It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,1
piano fall on her head, and everything works out the way it was supposed to.” I glance at the group of girls who have been at my beck and call for the last three years. They’re all sobbing and looking around in disbelief. Except for Felicity, who’s taking a picture with her phone. Why couldn’t the gypsy have picked her?
“No,” the Grim Reaper says.
“Okay, fine. Maybe a piano is a bit of a cliché. How about a meteorite?”
“No,” he says again.
“You’re right. It should be a small one that drills into her brain without damaging the planet. I don’t want you to be responsible for destroying the entire Earth.”
Instead of answering, the Grim Reaper turns around, the edge of his cloak hanging unnaturally in the air before finally settling around his ankles.
“Wait,” I call after him, running to catch up. “What about sending me back?”
“We’re leaving,” he says, shifting his scythe to his other hand. “And I already told you. I can’t send you back.”
“But somebody can, right?” He keeps walking, and I have no choice but to follow. The air around us grows misty and I squint to see what’s up ahead. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”
“Do you always talk this much? Most people are at least a little shocked when they die.”
I scoff at him. Obviously the nice-girl act isn’t working. “You screwed up. Maybe if you’d been a little better at your job, I wouldn’t be dead in the first place.”
“But you are dead.”
“Not really.”
This time he laughs and the sound startles me. I was beginning to think the guy was a black hole of emotion. “Did you not see your body back there? You know, the one on the ground?” he asks. “You are really dead.”
I look down and fight to keep from losing my balance. Below me is a vast nothingness. “Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going?” I ask, sucking in my breath, which is pointless since I don’t actually need to breathe anymore. Still, there’s something comforting in doing it.
“To the Soul Movers.”
“The what?” I ask, but my words are swallowed by a whirling gust of wind that precedes a train of railcars pulling up in front of us.
“Get in,” the Reaper says, pushing me forward. It’s more of a shove, actually.
As I stagger over the threshold, I see another Reaper ushering a crowd of people into the next car.
“What’s going on over there?” I ask.
The Reaper looks over, his eyebrow rising slightly. “Fifteen-car pile-up on the 405.” He looks envious. What a sick jerk. The doors slam shut and I’m surrounded by Reapers and the newly departed. Everyone looks so sad. Not sad, exactly. Empty. Like shells of actual people.
My Reaper leans in and says, “Told you most of the dead are shocked when they die.” He’s got a cocky tone to his voice that makes me want to slap him. I manage to stop myself. He’s lucky. I’ve got a well-deserved reputation for not taking crap from people.
Glancing around, I see elderly people and young kids and everyone in between on the train. Most of them have that deer-in-headlights look on their face. Except for one old woman who is smiling at me with pity in her eyes. “So young and beautiful,” she says, like I’m not standing right in front of her. “Such a waste.”
I look behind me, and then back at her. “Are you talking to me?”
“No, dear, I’m talking about you.”
Who knew old people could speak fluent sarcasm?
“What happened?” she asks, her voice ringing with grandmotherly compassion.
“What do you mean, what happened?” Her kindness is starting to get on my nerves.
“How did you die?” she asks.
“I didn’t,” I try to explain, pointing to the Reaper. “He made a mistake.”
“Denial,” she says and pats my hand. “It’s the first step. Don’t worry, dearie. It will pass.”
I yank my arm away. “I am not in denial. He screwed up and got the wrong person.”
“I’m sure he did, child.” It’s pretty clear by the look of amusement on her face that she doesn’t believe me.
Wanting to take the attention off me, I ask, “So, what happened to you? What’s your story?”
She places her hands gently in her lap and smiles serenely. “It was a dreadful case of old age. I’m afraid I’ll never see one hundred and one.”
What do you say to someone who just tells you they lived a whole century? “That’s, uh, too bad?” I mutter before turning back to the Reaper.