'BUT WHY DO YOU WISH TO CUT YOUR ARMS?' Death looked at the young minstrel with bemusement in his blue eyesockets.
"Like, y'know, it helps me to bleed away the pain," the black-clad teenager explained. His black was not the black of thieves, nor was it the black of Assasins. His was some kind of ridiculously tight black tunic and hose, with big black boots and floppy black hair and black eyeliner of the sort Death had last seen among the Seamstresses. He was also, unsurprisingly given his current company, deceased, and rather upset about that despite his oft-professed wish to end it all. His name was Bobby Sniles, although he would prefer to be known as Edgar Deep.
'THE PAIN? CUTTING YOUR ARMS DOES NOT MAKE MORE PAIN?'
"It makes the deep inner pain leave me for but a scant second of my black abyss of a life?" Bobby asked rather uncertainly.
'CREATING MORE PAIN REMOVES THE PAIN?' Death frowned. 'I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.'
"No, but y'see, it's like, erm, the pain deep inside. It's more than the trivial surface pain. Um. Turgid emotions flowing out with the wallowing redness of the blood." The young man faltered. Honestly, it all seemed a lot more trite now he thought about it. "I wrote a poem about it," he added rather more confidently. Poetry was a certainty. "Would you like to see it?"
'I RATHER THINK NOT.' The blue light of the scythe cut the air with a whisper of parting atoms and the still rather confused spirit of the late Bobby Sniles faded away.
Death paused for a moment, then picked up the razor blade that had made the late Bobby Sniles late. The candlelight glinted off the steel and blood covering it, giving it an odd sheen. 'BLEEDING AWAY THE PAIN?'
-----
Albert hobbled up the stairs for his monthly bath. Not that there were months here, in the multihued black of Death's domain, but he took a bath every month all the same. It was a matter of habit.
He paused at an odd scraping noise leaking through the door of the bathroom. Somewhat warily, he pushed the black door open and looked inside.
The master was sitting in the bath, muttering under his breath about 'RIVERS OF BLOOD' and 'WASHING AWAY THE PAIN'. Arrayed around him were several metal objects; several blunted razors and kitchen knives of increasing size, all blunted or in extreme cases snapped. He was currently working away at his left wrist.
"Ahem," coughed Albert, and when he got no response… "AHEM!" coughed Albert, phlegm spasming its way up his throat.
'AH, ALBERT.' Death put down the hacksaw and stood up, black robe trailing in the empty bath, dusted with white bone shavings. 'I AM CUTTING AWAY THE PAIN. BUT THE PAIN DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE BEING CUT AWAY. IN FACT, I AM FINDING IT EXCEPTIONALLY DIFFICULT TO FEEL THE PAIN AT ALL.'
"Ah, master, where'd you pick this one up?"
'A YOUNG BOY IN ANKH MORPORK. HE BELIEVED THAT CUTTING ONE'S ARMS WOULD RESULT IN A BETTER QUALITY OF LIFE. IT CERTAINLY SEEMED TO RESULT IN A BETTER QUALITY OF DEATH.'
"Ah, yes, weeeerll, that'll be the problem, right?" Albert scratched at the back of his wrinkled neck thoughtfully. "Hormones and that. It's part of bein' young and havin' yer whole life ahead of yer, innit? Wantin' to end it all. But when you've got no life left to speak of, 's a lot better to be alive."
'I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND HUMANS,' Death declared plaintively.
Then his hand fell off.
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A/N
I LOVE Discworld and I LOVE Death. So imagine my shock when I found a livejournal rant about Death being shown as a cutter. My shock lasted all of ten seconds before I realised the potential XD
I'm happy with my Death, and I'm quite pleased with Bobby Sniles too. Not so sure about Albert. Let me know what you think :)
