Peter opened his eyes for the first time since he died. It was peculiar how everything looked exactly the same. He was still in Annie’s rose garden, and the sun still gleamed nonchalantly against its azure backdrop. It seemed as though the world had stood still when he died.

Standing up, Peter tried to get a better look at the garden through his bleary eyes. Of course, he wasn’t quite sure exactly how this worked; he had never died before. He squinted up at the sun. Was it always so bright? Where was Annie, who should have been here to mourn over his dead body? He noticed it still on the concrete; he appeared to be only a ghostly vision of his past self. “Perhaps my angel will come soon to carry me away from this place,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Turning his back to the empty body, Peter gasped. For there, among Annie’s roses, stood Death. The dark figure was hooded, just as described in the stories Peter and Annie used to read. He was surprised to see that Death wasn’t much taller than himself. He had expected a towering monster with a scythe, craving his blood. Really, he had hoped for an angel, but it didn’t seem as if that were about to happen.

Death was holding a rose from the garden, a long-stemmed blooming bud with blush colored petals. The figure walked forward until it was two feet away from Peter himself. Peter winced, crinkling what used to be his freckled-sprayed nose in fear. Death lowered its inky black hood.

This time, it was a stunned gasp that worked itself out of Peter’s lifeless lips, not a frightened one. Death’s honey-blond curls tumbled out of her robe and over her slender shoulders, and amber eyes challenged Peter’s own. He shifted his gaze.

Death was a woman?

“Annie is a wonderful gardener,” she said without removing her gaze. The dead boy gawked. What did she care if Annie was a wonderful gardener, anyway? How irrelevant! Fidgeting uncomfortably, he felt naked under her brilliant stare. He didn’t respond.

“These roses seem to glow with all the radiance of summer,” the woman continued. “Won’t you miss them, Peter?”

The boy hugged his body. The sun seemed too hot, this woman too kind for what her job certainly insinuated. Where was the lovely summer afternoon that he had died to the lull of?

“I suppose I will, yes,” he answered as he took a step away. Death advanced.

“And Peter, what of your sister herself?” she continued. The sunlight laced her hair in gold, caught on her skin like satin, sat on the rose like fairy dust. The concrete seemed a much safer place for his eyes to rest than on this unworldly beauty; he moved them there.

“Yes, I will miss her,” was his vague reply. Since when did death ask so many silly questions? Of course he would miss Annie, and everything beautiful that came with her presence, but he had to kill himself. Life was much too difficult for him to stay.

Death glided to meager Peter’s side and took his paper-white hand in her own. Her fingers were warm and soft, like Annie’s.

They walked up to the body lying on the ground. Peter thought it looked rather like it was sleeping in a bath of sunshine. The body looked peaceful except for the pill bottle glued to its left hand. Sandy hair, translucent eyelids, frayed blue shirt. Once they had all belonged to Peter.

“Peter,” Death said, her eyes now removed from the body and glued, once again, to the slight ghost in front of her. “What will Annie do when you depart?”

He shrugged slightly. “She’s sixteen. She’ll mourn for a bit with my parents. Perhaps she’ll keep a picture of me to remember who I was.”

“And who are you?”

Her amber eyes bored a hole into his head. Peter digested the question for a moment. “I am a lonely teenager who flunked out of high school.” He paused for another second. “Better to die now before I really ruin everything. Annie will be left with the impression that I could have been great.”

Death bend down to touch Peter’s old face. “No, Peter. Who are you really?”

The sun glared into Peter’s eyes. “I just told you.”

“No, you did not. Answer the question.”

“I did! Since when did dying become so complicated?”

The beautiful figure laughed, a sweet, amused laugh that, once again, surprised the boy. “Oh, sweet thing, did you think that this would be simple?”
She emitted another laugh that reminded Peter of Annie’s, when she was warm and content amongst her roses.

“Well…” He paused.

“Peter, your death does not just affect you. Oh, sweet thing, no!” she sighed. “Have you ever considered Annie?” She took his hand again. “Annie loves you Peter. She loves the sweet boy who picks her roses and reads her stories. And yes, she will still love the selfish boy who summons me to her garden, but you have left her alone, and she will know that.”

Peter mulled this over. He supposed that Annie would cry, yes. Maybe she would dedicate a rose bush to him. But would she ever heal from the deep scars that he cut into her existence? Death sensed his mind wandering.

“I am not a monster, Peter,” she said quietly. Those amber eyes drew him in until he could not, for the life of him, look away.

“I do not steal young girls’ brothers. I take those whose time has come. And yours is not. I will take you when I want you. Do not be selfish and remove yourself from that girl’s live, boy.” She backed into the roses. “Close your eyes, Peter.”

He obliged.

Peter opened his eyes to find himself lying back on the concrete in the sweltering sunshine. The world just as still has he had left it when he died, except his ribs and lungs ached with every heave. On his chest sat a blush pink rose that Death had given him. He sighed. Death had given him life! What a concept!

He did not understand why death let him live. Made him live, rather. All he knew was that this lovely pink rose would look sweet on Annie’s dresser. And so he stood.

Not for the sake of himself.

For Annie.