The End of the Row
Death dragged his hand down the page of an impossibly large book, flipping it to the next as he finished examining it. His lips curled up into a smile as he noted the uniformity of the filled in rows and columns. Every box was filled in just as it should be. He didn't have many pleasures, so he indulged in a smile at these moments.
He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and closing his eyes, sighing contentedly, hundreds of different scenes playing in his mind from around the world. Each death happening at that very moment played simultaneously in his head. His physical self didn't need to be there to take a soul. After all, he was Death, and he was everywhere at once.
"Satisfying, isn't it?"
Death slowly opened his eyes to gaze at the small man that was perched on his desk, arms crossed.
"What is?"
"People dying when they're supposed to."
"Of course it is," Death snorted derisively. "What kind of stupid question is that?
The man shrugged innocently, but the mirth dancing around in his bright blue eyes mocked Death. "Must have been really annoying then."
Death rubbed his brow, the frustration already building. "What must have been really annoying?"
"The three brothers. I hear the witches read that story to their kiddies at night." He tipped his head back and chuckled. "Imagine, your worst moment being told as a bedtime story to those snot-nosed children that think themselves immortal."
"I got them in the end though, didn't I? I always do," he said smugly.
The man shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
Death's eyes flitted over the man's face. He knew he was being goaded. He knew he should let it go. "What do you mean, you guess?"
"Well, there was that guy from Nazareth. The Jew. What was his name?"
Death waved his hand dismissively at the man, turning away from him to continue perusing the book. "Don't talk to me about that carpenter. He doesn't count. His name isn't even in here."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Being the Son of God does give him a pass."
"Exactly," Death said, satisfied that he'd ended that line of conversation.
"I almost thought Dumbledore had you though."
Death let out a deep sigh
The man held up his thumb and finger. "He was this close."
"Please. He wasn't anywhere close. He merely prolonged the inevitable. That is all. You know as well as I do that no one escapes Death."
The man smiled, obviously reaching the point of the conversation he'd been steering Death towards since he arrived. "Is that so? What about that one?"
Death shuffled his feet, eyes riveted on the book but not seeing anything written there. "What one?"
The man stood up. "Oh, you know the one." He leaned over and started flipping pages, quickly finding a page with a worn ribbon in the middle. "Look at that. You've even bookmarked it," he said with a coo.
Death slapped the man's hand away. "Don't touch my book. You know how I feel about that." But even as he said it, his eyes wandered down to the all too familiar name half-way down the page. It appeared to be the same as all the other names that came before and after it. But at the end of the row there was no end date and in the box before it—labled expected end date— date after date had been scratched out. His fingers ran over the worn lettering of her name.
Hermione Jean Granger
The man watched Death, tilting his head to study the look on his face. "She was supposed to die when she was 8 years old. But you didn't take her then. Why not?"
"She was too important."
"Really?" The man popped his lips. "Huh, I remember you saying before that no one is too important."
Death had said that. Many times. You couldn't see what he had seen and not know that. He had been there when Alexander the Great had died. Yet, that same day, hundreds of thousands of others had died. From one of history's greats down to a homeless beggar that no one had even noticed slipping away, he'd been there for them all. But no matter the status, they had all still died; not one of them better than the other.
"Well, circumstances alter cases. And in this circumstance, she was needed to prevent the early death of countless people. People that would have died before their time because of that ridiculous man that thought he could outwit Death."
"You know I hate when you talk about yourself in third person."
Death rolled his eyes.
The man tapped his finger on one of the scratched out dates. "Says here she was supposed to die when she was 13, but that didn't happen either."
Death pursed his lips. "She was saved by her own wit. That had nothing to do with me."
The man nodded. "Oh, yes, because she just happened to find the book she needed in the library the very day she required it. Yes, very likely."
"So I nudged her along, so what? The circumstances required my interference. If she'd had died, that Weasley girl would have died as well. It wasn't her time. That blithering lightning bolt boy was a sorry excuse for a saviour. I had to intervene."
"Okay, and then she was scheduled to go again at 16."
"Once again, only because of that idiot boy. She was still needed."
"Right, to save all those lives." He tapped his fingers against the book. "How do you explain Hitler then?"
Death removed the man's hand. "An oversight."
The man resumed his previous position against the desk. "Wow, that is a huge oversight." He held up his hand. "But that's another matter entirely. Why don't you tell about the last time you saved her. The time after the war."
Death visibly flinched.
The man continued. "She wasn't needed anymore. So why didn't you take her? What circumstance was there then?"
Death clutched his chest where it often ached over the centuries. The feeling of the emptiness that resided there had become familiar and was apart of him. But ever since he'd first seen Hermione Jean Granger, when he had gone to collect her soul at the tender age of eight, that ache had become painful; a constant reminder of what he didn't have. And every time he had gone to collect her soul and had hesitated long enough for her to live, or intervened so her life was spared, the pain had made its presence known. And that last time… he swallowed past the lump in his throat. That last time…
Death leaned back and watched as his ethereal self gathered soul after soul. His wispy hands reaching out to coax people to him, each soul successfully gathered allowing another row in the book to be completed. All the faces seemed to blur together as hundreds of thousands of people died in a single day.
He paused on one face that stuck out from the rest. It was pale and full of fear mixed with determination; her usual bushy hair hung wet and limp to her shoulders. She ran a blade across her wrist, biting her lip from the pain and blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes; then she moved onto the other one.
His eyes flew open in alarm and suddenly he was there in her bathroom. He could only watch as the blood flowed from her wrists, stark against her already white skin that became more pale as the life drained from her.
She lowered herself down to the floor, resting her back against the tub and letting her head fall backwards. The blood began to fall to the floor, first in drips and then in rivulets, pooling around her.
No, no, no!
He dropped to his knees beside her, wanting to touch her face or hold her hand. He reached out, stopping his fingers inches from her cheek. He couldn't… he couldn't touch her or her soul would be gathered and she'd be gone.
Her head lolled to the side and she looked at him, a soft smile bringing the light back into her eyes. "I know you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
And there was that ache in his chest again. When she was dying was the only time she could ever see him. He wanted to scream out; to yell for someone to help her. But no one would be able to hear him. No one except the woman who was dying in front of him.
Her hand shook as she raised it, reaching out to him. "I'm ready."
He recoiled. "No, choose life, please. Don't choose...me."
Her hands dropped to the floor, eyes fluttering shut as she laughed softly. "You keep rejecting me. A girl might get her feelings hurt…" She lost consciousness, the reminants of a smile still on her lips.
He bent over her, as close as he could be without actually touching her. He could still feel the life there; a small fluttering like a birds wings. As long as he didn't touch her, she'd live.
"I'm right here," he said.
She had to live.
The man spoke from behind him, bringing Death back to the present. "She wanted to die," he said softly. "Why couldn't you just let her?"
Death said nothing, just stared at her name and the empty box at the end of the row.
"Haven't you perverted her life enough?" The man pressed. "Giving her more years than she was due?"
Was her life perverted? Was she living a life that was never meant to be? Could she sense that?
"Did you honestly think you could save her from her fate?"
"She's alive, isn't she?"
"But for what? So that she could take her own life?"
Death hung his head. "No, I just…" his voice petered out. He just what? Wanted to have a normal life where the ache in his chest wasn't from the pain of emptiness? Wanted to escape this nightmare of himself? In all his years of being responsible for gathering souls, he'd been tempted just that one time to save someone. He covered his face with his hands
"You drove her to kill herself. If you had just done your job she wouldn't be broken!" the man yelled into his ear.
Death swung around, lashing out with his arm. "Leave me be!"
But his arm swung through empty space. There was no one there; there never was.
And that familiar ache returned to his chest.
HSWW Assignment #1
Demonology Task #10: Write about someone suicidal
Writing Club
Disney Challenge- Themes: Fate and Free Will- write about someone fighting a so called destiny
Liza's Loves #12: Write a story with a memory/flashback
Angel's Arcade- Soundtrack: #6 Refusal to Die by Zeus: write about an immortal
Film Festival #17: (dialogue) "choose life"
WC: 1,779
