Death is alive and looking surprisingly good. Too good for someone whose main job is to steal mortals’ souls.
How do I know that?
Well, I met him.
He wasn’t wearing a black, moth-eaten cloak, he wasn’t carrying a scythe, and he wasn’t seeking me out in my dreams to show me my desolate and weather-beaten grave. The rattling chains and skull mask were sadly missing too.
Instead, he wore orange. Orange number 262, to be exact, a very special shade found only in prison.
Normally, this colour was hideous and only served the one purpose of making escaped prisoners visible more quickly. However, this candidate’s attractive deathly pallor had not been affected by the screaming hue, as if by magic. Bastard. Handsome, arrogant bastard straight out of a men’s fashion catalogue.
Surprise! Yes, even death had to submit to the rules of duality, could not defy the laws of nature, love or lust.
He alone could prolong or end life.
He was forced to walk this earth as an immortal, condemned to fulfill this task; with various semi-legal sideline activities, however, he kept himself in good spirits.
Here I lay, gasping for breath as I felt my lungs fill with my own blood. Like glittering rubies, individual drops beaded off the wall and painted a pretty and at the same time grotesque work of art of my last coughing fit. I had just painted and red did not go well with beige!
It’s strange what thoughts you think about while you’re dying. The pain must have gone to my head and at some point my brain went into nirvana. Actually, I thought I would be shot or strangled, but at least dramatically pushed off the stairs! No, nothing like that.
The life of the successful, dogged lawyer would be extinguished by a simple blood clot that had broken loose in a bloody coughing fit and now threatened to drown me in my own blood.
Nice shit.
My lovely colleagues had called me ‘pit bull’ behind closed doors, because I had won every one of my cases so far. That was one of the reasons why Death wanted me as his lawyer. He wanted the best and when I looked at the evidence and the burden of proof against him, he would damn well need it.
Well, too bad for me. Because of course I hadn’t believed him when he had prophesied the end of my life. He had lured me with dark promises and promised to prolong my life if I entered his service. I would only have to say three little words, but who would believe a prisoner behind bars?
Unfortunately, death was not wrong. I almost laughed, because I actually considered accepting his offer. What did I have to lose? I would die anyway, for I could already feel the icy cold gripping my weakening body.
Could it be that death was a bit on the dramatic side? Death – called Osiris in Egypt, Thanatos or Hades in Greek, Gevatter Hein, the Grim Reaper or Santa Muerte in Mexico. He wanted me? Then he could have me!
I took another breath as well as I could before saying those three words he had told me to say. Those three words that would bind me to him almost as if in a black marriage born of blood.
“… yes … I … do …”