He arrives promptly at 6 pm, wearing a metallic scent like bands of steel around his forearms. With his entrance, gusts of wind leave sheets of frost on the windowpanes. He’s just come from a three-car accident on I-78. Pleasure- a velveteen but sturdy feeling- tickles his sides, and he cackles a bit. If he had to choose between killing folks and shopping on Saks Fifth with a million dollar gift card, he’d choose homicide every time. Watching the human world grieve was his favorite pastime.

As a young boy, he’d watched in awe as his father spent every waking moment bulldozing lives in the world above them. As a teen, he’d grown to hate the pit. “I’m tired of walking around in this hellhole, watching you have the time of your life!” he’d yelled to his father one day. As the boy’s father knew he was getting older- and his son was getting restless- he put him in charge of one of the biggest divisions of his business: Exterminating Human Lives. He gave his son full use of his evil powers, and sent him off into the human world. No longer was he Junior, Son of Lucifer. He was Death. And he soon learned that almost everyone feared him.

He makes his way across the room, stumbling now and again on thrown dishes and empty beer bottles. This apartment, on the 11th floor of the high-rise building, is a holy wreck. Through the dimness, he maneuvers around boxes of all shapes and sizes. The thickening smell of rotten eggs and mildew threaten to overpower Death’s dismal aura. And there, through the hallway that’s closing on him, slumps Ross. His closed lids quiver, but he’s not asleep. With a stuttered sigh, Death takes a seat.

“Ross,” he says quietly. Beneath them, the leather couch makes the sound of an 8th grader on a baby swing. Still, Ross does not move. He’s really just a boy- only 23 years old. Eons away from Death’s 37 human years. Lucifer is counting on him, so Death knows he must hurry. It must end today. Pulling out a tub of theater popcorn and a bottle of hot sauce, he steels his determination. Ross’s life would end tonight.

“Ross.” This whisper comes as a thunder roll.
“No!” Lashes slap Ross’s face as his eyes jerk open. His hands grip the couch’s cracked leather, and his eyes dart back and forth like squirrels on a bumpy road. “Leave me alone.”

Death grins. He’s learned it is common for humans to fear what cannot be seen. If they had the right mindsets, though, they’d know there wasn’t much to fear. He’s simply a business mogul, dressed sharp as usual. A jet black tuxedo and shiny raven Jimmy Choo’s draw out the oily darkness of his toupee, at the same time highlighting the grey of his pointy cheekbones. Once upon a time, he was brolic and rosy, not scrimpy and ashen as today. The air humans breathed obviously didn’t agree with his internal composition. Yet, the pallid look suited him.

“Give it up, Ross,” he hisses behind the boy’s ear. “There’s nothing left for you to live for.”

“Stop it!” Ross squeals, slapping at his ears with both hands. “Get away from me!” His voice has the quality of a 13-year-old entering puberty.

“Come on, Ross,” Death sing-songs. ‘Come on so that I can go home,’ he thinks. Lucifer wanted him to get his hands dirty. He wasn’t allowed back home until this mission was complete. ‘It would be so easy to cheat,’ he thinks. He reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves the End Device. All he had to do was enter Ross’s social security number and flip the switch. But Lucifer would know. He would know, and Death could lose his title and become ‘Junior’ once more.

“I have a daughter,” Ross blubbers, mucus bubbles popping from his nose, the tears possibly a direct result of the liquor bottles at his feet. He’s been drinking too much, and it isn’t pretty. Heaving sobs shake his wiry frame; he sits there with salty streams cruising down his face.

“No,” Death replies curtly. “You don’t. She’s gone. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back.”

A scream erupts from Ross, producing goose bumps on Death’s hairy arms. “She took her!” He’d really lost it a month ago when he realized they weren’t coming back. He’d stopped showing up for work at LIPA, stopped bathing, stopped everything. There’s no point now that his girlfriend and daughter are gone. There’s no point because they are all he was living for.

“Just kill yourself,” Death whispers, as he had many times.

“My brother told me,” Ross cries, pulling a gun from beneath the couch seat, “he told me ‘as long as there’s life, there’s hope.’”

Finally. Death’s chest loosens. He couldn’t stand the thought of staring into Lucifer’s ice-water blue eyes that were identical to his, carrying the knowledge of his failure. He inches closer to Ross’s ear, holding his breath away from the unwashed human body stench. “Your brother,” he gasps through his nostrils, “lied.”

There is no cape for Death. Neither hero nor villain, he’s above such fashion choices. At least that’s his outward claim. Inwardly, he wonders if he’s even qualified for the position, or if he maintains it purely through nepotism. Although he enjoys using the End Device like it’s a real-world video game, he struggles with the hands-on work Lucifer says is needed to form a hardcore demon. See, accidents were fun, natural deaths pleasant, but some deaths had to be worked for. It’s easy to kill someone. It’s harder to get them to kill themselves.

“No,” Ross shudders, falling from the couch and dropping to the floor with a moan. “Make it stop,” he whispers.

“Do it.” Death presses a button on his neck, allowing thousands of voices to join him in chorus. “Do it, do it, do it.”

Ross lets out an anguished roar. He’s sick of this. For a month, this voice has been everywhere around him- in his head even- telling him to give up. He’s tired of this! He just wants it all to stop! Trembling with fear, he lifts the gun to his head. His sweaty fingers struggle to grip the trigger.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The door swings open, and sneakered feet pound the threadbare carpet. Little legs pump as fast as they can- she’s running straight to him at full speed. Her eyes sparkle like a sea of glitter glue, and she giggles.

Mouth dropping, he tosses the gun aside and clasps his little girl, squeezing her into his chest. “Cadence.” He can barely breathe for his sobbing. “Cadence, baby.”

“No!” Death howls in anger. He’d forgotten to keep track of external influences. A rookie mistake. One that would cost him. Lowering his head, he feels shame burn within his abdomen. He hasn’t just failed his father- he’s failed himself.

“We came home,” Ross’s girlfriend lifts his puffy face to her own anxious one. She can hardly hold in her tears. “We need you,” she enunciates, holding tight to his hands. “I need you.”

Death growls deep in his throat, and flips his middle finger at the woman who had ruined all of his work. Sure, he had the End Device. He could take them all out. But this was a fight, and he wasn’t going to win by cheating. He wouldn’t prove himself by cheating. So maybe he couldn’t go home just yet, but he wouldn’t give up. No, he wouldn’t, and he’d back for the next round. Believe that, he’d back.