Death, as a lover, is for the most part inattentive and remote. Mostly distant, sometimes near. Though it is present in my thoughts always. Previously it hovered beyond reach before swooping in on seemingly random whim to attend me. Now it entertains more certain terms.
*
That morning was bright and chill. New-born. The gravity of the school-day lent those early hours a certain weight and, with the addition of Dad’s own leaden insistence, we proceeded to make our way there with some haste. Our town was provincial at that time. Lives were still local and people were familiar with each other in way that has been lost. Their lives criss-crossed in a multitude of minor ways that were for the most part unnoticed. Time will tend to slip by all too easily if you are not careful. But today would be different. Today would become an ‘On This Day In My History’ day.
On this soon-to-be-notable day, we had started out earlier than usual. Once in the car, Dad explained that he had to drop off some paperwork with his secretary, Ms. Toms, who fortunately lived not too far from us. This made it more convenient for him to drop-in on her rather than waiting to speak to her at the office. According to Dad, the two of them were having to spend the weekend at a conference and there were some last minute details that he had to confirm with Ms. Toms. In reality this was explained in simpler manner, but I prefer to dress the situation up to emphasis its importance in my scheme of things. Also to reduce some of the now obvious tackiness of the situation.
Our car was moderately new and had been purchased only a few months before by Dad from what would turn out to be a less than reliable garage on the cheaper side of town. I was occupying myself in the backseat, Dad guiding us with casual application through the residential streets of the Heights until we arrived at Miss Toms’s house. With a warning to behave and not touch anything, Dad left me absconded. I watched him knock on the door three times and shortly after it opened. I glimpsed Miss Toms, but could make out no real details as Dad entered the house almost immediately and closed the door. I was left to my own devices for several minutes.
Although I am not sure of the how long this intermission was, nothing of note happened. I simply waited, drifted, and let the minutes pass without paying them much attention.
I was brought back from wherever I had drifted off to by the sound of the front-door being forcibly opened and it bouncing off the inside wall. Looking out, I saw Dad storming away from the house and Ms. Toms in the doorway. She shouted something after him, something like ‘...not doing it alone…’ but I could not, would not, swear to it. What I am sure of is that Dad returned to the car at speed, wrenched open the door and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He stabbed the ignition and the engine flared into life, its roar echoing his all too obvious anger. I sat quietly, knowing from experience that it was better to let the storm rage than to venture getting caught into the rain. The car surged away from the side-walk, forcing me and events forward.
Main Street sped past us and the car suddenly dipped as Dad engaged the brakes. The car protested this sudden change of intent with an exclamation of screeching rubber and groaning metal, reluctantly complying as we shuddered to a stop at the intersection. I looked out of the windscreen and saw a man crossing, shaking his head at Dad’s careless behaviour. For his part, Dad offered his own critique of the man in return, which involved references to the man's parentage and sexual proclivities. I will forego mentioning the particulars, as I’m sure you are either worldly enough to fill in such absences or self-deceiving enough to pretend ignorance. Once the man was gone, Dad jammed the car into drive and the car leapt forward, the front rising proudly as it showed off its power.
The crash investigation later confirmed that the garbage truck had the right of way, as we had started off prematurely. The hurtling mass of metal struck the wing squarely, the force of the impact and velocity of the truck ripping the car in half. The weak point where what had been two chassis were welded together sheared cleanly apart and resulted in the front section of the car, the driver and passenger seats, the engine block, front axle, et cetera, plus Dad, suddenly disappearing. I was left sitting in the back seat, one hand hanging onto the door handle and the other gripping the seat edge, staring at the dirty grey surface of the road as the remaining half of the car tipped forward. I slipped down and onto the road as the sounds of destruction petered out and a blessed silence fell. Looking into Main Street, I could see the garbage truck on the other side of the road, a trail of car fragments marking its course from rest to impact. And then there was Dad.
Dad had come to his final resting place in the middle of the road. I walked over to him, watching the driver of the truck stumble down from his cab. He looked over and saw the wreck, put his hand up to his lips and started to mouth some words that I could not hear. I could also see Dad’s lips moving as I approached him. I knelt down and took his hand in mine. The weight of the moment was pressing upon me, the knowledge of something momentous happening even if its precise nature was beyond me right now.
I arrived at Dad’s side and he looked up at me, puzzlement etched on his face. I showed him his left-behind arm that I had dragged from the side of the road and laid it next to him, thinking it would perhaps bring him some comfort. I was only a child at the time. His mouth was working making wet sounds, something that seemed to become a greater struggle with each passing moment. I sat down and held his hand (the still-attached one this time) and lowered my ear. I made out the word ‘…she…’ and then he was silent. Gone. Embraced.
*
My liaisons with Death are admittedly infrequent, but no less meaningful for that.
*
The next was while I was in college. Alice, or as she styled it Alyce, Tellman and I had become friends and occasional lovers. We were both studying psychology, myself with an eye to capitalising on the growing trend of self-expression and self-obsession that I saw emerging online. Alyce had nobler intentions.
We had ben an on/off item for a few months when I discovered a lump in her breast during an overnight stay. Further examination by professionals confirmed the worst. It turned out that her mother had also suffered from the same, but had overcome it. Unfortunately, Alyce was not to be the establisher of family tradition in that regard.
I, of course, offered my ongoing support. Although we were not necessarily in love, I did have great affection for her and never for a moment considered abandoning her to the temporary embrace of professional care, as much as I respect those that indulge in it. I listened to regrets and recriminations, her cursing of the simple elegance of the inevitable. I indulged her fantasies of folktale cures. All-in-all I was the model supportive boyfriend.
I feel, and I accept that most would consider this somewhat cold, I feel that the real tragedy is that when her end came I was absent and so missed the immediacy of Death’s attentions.
Alyce had taken a turn for the worse after a winter that had proved overly taxing to her strengths both physical and emotional. The creeping shadow of the inevitable was making itself evermore apparent. The edges of her now few remaining days were a little darker each morning. Time running out affecting her in ever more material ways. Her tiredness, her ache, the pressure of every new morning heralding another day gone. It simply wore at her, incessantly, and as Winter transitioned to Spring she began to fail.
As I later recounted to the authorities, on that Tuesday, which was the latest anniversary of her birth, I was at the cinema. Alyce had insisted I take the time, not wanting me to feel I had to attend her constantly. Indeed, she had make the reservation herself with her own credit card and practically forced me out of the flat we shared. And I will admit to enjoying the break. I will not claim have suffered in any way as much as she, but the situation was wearing on me also. Losing myself in the dark for a few hours was as much a relief for me as it was for her.
I found her on my return. Pills of some sort, sourced online. Anonymous and untraceable. She was cool to the touch, not yet cold. Pliable. Her eyes duller than in life. Death had taken in her in my absence. Stolen her away in a stolen moment.
*
Death arrives suddenly and unseen whether it attends a company or those alone. But there is a silence that marks its passing. A deep and welcoming soundlessness. The world stops for the smallest fraction and that moment between breaths becomes everything then nothing then is gone.
*
It is Winter in the North. That ruin of a season. The aftermath of the year that offends the eye and the heart, the face of which even the skies would prefer hidden under a fresh white shroud. I hate it. In these circumstances I miss the object of my affections. It is gone by and will not return until the world turns, warms and wakes.
This may surprise some. Surely, they would say, Winter heralds the time in which my amour will bestow its Gift upon the fortunate at the drop of a hat or several degrees on the thermometer. The old, the frail, the new – all should provide temptation. But no, these are merely the mundane ends that things come to. They are not blessed, they are simply the way of things. The cold and the dark conspire to rob us of the glory of the Gift that can be so generously given, to hide it way until Spring dawns and the cycle begins anew.
Now is the time that I work. I labour in the cold close dark to bring on the honour of significance, of selection, of notice. Such precious things are to be treasured when gifted. I work to bestow the Gift upon those who may otherwise toil anonymously and fall to mere chance or whim of fate.
I am become the Scythe.