Death May Disagree

Chapter 2

His name was Doom and he was right: I wouldn't ever have seen him again if I had committed suicide. I tried again six times since that first encounter, but when I discovered the purpose for his six additional visits, I stopped. At 14-years-old, I figured out a causation for attempting to kill myself and his instantaneous appearances. I was smug where he was annoyed, for Doom thought of himself as the best agent of Death.

I persuaded him into entering into a friendship with me, because I've broken many of mine with grief-stricken neglect. At first, he was adamant and disdainful, snubbing the idea of making friends when he would rather make suggestions for how I should end it all. I got him to come back based on those suggestions, trifling with household chemicals and rush-hour crosswalks, until finally, he caught on. I got his name and what I considered to be his friendship.

"Die or don't. I've got somewhere to be," he reproached.

"I knew I'd get you!," I said. Triumphantly.

Doom harrumphed. "Let's be clear on one thing, because the female DNA is obsessed with scheduling hangouts. My job is to collect departed souls and bring them to Death. Do you know how many people die per minute?"

"Um, ten thousand?" I guessed.

Doom blinked at me, his mouth gaping. "That was a rhetorical question, and what was your math behind ten thousand? Don't answer, it was also rhetorical." He yawned, and, tilting his head to one side, quickly swiveled it around his neck, which made three loud, cracking noises. "A quick explanation would be this: there are about 400 of us, all of whom are informed of the exact minute of someone's passing. When that someone doesn't pass away at the predicted time, the Agent of Death assigned to that someone is delayed at collecting other souls."

At the word 'other', Doom gestured in a wide sweeping motion with his left arm, and like an idiot, I tried to see where the other souls were located. It was midnight and the monkey bars at the park seemed like a good place for me to die. Who's to say there weren't other souls with broken necks in the trees behind Doom?

"So I'm late because you won't die," he finished.

"Oh," was my reply, replaying the many emphases in his explanation that I was too slow to piece together.

"But I don't want you to attempt killing yourself every time you want me to hangout. It's not fun anymore and it's actually messing with my schedule," said Doom.

"So how do I get you to hangout with me?"

He pondered. "When my schedule opens up. Speaking of which, I have to go."

Then he disappeared.

Today, our meetings are just as short, as well as intermittent. It didn't matter if I was awake or asleep either; Doom would appear at any odd hour. I'd leave him a pen and paper for him to write on, to let me know that he visited while I was sleeping. I also encouraged Doom to write a little summary of what he's been up to, and in turn, I'd write a summary of my life so far.

I could tell the exercise didn't appeal to him.

"What is this?" I asked Doom, reading his latest update. "'I went scuba-diving with Jesus, but his feet insisted on walking on the surface?'"

Doom squinted at the piece of paper in my hands. "So it is written."

"I can read sarcasm, Doom. You might as well have said you killed Jesus Christ."

"Miranda, keep your voice down. We're in public."

Doom grabbed the nearest box of crackers and examined it coolly. There was nothing particularly interesting in the nutrition facts label, but he was right, the supermarket was a public place. I became aware of my surroundings as a young couple squeezed themselves through the bottleneck that was Doom and I on one side of the aisle and this old lady on the other. The old lady eyed me suspiciously.