Death's Temporary Home For Lost Souls

Chapter Seventeen: So This is Death

"My true form has struck terror into humanity since the beginning of time. I cannot change that, the way that I cannot change how they perceive me. But my essence is not good or bad. It just is. The way of our universe is balance. If I allow undead souls to linger, then the balance of things would be upset. Do you understand?"

I cross my arms, nonplussed. "What's so bad about the balance being upset?"

He chuckles a little, the sound coming from deep in his throat. "For starters, you would cease to exist. As would I. As would everything. Without order, we are but particles flying through a vacuum. Death gives life its meaning." He takes a few steps forward so that we're nearly touching, and I'm too overwhelmed to complain. His voice is a soft caress, wrapping around my skin, unraveling the gathering tension in my muscles. "Tell me, Cara, which is more precious: the mosquito trapped in amber for a million years, or the moth swallowed by a blazing flame? That which is precious is that which is scarce."

I remain still, trying to control my uneven breathing, and stare into those depthless eyes. Eyes that have known history, love, horror – eyes that are inexplicably both cold and tender.

Eyes that have gazed upon my mother.

My voice remains remarkably steady when I say, "Gary's family won't give a shit about the greater meaning of life, or the balance of the universe, when they're standing at his grave. They will want him. Just him."

"He is in a better place. It's for the best, even if they can't understand it."

"So the living can just fuck off, right?"

He flinches again, ever so slightly, even as his voice is tinged with regret. "I am not in the business of the living."

It feels like a slap to the face, and I stumble back from him. The coldness of his words pierces me, devastates me in a way that nothing has up to this point. They are proof that death takes and takes, caring nothing for what's left in its wake: the ones who get left behind to put together the shattered pieces.

And the fact that I'd ever started to think any different...

"Will you let me show you something?" Death's voice is softer than I've ever heard it. And despite the anger and despair that's currently writhing through me, I find myself nodding.

I slip on my shoes and we creep through the night-dark corridors, silent as cats, before stopping at the bottom of a shadowed staircase. The same staircase that leads up to his room, which no one else has ever been allowed to see.

Until now.

Suddenly, my pulse starts to race for an entirely different reason.

"You're taking me up there?" I ask, my voice nothing but a dry rasp. Death smirks, just enough to make my stomach flip.

"Is there any reason why you wouldn't want me to?"

I shake my head, at a loss for words, and follow Death up the cramped vestibule and to the attic door. The moment that he moves to open it, my anxiety flares. "Wait," I say, raising a hand to his shoulder before I remember that I can't touch him. He looks at me expectantly. "Why are you doing this? With me?"

"Because..." He watches me for a moment, sea-blue eyes dipping over every inch of my face. My eyes, my nose, my lips... "Because you already saw part of who I am tonight. Let me show you the rest."

My breath catches in my throat as he opens the door, revealing one of the most interesting rooms that I've ever seen. It looks like an antique store, carefully curated. But among the piles of personal items on the floor and various sketchings covering every inch of wall space, my gaze goes to one thing and one thing only.

There, on the wall directly across from me, is an expertly drawn pencil portrait of a woman. A woman with my hair, with my eyes, with my smile. There's no need for me to read the name scrawled across the bottom.

I'd recognize my mother at the end of the earth.