little, child fist. I was suddenly curious about what the paper was, what it said.

I wonder a lot of things. But I never have time to find answers. For Death, work never stops.

I pushed the little girl and the paper to the back of my mind as I took her parents home.

XxxXxxX

Author's Note: This is an idea I've had for several weeks. It was a joke that originally put Markus Zusak's Death, and Cornelia Funke's Resa in the same sentence. But since that moment, the figures have been inseperable in my my head; and this was bound to happen sooner or later.

I would like to write a full fic on them, on the many times Death's path must intersect with Resa Folchart. But I'm not promising a continuation just yet—merely saying I love the idea and would enjoy the continuation.

If there is anyone else who would enjoy that, I would greatly appreciate knowing.

And reviews are love. Feedback is the food of a writer's soul. Story hits are nice, but they are what bacterial waste is to cheese: kind of the same thing but so much more enjoyable in the latter form.

Thank you for your time, and happy reading!

~TheInkgirl