Death's Life

by B Latif

  “LOOK AT ME!” I asked loudly, insanely.

  With a startle, she opened her eyes and looked at me. My chin trembled.

  “I am Death,” without pausing, I continued, “Jason forced Aisha to marry him. She was his slave. When your pathetic father was going to sell you, the drunkard fell down the stairs and died. Aisha ran away but she soon died and asked me to take her baby, you. I agreed because she had a strong belief in me and because it would give me a chance to be a human.”

  I shut my mouth, and Rose was crying harder now.

  I said without regret, without hesitation, letting it all out, “I wish I hadn’t!”

  She looked at me suddenly. No tears were covering my face like hers, but those eyes… those red eyes, they were shedding invisible tears that only I could feel.

  I gulped and confessed, softly this time, “I loved you, Rose. I loved you… and look…”

  I cast my eyes on my own grave, “And look what you did to me.”

  There was nothing left. I had told her everything. Slumping on the ground, I was lost. I didn’t look at her, it was difficult.

  “History is strange. It repeats itself but differently,” I said in a trance, “Aisha was forced to leave her home, and you left your home willingly.” I swallowed my pain, “For her, the words ‘you are going to die’ were the best advice, yet for you, they were a threat.”

  I paused. How different she was from her mother.

  “She was forced to marry Jason, and you married Henry willingly. Jason forced her to change her religion, and Henry asked you once and you changed it. Aisha had a daughter. You have a son. How different you are from your mother, Rose.”

  I fell silent.

  The raven sitting on the skull stared at me as if I were the cruelest person on earth. Unblinking, unmoving.

  As Rose sobbed, the silence of the graveyard grew deeper. I knew it was time to leave now. It was killing me, even the thought of taking her life.

  History repeats itself… but differently.

  “You took your mother’s life,” I whispered, “Now your mother is here to take your life.”

  She continued her sobs. It was as if my bones groaned as the harsh reality hit me once, twice, thrice… I didn’t want to do that.

  I just wished there was another companion who could take her life, instead of me.

  If she had to leave, I wished she would just leave because I knew she would never leave me alone. Even if the memories were in the grave, they still haunted my mind.

  “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” she sobbed.

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  Everything was my fault too. The blame couldn’t be placed on her alone, “Time for you to go.”

  “No! Wait.” she controlled her crying, “Can I… can I see my son for the last time?”

  “Yes, you may. But he won’t be able to see you, nobody will.”

  She nodded.

  “Close your eyes, let me take you home.”

  She closed her eyes, I held her hand and she closed mine too. I didn’t want to open my eyes the moment she touched my hand. But soon, she slipped her hand out of my grip.

  My eyes remained closed for a long time, it was a very strange feeling and all I knew was, as the moment grew close, I didn’t want to feel anything anymore.

  Upon hearing a sniff, I gulped but didn’t open my eyes. I could still see her childhood in those closed eyes. Her teenage years, her past with me.

  I didn’t want to see anything, but I opened my eyes.

  Her home. It was a lot like Jason’s, cardboard patches on the windows, clothes lying waiting to be attended to, empty water bottles on the floor, everything out of order.

  It seemed I was back in Jason’s house. I had always thought she was Aisha’s daughter, and had forgotten Jason was her father too. How could I think she would be entirely like Aisha?

  I walked around, staring at everything while Rose looked at her son who was playing with his toys.

  There was a bed, a rocking chair, some old, torn books. It represented a clear image of destitution.

  She had lived in a paradise and now this was her home.

  I held the book, nothing special. I held the pen, twisted it in my fingers, dropped it on the floor, rolling away. It stopped, a box the obstacle in its way.

  The box. It was the same old box I had seen years ago under the bed, and Henry had asked what was in it. She hadn’t told him.

  I crouched, touched the box, frowned, glanced at Rose. She was too busy looking at her son.

  Kneeling, the red cloak spreading on the floor, I held the wooden box, slowly opening it.

  Red.

  There was nothing left in me. I couldn’t even touch it as if it would burn my fingers. I was nothing, was I?

  My trembling hand reached out and held the rose lying on the top of a red gown. I had left this last rose with a note, ‘you are going to die’.

  The red dress.

  Picking it up in both hands, I laid it down on the floor beside the rose. There were some drawings, the ones she had made in the forest.

  Slowly, I looked at them one by one, my red lips slightly apart. Animals… birds… plants… scenery… and me.

  The last one was of me. She drew it when she heard I couldn’t see myself in the mirror.

  I looked at her, her back was toward me.

  Back at the picture.

  OBSERVATION No. 44

  Every picture tells a story.

  I left the pictures and looked in the box again. There it was; Henry’s bow and quiver. Then there was a crown of flowers, roses. There was a teddy bear too.

  She had treasured these things, the things from her past. Were they a memory or punishment?

  Slowly, I stood up, it was time, slipping my sketch in my cloak, hiding it from her.

  “Rose.”

  After years, it felt strange to say her name again. She turned around, her face wet with tears as if she had never cried that much in her life.

  “Please forgive me, even if I’m not worth your forgiveness,” she wept, whispering in desperation, “You hate me. I know. I also know that you won’t cry for my absence because no rose showed up in my house. I waited seven years for just a single rose… nothing. You forgot me, Mama.”

  I swallowed, trying not to lose my sanity again. She waited for an answer but there was none. The time had come when I could be alone again. No one to talk to, there would be no one at home. There would be no home.

  If only I could lose my memory.

  “Can you do something for me?”

  I nodded. I knew it would be like Aisha’s request: put these words on my gravestone.

  She walked closer.

  “Take my son away in the forest. Make him your own son, please!”

  As if someone had breathed life in me, I raised my chest, a crease appeared between my eyebrows.

  OBSERVATION No. 45

  History repeats itself. But differently.

  Her hopeful eyes were begging, my red eyes were bleeding.

  “Once, a mistake,” I paused, “twice, a fool.”

  I grimaced as her tears fell on the floor, I could hear their splash. Her eyes were still pleading. The fingers around the rose tightened and I held it up. Then fear and pain.

  I shot the rose toward her, the pointed end in her chest. Her eyes popped as the it hit her, dropping her on the floor, with the rose in her chest.

  I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, I was back in the industrial area, standing on top of the highest building, looking down at her cadaver with an eagle’s eye view. The red rose had disappeared, but she was bleeding from where it entered her chest.

  Standing there, my jaw trembled as the wind blew, waving my cloak like a flag.

  I had lied to myself. I could never forget my daughter as the memories were still alive. And this pain would stay with me forever.

  Moving forward, I jumped.

  Hitting my feet hard on the road, my fingers
on it, I stood straight up. Blinking once, I then walked toward the dead body.

  It hadn’t hurt, jumping from the highest building. Then why did it hurt as if I was being punished in hell for killing my daughter?

  OBSERVATION No. 46

  Man learns from experience. Finally, when he has learned everything, his life ends.

  I took a step, but something caught my eye.

  A book.

  I crouched to pick up the familiar old book that I hadn’t found in her box. Sticking out of her pocket, the color was stained with blood.

  ***

  It was her funeral, and I was sitting in the forest, leaning against a huge rock of what was once a castle.

  Staring blankly in the air with the book lying in my lap, I had no courage to open the Pandora of memories. Her presence still lingered there. It was just too much, even when I was going to live forever, it couldn’t be erased.

  With trembling hands, I opened the book and read silently.

  Rose: me

  Mother: mama

  Butterfly: beauty

  Sun: life

  Imagine: to think unexpected

  Every word brought back a memory. There she was, writing wrong spellings of beauty, telling me about her dream when she was flying on a butterfly, trying to look directly into the sun directly without blinking, holding the injured toucan.

  Every word in her book had a meaning except one: death.

  Turning the page, wearing the same red cloak, wearing a smile on my red lips, I didn’t notice as I reached the last page.

  There was the word death without any meaning.

  When I saw the last word, I knew I would never be able to forget it. She had asked that question when she met Henry, but I hadn’t answered because I had no experience of that word.

  How ignorant I was. All these years, it was all the emotion I was feeling. Sometimes, the brightness in the eyes is not the reflection of stars, it’s something burning inside that ignites the soul.

  Rose was wrong when she said I wouldn’t cry.

  Red streaks of tears escaped my red eyes, the fire inside sent flames to the sky, turning to ashes what was left inside.

  Living a long life is a curse.

  Love: Mother.

  THE END

  From the Author

  Thank you for reading my first novel, Death’s Life. I hope that you enjoyed reading my story as much as I enjoyed writing it. As a self-published author, I rely on reviews and hearing your feedback, so please take a few moments and post a review on Amazon.

  Thank you again, and I hope this will be the first of many novels. You might like to read my anthology of poems, Death’s Lament, which is currently available on Amazon: https://books2read.com/u/3JVJzQ

  For more information and the latest news about forthcoming novels and events, please contact me at b.latifauthor@gmail.com or visit my website www.blatifauthor.com or my Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/blatif

  Best wishes

  B. Latif