L’ Amour de Mort
A thousand tears contain the fears that send his heart racing. Within that frozen moment, fixed beneath the steel eye, each emotion gives rise to the next. Within the fear he finds his sadness, the lingering remorse for things left undone, blended with the desire to hold on to what has been. From within the sadness there comes a stolen hint of happiness, of memories so dear even the promise of the bullet could not rob them of their joy. Then there comes that final feeling, where the anger emerges through the pitiless sorrows, and all at once he searches for someone to blame. Inside he curses the paths that have brought him here, he blames himself, and so too the man who holds the steel pressed to his skin. Then there remains but that final damning curse, the one meant for none save God.
The Other stands in watch, the gun nearly shaking in his hands as he contemplates the resistance of the trigger. Within this Other there is another battle taking place, one forged through the tumultuous fires of disparity, and belief born necessity. Inside his heart there is just as much to be discovered, a countless many fears locked behind a curtain of withheld tears. But there has been a far different road which has brought him here. One whose stones are carved from slabs of disparity, whose winding trails traverse the deepest shadows, and that same path which first placed the gun in his hands.
Within the garbage filled alley no one can hear the sobbing pleas of the man on his knees. In his mind, he has already died a thousand times. Even the Other can barely hear the begging urgency beneath the siren swelled ambiance of the encroaching city. Yet, despite the hopeless dread that has robbed the kneeling stranger of his small reserves of courage, the man with the gun has no intention of killing him. All he wants is the money in his wallet, the means with which to escape the horrors of circumstance, and a chance to see another day. But what neither knows is that there is another who stands in their presence.
Tucked away in the darkness, beyond the reach of eyes and the confines of touch, Death stands as a ghastly shifting shadow. It watches, waiting for the moment, for that instance of finality that is promise to every mortal soul. Until then, Death must wait. It has been here so many times before. This is all it has ever known. Seeing the strong bent before broken, hearing the brokered bargains with a hundred gods that were never there, and a countless many promises rendered to whispers on the wind. For in the end, bathed in the pale glow of that last flicker of life, only Death remains as a final forlorn friend.
Death circles the two. It can feel the racing pace of the kneeling man’s heart above the rattling bones within the Other clenching his gun. It is easy to see that both are afraid, yet in different ways. Death studies them, as if unsure what should come next, but never daring to touch. Time has no bearing on this conspiring specter as it watches for any means with which to understand. Mortal moments made shapeless obscurities to that which knows not itself. To Death, finality has no meaning, it is a foreign concept trapped within a world of objects. And yet, despite its distance from that promise of the end, Death knows what must be done.
The Other holding the gun grows more worried with each passing second of the broken man’s sobs. For beneath the weight of his fears the kneeling man does not understand how simple it would be to escape his allotted end. If only he could brush away the terror, reach into his back pocket, and give the Other what he desires. But such a peaceful resolution is beyond his grasp, for the gun draws closer to realizing its intended purpose. It is becoming clear that the only way the Other will get what he wants is if he takes it by force. Such a small thought, teetering upon the precipice of possibility, but the Other holds it at bay. The man with the gun has never killed before, nor has he ever considered himself capable of such a horrific feat. But it is then, aided by anxious thoughts and the cruelty of consequence, that Death leans over and whispers: It is his time.
The words are the final push as the finger pulls back on the trigger. Death watches as the bullet bridges the distance between them. Even before the kneeling stranger can finish his final plea, the bullet finds its mark. Death knows that this is the reason why it is here, that the moment when the body hits the floor may mark the end of the vessel, but does not free the soul. Even before the man who pulled the trigger can reach down to grab the wallet, Death kneels first. Hearing the gasping screams of the soul locked deep within its corporeal confines. All it takes is a solitary touch for it to find its freedom. A cold finger brushes along his brow, a parting caress, and in that moment the man is no more.
Before Death can pull away its lifeless gaze the Other has long since vanished. He has run away with his intended prize but now inescapably branded by the deed. The blood has long since blended within the still pools of water resting upon the cracked concrete. The siren stops outside the alleyway as Death watches them try to reclaim the departed. How many times has Death seen such senseless struggle? How often have family members screamed at the heavens and kissed cold lips to comfort only themselves? It is always the same for those who are left behind. Only the dead know their way forward. A lover’s heartfelt anguish, a mother’s wailing screams, all for which mortals had ever shed their tears, but had never swayed the likes of Death.
By the time Death had turned away from the corpse the environment had already changed. Night had given way to day and with it there would be found another awaiting their end. Time had ever been a foreign concept, for Death had never known a beginning nor an end. It had heard mortals speaking of such things, of the passing of days, of changing seasons, and the linear nature of time. But to Death there had only ever been moments, those of endurance, and those of perishing. One followed the next in such a way that Death was always where it needed to be. Each passing soul led to the next, always moving further from those that came before. Nights would blend into days in a way that seldom found one proceeding the other. Such had always been the nature of Death’s timeless eternity.
The city was now nowhere to be seen among Death’s suburban surroundings. In the distance, children could be heard laughing in a nearby park. Closer to where he had appeared, cars drove by along the narrow streets that separated the rows of homes. There were more than a dozen souls scattered about the sprawl, but none that appeared ready to forever leave the lands of the living. A passing man coughed as he gripped his chest, but even upon hearing his phlegm filled gasps Death knew his time was still to come. From a backyard across the road, the scream of an adolescent boy rippled through the air, but even Death could sense that this would be nothing more than a scarring burn. It was then that it heard the ball and the screeching of rubber tires.
To the likes Death, mortal decisions had seldom made sense. The manner in which the living often abused the one body they were given showed how easily some could discard it, even for what they believed were the right reasons. To a being charged with carrying away the departed, the soul was an object that did not cherish difference. Just as Death, the soul did not cling to its manifestation, it remained indifferent to its constitution, as man or woman, as elder or child. All the soul cared for was enduring, to continue providing the spark that had first ignited life. And yet, mortals had created concepts of endearment that often privileged others over themselves. Concepts such as a mother’s love for her child.
Even before the driver realizes what has happened, before the ball has even stopped rolling to the other side of the street, both the child and her mother lay sprawled across the road. Neither appear conscious as the horrified mob begins to approach from all corners of the neighborhood. Shame, condemnation, threats of all varieties, each hurled towards the awestruck driver who quickly falls into shock. An ambulance is called, the proper authorities promise to be on their way, but their fate is no longer in mortal hands. For Death alone decides the destinies of the dying.
It circles the woman and her child as the living watch, unaware that a shadow passes unravished by the sun. It can hear the sobs evoked by empathy, clenched fists accompanying gritting teeth, but even further away there comes the sounds resonating from within the fallen. It appears as if the child will survive, despite her shallow breaths, her spirit refuses to let go before having tasted life. However, the child’s endurance will come at the cost of something she cannot replace, a mother and her love. The toll of her mother’s parental courage has been the greatest price any mortal can pay, their own life. Beneath the harsh screams of her soul, Death reaches down and places its palm against her pale cheek. Unable to feel the warmth within her, it whispers: you are free of your burden. Death pushes away a solitary hair from her face, those still alive believing it to be nothing more than the wind. Standing, it watches her soul pass. With that, Death turns away and fades once more.
How long had it continued its dance around the dying? Even Death could not know. Such a fate had been the only life it had ever known. There was no way to tell if it had once been mortal, if it had been man or woman, or if it had even had a soul of its own. It felt as if there was some memory from a time long forgotten, fading apparitions, saturated senses, and once hallowed names. But Death could never be sure if these memories were truly its own or those that had belonged to the departed. Until it reached its own end, Death would continue as that shadow separating the stars. Only ever seeing their brilliant light from afar but never allowed to feel the comfort of their warmth.
Another soul and another moment. The surroundings have greatly changed this time, the sun still clings to the sky, only now it hovers over an endless jungle. A stream of wild sounds pours in from all sides onto a small clearing where a fire has nearly consumed everything. A lone wooden home transforms into ash with each creeping second, the flames still coursing with a power that dares challenge the fading sun. Death can feel no one inside, but it knows the dying are never far.
A woman kneels before two men, her back turned towards the spectral watcher who has arrived to witness her end. Death cannot see her face but can feel the blood rushing through her veins. The emotions do not reveal hints of fear or sadness, but of anger and a furious rage. With their guns steadily poised, they believe themselves ready killers. Soldiers with one purpose and one purpose alone, and the coldness that reveals their fear of seeing themselves as anything but heroes. There can be no questioning the events that should follow. But destiny would wait, stayed by the one hand that could delay its ceaseless course.
Death studied the moment and found only a familiar face, the countenance of War. Ravished victims that had long since lost what they had lived for, and those who had traded any semblance of a life worth living. The two reveal a bloodlust driven by a necessity to survive in the world that had rendered such harsh acts as truth. The lost subjects of a confused kingdom. The woman would surely lose in the events to follow, there is little chance to survive with only her hands to protect against bullets. But as death walks beside her, it suddenly perceives something unfamiliar written across her features.
By all appearances, this was a person, just like any other. Another woman’s face amongst a sea of those already departed. Black skin which had retained a familiar softness despite the woman’s evident strength. Dark weathered hair hanging far below her shoulders, tattooed markings with sacred meanings, and a strong build from years of arduous use. Her face reveals her spirit’s willingness to endure, for there are no tears, no stains of hopelessness, only an unshakeable fortitude. And then there remain her eyes, two auburn gems that glow as if kissed by fire. And in those eyes, Death becomes lost. It is a strange poetry that hypnotizes its senses. For the first time in its existence, Death beholds a thing it had believed could exist within the imagination of mortals, a thing called Beauty.
Death knows what is meant to happen. It knows what words should be whispered into the ears of the two men. It knows that the bullets are meant to find their mark and tear through the woman’s heart. Even that her body is meant to fall, leaving only the soul to carry on into the unknown before it. That with a single touch, her soul is meant to be freed, and the body released from its burden. But once more, a truth remains, that fate delays for none save Death.
Without caring, or knowing the repercussions, an unexpected urge consumes Death. It steps closer to the men with their machineguns, knowing all too well the mandates of its nature. But instead of whispering words, silence is left in the ears of those eager killers. Instead an impossible idea comes to the mind of Death. Reaching its hand around the closest of the two, it caresses his chin between thumb and forefinger and whispers: you must fall before your time. The second soldier is soon to follow as death brushes the back of its hand across his scarred features: may you sleep in silence. With that, Death steps back to witness what will follow.
There is no sign of any change as the first of the two tightens his grip around his gun. As he clings on, a sudden pain forces his free hand towards his heart. There is no fighting the failing body within him as his knees buckle and he collapses. Disoriented, already feeling the cold brush of death silencing the sounds within him, the second man does not turn quickly enough to face the spray of bullets that follows his friend’s death. Clutching the blood from where the bullets have gone through, he too falls in his place as the two depart. The woman stands as the lone survivor.
A look of confusion is written across her face as she stares in disbelief. The fire still rages, the birds cry, and Death remains captivated. No part of him wishes to see the soul that has evoked such a feeling within him perish. Beauty is something the likes of which Death has never seen before. Even as her perceived strength gives way to hysterical shock, the peculiar feeling remains. The woman stands to her feet and with a final glance towards her burning home she runs into the jungle, never thinking twice about the gift left by whatever force has allowed her to live.
Death knows it is time to depart, that turning away means another moment, another needing to die, but for a third time, fate is denied. There is no telling what will happen as Death follows the Beauty that has escaped into the depths of the jungle. New thoughts now replace those which had once guided Death. Rather than remaining a slave to the present, to the moment and its victim, Death looks forward, trying to see beyond the prison of its immediacy. And there she appears, running just ahead, unsure where to go, but ever striving forward. Death can feel that same sensation that had first been evoked by the woman’s beauty stirring within the depths of its being.
The woman runs as far as her feet can carry her before falling beside a pool of water. Just as a deprived animal, she crawls up to its surface and gorges herself from the clear pond. Death does not cease to watch as it rests upon a nearby rock. Even the simplest of actions evokes only more admiration and a deeper yearning to simply remain in her presence. There is a strange fascination unlike any Death has known while watching the dying. There emerges a new urge, to fight against this creature’s end rather than leading her towards it.
Before Death can consider anything more, the woman suddenly collapses onto her back and laughs, “Ha, ha, ha. It is a miracle I am able to even breath right now. To be graced by the sun, to crunch the earth beneath my toes, and even in feeling the pains of my body.”
A smile unlike any Death had seen before stretches across the woman’s lips. Watching her happiness ebbing forth from her very soul is breathtaking. It transforms the very essence of life into something different, into something more than simply a path between the beginning and the end. For most of its existence, Death has seen life as little more than an interruption for the spirit, an inconvenience for the soul and its true nature. But now, seeing Beauty radiating with all of its heartfelt warmth, dying seems such a cruel fate for such a blessed being. But amidst such joys, there suddenly comes another sensation arising from the depths of its being. If Death can give it any name, then it is that of Fear.
For the first time in its existence, Death does not wish to see such light fade from amongst the tapestry of stars. It does not want to imagine all the ways with which she could meet her end, and the fact it would be by his hand that her spark would finally fade. Fear has made Death feel powerless in the face of Beauty’s mortality. The longer it watches, the more cannot help but feel as if it could never let go of such a creature. It would do anything to make sure she survives. So, it is decided that Death will remain as a silent protector. Forever more, Death would watch over Beauty.
So, Death lingers, refusing to turn away for even a second, for fear of losing its Beauty. It watches as day gives way to night, holding its vigil as she finds a refuge for sleep. It watches the jungles, scans the skies, and even challenges the darkness should the shadows dare find form. In that silent veiled eternity, each of the woman’s subtle movements evoke only a deeper yearning with his lifeless heart. To Death, there had never been a more perfect expression of the captivating ecstasies bound to the mortal soul. It was as if this woman had been the essence that had first given beauty its shape. Suspended amongst such captivating thoughts, Death hardly notices the first rays of sun spilling over the horizon.
Beauty awakes shortly after dawn. Brushing away the sleep from her eyes, letting out a large yawn, and stretching the soreness from bruised bones. Death watches and once more becomes lost in her splendors. Transfixed by a subtle grace not easily found in the brutish banality of the world, Death follows as she ventures forth into a new day. What wonderous joys felt through the darkness of the fading night now only heightened by the light of day. And so it was that Beauty continued to live her life, unaware of the fixed gaze that refused to yield its watch, as Death took its place behind her.
Days soon became weeks, and weeks transformed into months. How many suns had set and moons crossed the night sky? Death could not be sure, for its gaze seldom strayed from what it held most dear. The watchful shadow had come to enjoy the great comforts in their silent moments together, when all others departed, and the world seemed theirs alone. Although Beauty could not perceive her spectral suitor, there was an unfamiliar cold that ever followed in her wake. In truth, the woman had often contemplated the events of that faithful day when Death had found her. But with each absurd possibility, she would brush away the notion, and continue with her life. Until one faithful morning when everything changed.
On the outskirts of the jungle, within the small village that had replaced Beauty’s all but forgotten home, a formless creature stalked its inhabitants. It was a beast even Death could not thwart, for it walked upon no feet, and soared without the aid of wings. A thing that had no need for claws nor sharp teeth to feast upon its prey. Instead, all it required was a single breath. Pestilence has found its way to the Beauty’s doorstep, and in the face of such a force, Death held no power. The fear grew with each new victim that fell within their village, and for the first time in all of its existence, Death felt helpless.
In the beginning, the disease ravished but a few, yet none passed through the threshold of the mortal kingdom. The villagers all whispered of how such strange things could be possible. Each questioning whether their gods, the angels, or even spirits from long before, had each abandoned them. For where once hearts would cease beating, and lungs no longer drew breath, the dying now lingered upon the precipice of passing. Some even beginning for the end. There also came other such stories, stories which had stolen their way into the imagination of the locals. A tale of a man who had taken a bullet through the heart but could not die. In place of dying, the injured victim had slipped into a comma, his organs refusing to shut down, trapping his soul in the body that had long since failed him. Sickness, injury, and even the most destructive of pleasures, no longer fulfilled their promised ends. Death had abandoned the dying. In the place of passing, a thousand souls screamed. But no matter the cost, should the long waiting departed scream forever and the heavens shudder, Death would not turn its back on Beauty.
Sickness plagued the villagers for the weeks that passed beneath the shadow of Fear. One by one, each fell. Before long, only a handful remained. But those fortunate few had locked themselves in their simple dwellings, self-condemned prisoners from the horrors waiting without. Then, there came a time when only Beauty and a single villager remained standing. Beauty had sat alone, huddled in a corner, rekindling fond memories long since passed, and enduring simply for the sake of itself. A hammering had come at her door as the last of the villagers pleaded for help, the disease had captured yet another as its thrall. The panicked voice belonged to that of another woman who threatened to force her way in should entry not be granted. Beauty cradled herself in the corner of her home, humming a soft song in hopes of drowning out the madness, as the dying woman screamed. But then there came a final sound which was followed by a loud thud.
Death pulled its hand away from the disease ridden countenance of the final villager and whispered its parting peace: your suffering is no more. Even as Beauty found the courage to stand once more, she froze before her door, afraid of what fate had befallen a woman she had once called, friend. There was no life to be found outside, only the dead, and the fact that once more she alone had survived. Walking through the village it was easy to tell this was no longer a home, this had become a graveyard. It was there, in the heart of the tarnished bed of memories, and followed by that deepest shadow, that Beauty turned towards the skies and shouted:
“Twice I have endured as all others fell! Twice fortune has smiled on me as it has grimaced upon the rest! Twice I have found myself alone. I know you are there,” her eyes scanning the village. “Whether you are an angel, a spirit, or some benevolent god…thank you! Thank you for allowing me to live! What I have done to deserve such a friend, I will never know, but your company is welcome and you will always have a place by my side.”
With that, Beauty smiled and Death felt a warmth like none before. It wanted to reach out to the woman it had come to care for, it wanted to hold her, to brush her hair through its fingers, but would not dare. For Death’s touch held the end of all things, even those most cherished amongst the living. Once more, it watched the bountiful ecstasies shining through Beauty’s smile and rising from the auburn seas of her eyes. For a moment, Death could not help feeling as if this would last forever. That until the end of time he would preserve her, and among the final moments of the universe, it would be Death and Beauty which would remain. Once more, fate had been denied, but what even Death did not know is that fate could not be denied forever.
The end had appeared in the smallest of ways and in the most unlikely of places. Months had passed since the sickness, and many villages had come and gone. Having gone out to gather supplies, the woman had been lost in the subtle notes of a cherished song that spilled through her lips. Death knew it as her most prized possession, a lullaby preserved from childhood, and stolen through into the coming of age. A serene song from loving lips could not have sounded more sweet. Death had become lost in each graceful note that sat pursed on her lips. And beneath that hypnotic trance, neither had taken note of the inevitable.
A steep cliff waited on the other side of a great tree, one whose roots pierced even the weather stones that led to the jungles far below. All it had taken was a solitary falter in her footing for Beauty to begin her plummet. The fall had felt like a lingering eternity to Beauty, but to Death it had felt longer than any life it had known. Fear, horror, confusion, and guilt, all prevailed the shrouded shape of Death as it raced down to find her. It did not take long for it to discover where she had fallen, for even from afar it could not avoid the screams of her soul.
Beauty’s body had been broken. Limbs jutting through, branches piercing her skin, and an anguish which had stolen the fire from her once bright gaze. Death panicked in the face of his most cherished fading spirit. It covered its ears to deny the screams of her soul, it covered its eyes to shelter itself from her suffering, but still it did not dare to turn away. Death could find no comfort in the surrounding world, nor in its own thoughts. It knew the truths of dying, the force calling back the spirit, but how little it knew of life and the living. Blood was everywhere. Death could feel it seeping into her lungs. It could sense her heart’s offbeat rhythm starting to slow between wheezing breaths. And with what little energy still clinging to her, Beauty opened her eyes and pleaded:
“Oh watchful guardian who has kept me alive as all others die. You who has saved me from the end so many times before…please! I beg you…let me go….” the words came between chocking tears. “You have done so much for me…you have been the dearest friend…despite having never seen your face. For that…I thank you…but it is…it is my time.”
Beauty’s soul screamed to be free. Screaming louder than any before it. For Beauty’s soul remember all the times it had been denied its freedom. How much time had passed since it had promised freedom from its burden. It remembered how many had perished in its place, of those taken before their time, and others whose hour too had been delayed. Thus, as Beauty thanked her silent protector, her soul cursed it. Despite every urge to end the howling anguish, Death could not bring itself to end a love that had been meant to endure until the end of time. Just as Death told itself her soul would hold on, that Beauty would survive this, no matter the cost, a final tear began to gently roll across her fading features.
The words were broken, but still found their way through, “Please…I beg of you…let me…let me die….”
For the first time since Death had abandoned its calling it had realized the consequence of its careless actions. So many had suffered for its selfishness, a thousand souls left crying towards the heavens, for none had been there to set them free. It was Death alone that gave the living their worth. There could be no genuine beauty without the promise of perishing, no joy in the beginning without the promise of an end; for life’s perfection lied only in the fact that it would not endure forever. Thus, bending low, with shaking hand, Death touched the face of Beauty and wiped away her solitary tear. It caressed her lips, brushed her hair, and with a final look of unconditional caring, it whispered: may your body perish, and your soul be set free, for love will never die. Death is only the beginning.
With one final smile beneath the broken rays of sun spilling through the jungle canopy, Beauty faded from the world. Death was alone once more, as it had begun, and as it would end. There was a part of it that wanted to stay with the dead, to watch her body decay, and cherish her being even as dust and bone. To watch the trees grow in her place and smile at the animals that would share in her bounties. But another could not deny the screams of the fallen, those souls that still begged to be freed. A final hand was placed against the cold cheeks of Beauty before Death finally rose and turned away.
Another moment. Another soul....
