Forgive Me Father...
It was a quiet afternoon in the Assisted Living Home. I picked my way carefully through the tangle of nurses and residents so that I didn't miss my appointment. I never missed my appointments. I had a job to do. If I didn't do it, then who would? Who could? Nobody. And since nobody could, I slave day to day.
Room C13. I like the number 13. So mystical, so powerful. It evokes thoughts of darkness and chaos. Not that I think evil is good. I just like the energetic reactions it causes. I don't know if room C13's occupant enjoyed the number. She looked pale, her breathing was long and slow, and a nurse buzzed around her in a manner that would have annoyed me greatly, were I the resident. But I wasn't, so she didn't.
The resident was Martha Thompson. She was 92 years, 57 days, and sixteen hours old. Her hair was white, her teeth were false, her eyes were faded, and she snored when she slept. She was, with all due respect, older than dirt. And although people would expect her as my client, as it turns out, my business was with the nurse.
Sherly Allsbright: 27 years, 296 days, four hours. Ginger hair, blue eyes, four inches over five feet tall, one hundred and twenty two pounds, face like a heart, perfectly manicured nails, and two left feet when it came to ballroom dancing.
She didn't look up when I entered. They never do. They know I'm there on some level, but they like to ignore me. Pretend they don't see me sulking in. Martha woke up, of course. Her eyes watched me as I sat myself down in a chair, waiting for Sherly to notice me. I nodded politely to the resident and she nodded back. She gestured to herself with a frail, trembling hand and I shook my head. Her face was a mask of sorrow. I understood her pain.
Sherly left the room for several moments, leaving Martha and myself to our thoughts. Martha wasn't the talkative type, nor was I.
The nurse careened back into the room with an IV in tow, the bag happily reflecting the buzzing fluorescent ceiling lights. She took a cord attached to the IV bag and inserted the end into a little tube sticking out of Martha's arm. Martha had been dehydrated lately. The staff pretended to be clueless as to the cause, but they knew. I think we all knew.
Suddenly, Sherly tripped on one of legs of the IV stand and landed face first on the polished linoleum floor with a barely audible thud, but the crack of snapping bone was very loud.
Sherly stood and straightened her uniform, shaking her head a bit to try to get rid of her headache, which incidentally, ceased to exist as soon as she thought about it. She blinked, puzzled, but soon remembered her other duties and turned to face the resident's bed.
A gasp. A scream of horror. I guess Sherly had finally noticed me. I stood up, slowly. She screamed louder. Martha yawned. I sighed.
Sherly looked down, whether it was out of curiosity of horror I did not know, but when her eyes discovered that she was ankle-deep in her own shoulder, she stopped screaming. She stopped screaming and just stood in her own corpse. Dazed.
I don't like it when they scream, it always hurts, but in the end they usually go quiet. There are exceptions, obviously, but I have a job to get done, and I don't enjoy being late for appointments.
Next would come the begging. That hurts too, but not in the same way. They plead to take them back, but I can't. It kills my heart to watch them suffer.
But I was wrong. She didn't beg. Instead, she sat down in her stomach and buried her face in her hands. The ones she could still move, that is.
And so I offered my hand. It was I could do. Sherly looked at it wearily. It was not skeletal like the cliché. I have no scythe, no black steed to ride upon, I have no features. I just simply am. Some spirits say that I look like old relatives; others say I remind them of their childhood, but I know it's just their imaginations.
She sobbed through her fingers until she noticed my outstretched hand. Sherly hesitated, just as they all do. I could see a gleam of happiness in her eyes, and before she could elaborate, or I inquire, she reached out and grasped my hand.
A shining mist sprang into existence around her body. If someone had to describe it, they would say that the sparkling light emanated not from the mist, but that it shone from all directions onto the mist. The cloud wrapped itself around her form, encasing her in a radiant cocoon of light. The brightness ascended, fading out of existence as it did so.
I hoped that she enjoyed Heaven, knowing I never could. When I help a spirit pass, they go to Heaven or Hell, but I stay on Earth, cursed to never enjoy the eternal rest I so freely give. I've read the Bible, of course, every version of it ever made, so I know the truth of what awaits, but even the unceasing torment of the netherworld would be a blessed relief to this mundane realm that I've traveled so thoroughly.
I sighed. I had to get moving; there was a resident a few doors down that I had to attend to. He was an old war veteran who had given me plenty of work in Germany, so we knew each other well. And like I said, I don't like being late, especially for close acquaintances. I turned to leave, the room's only living occupant that had fallen soundly asleep. I knew I would be seeing her again very soon, and that thought stabbed at my heart.
I bowed my head and prayed softly.
"Forgive me, Father, for I am Death."