Disclaimer: see chapter one.
Chapter 5
I'm a collector, to the point of being considered a hoarder. Don't judge me; humans collect things too. I've seen a vast array of meaningless items – stamps, thimbles, spoons, planes, trains… the list goes on and on – displayed proudly on their mantle pieces or their showcase cabinets.
I collect the thing most precious to you. I just collect the thing that defines you as a distinct individual.
I collect you, and you are demoted. You are simply one of the masses, a tiny fragment of a jigsaw puzzle, that, when completed, forms a picture, a kaleidoscope where everything is the same.
I can't see much of him, since his Death capsule is shrouded in darkness, but I know his face is contorted in pain. I can watch him panic as he can't feel anything below his waist. I see him bubble out blood from his mouth; observe him as he gags on the smell of fire and gasoline.
I'll be honest with you; there are many places I hate going. Illegal street drag races are one of the worst, but irresponsible, impulsive seventeen year olds will do whatever the little voice in their head tells them to.
Food was an indulgence of mine before I was employed as Death, and street drag races – with fires come the smell of singed meat – reminds me of barbeques gone wrong.
There is a metal pole sticking out from between his true and floating ribs. Don't ask me where it comes from, but it will be the Death of him. I'll make sure of it, unless the Angels interfere, as they are so prone to do.
He groans again, an anguished animal, and more blood spurts out from around the object he's impaled on, staining his drag racing champion jacket from last year. I guess that this is the modern day way of being run through.
In Death 101 (yes, there are qualification courses for this gig), the mentor had told all of us that we were only visible during a person's final hour, give or take the odd few minutes.
Out of his peripheral vision, he sees me. I can tell by the way his shoulders sag. Unlike his older brothers, the youngest has no problem with giving up without a fight.
That's disappointing; when my job is harder, collecting their souls is more rewarding.
He nods in my direction and the baseball cap he's been wearing sideways slips over his eyes. Whether I will be granting him a reprieve by following his request, or whether I am squandering his chance of achieving his full potential (such as it is, if he's giving up so easily) remains to be seen.
I can hear his heartbeat pounding in my ear, slowly weakening under the strain. I hold out my hand, an open invitation.
Hesitation on his part.
That's all the Angels need. They shimmy their way into his coffin, inject something straight into his neck.
It doesn't seem to have worked. I can still hear his heartbeat fading.
They mutter words of encouragement to him. That's all he needs. His eyes flutter open, flick in my direction. They glow with the light of someone who's realised that they've been given a second chance.
And in that moment, I know that it's not happening. I do the only thing I can do.
I cut my losses, and earmark him for a later date.