Living the Good Death

by Scott Baron

  Back in her teen years, Angela’s best friend had suffered from an eating problem. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to see someone go through, especially at that age, and despite intervention, she eventually lost her friend to the disorder.

  That, and several other hurdles she was forced to deal with in her formative years, had made her mature quickly. Growing up fast had given her both a healthy dose of street smarts, and, fortunately for the girl in black, a lot of empathy.

  Now, when it came to lost kittens or random Goth girls, Angie really wasn’t an over-the-top, bleeding-heart type in the habit of taking in every stray she came across, but for some reason, that night in the alley, she felt a strange need to protect this one. She couldn’t put her finger on the how or why of it, just that it needed to be done.

  Wiping her mouth with a napkin, the girl looked up at her.

  “What do you mean ‘not worth it’?” she asked.

  “Just to be skinny? You’ll rot your teeth out and burn your throat. Trust me when I tell you, that’s not a road you want to go down.”

  Ah, she thinks I’m bulimic. Lovely.

  “No, I just felt unwell is all.”

  Angie looked at her, an internal debate raging within her. She shouldn’t get any more involved should she? No, that’s crazy, no more taking in strays. Yet still…

  She finally ignored her better judgment and decided on a course of action.

  “Well, listen, you seem like a sweet enough kid. You got somewhere to sleep tonight?”

  “I don’t sleep.”

  “Uh-huh.” She flashed her an incredulous look. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ve got a couch you can crash on. I’m off in a half hour, so you can let me know then.”

  Not long after, the girl who thought she was Death was soundly asleep on a well-worn and remarkably comfortable couch. She may have argued that she was Death and didn’t sleep, but Angela had convinced her to ‘lay down, just for a minute or two,’ and relax a bit while she cleaned up.

  The girl was out cold almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  The old couch been around and had seen its fair share of wild times, as well as quiet nights. Perhaps it was a psychic residue of the many very mellow and very stoned evenings the couch’s assorted owners had spent on it. Or then again, perhaps it was just a comfy place for an exhausted girl to lay her head after a long and trying day. Whatever it was, she drifted into a deep sleep as Angela quietly turned off the lights and headed off to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER 4

  The girl who thought she was Death felt a warm flush as her senses sharpened. With the greatest of ease, she opened her eye, finding herself floating through the skies, soaring high above the tiny specks of people below from a seat on a flying carpet.

  For some reason, this seemed perfectly normal to her.

  With the fragrant, maple-scented wind steadily blowing in her hair, she calmly gazed down on the city below, surveying the sprawling expanse of land from her vantage point. The tiny people looked like ants from this height, barely distinguishable as they hurried to and fro.

  What is that? she wondered as a whiff of something rich and savory drifted to her nose. She inhaled deeply, noting the smoky aroma mixing with the sweet breeze on which she rode.

  That’s odd, she thought, looking around for the source.

  She shifted her focus from the ground far below to the carpet she was riding on, and was only slightly surprised to find that her carpet wasn’t a carpet at all, but actually a giant, wavy strip of bacon. Well-done and crispy around the edges.

  Oh, this won’t do, she thought. I’ll get grease all over my pants.

  With a sudden lurch, the bacon-carpet spiraled into a dive, hurtling toward the ground. As the bustling specks below quickly grew from unrecognizable dots to actual people, she was startled to recognize the face of the girl toward whom she was rapidly plummeting.

  Walking the street without a care in the world, the girl who thought she was Death paused mid-step as if she sensed something, but didn’t know what.

  She looked up to the sky, and saw, of all things, a giant slice of bacon streaking right toward her.

  To her surprise, just before impact, she noted that the slender, black-clad woman riding astride it looked quite familiar.

  The girl came to her senses with a start. Forcing herself to calm down, she took in her surroundings, realizing she was still in Angela’s apartment, sprawled out ungracefully on her couch.

  Well, it beats waking up on a nasty hotel floor. She rubbed the gritty sleep from her eyes as the aroma of a sizzling breakfast wafted to her from the kitchen. What’s that amazing smell?

  She propped herself up to a seated position and took a moment to look at Angela’s home in proper daylight as she slipped her feet back into her black leather boots.

  The apartment was clean and cozy, a simple one-bedroom, but with decent square footage, good light, and a fairly large living/dining room area. A pair of sturdy wooden bookshelves sagged under the weight of a wide assortment of well-read books from a variety of genres. A slender stack of select DVDs and a few boxes of classic vinyl sat tucked neatly next to a vintage solid-state stereo system and direct-drive turntable.

  On the wall, a French poster for Attack of the 50-Foot Woman, gazed down at her, the ginormous woman straddling a highway, a sedan held high in her hand as cars piled up at her feet.

  A pair of glasses filled with fresh orange juice were already on the dining table, and sounds of pots and pans being jostled emanated from behind the kitchen door.

  Angela was in the zone that morning, happily cooking, humming cheerfully to herself. Wearing a black wife-beater rather than her work uniform, several well-aged tattoos were now visible on her shoulders and arms. Also peeking out from under the fabric were traces of old scars. Long healed, lingering reminders of her wild past.

  Angie whizzed around her workspace with ease. The aroma of hot toast wafted through the apartment, making her houseguest’s mouth water as the toaster worked its magic on some locally made multi-grain bread.

  One of the benefits of living in a gentrifying neighborhood was artisan foods, including fresh bread from the local store owner, who gave up his hedge fund job to pursue his passion as a baker rather than banker. He joked that he had wanted to open a juice bar next door, but the neighborhood council wouldn’t let him. After all, he laughed, bakers can’t be juicers.

  In her well-seasoned cast iron skillet, Angie had a few slices of bacon merrily crackling away, along with a few eggs, over-easy. The morning sun illuminated the smoke as it gently wafted up from the stove, looking for just a moment like the spirit of good eating was visiting the room, possessing it with thoughts of delicious meals.

  The smells brought an involuntary smile to the girl’s lips as she stepped through the doorway, watching as her host worked her culinary magic. She paused, noticing a steaming pot of coffee resting in the machine on the counter.

  I won’t make that mistake again, she thought with a faint shudder.

  Sensing a presence behind her, Angela turned and looked over her shoulder, not missing a beat as she worked her magic on the stove.

  “Hey, she lives! Ya know, for someone who doesn’t sleep, you sure do a convincing act of it.” She smiled at her guest, then turned back to cooking.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” the girl replied. “You had no reason to help me.”

  “Well, you seem like a good kid underneath all that black leather. Anyway, call it building good Karma. This way I can really mess something up later and still break even.”

  Yeah, it doesn’t quite work that way, the girl mused.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” Angela quipped as she plated two dishes to the limit with eggs, bacon, and toast and carried them to the dining room table. “You mind grabbing the coffee?” She saw the look on the girl’s face. “Don’t worry, at home I only make the good stuff. Promise.”

  The girl obliged, carrying the pot to the table and fi
lling the two mismatched mugs, while Angela placed the larger of the two plates in front of her guest.

  “Here ya go,” she said, fixing her gaze on the young woman she’d taken in. “Now I want you to keep this down, okay? You don’t have to stick a finger down your throat to be beautiful.”

  “A finger?”

  Angela looked at her for a moment, then decided not to get into it. “Just eat,” she said and sat down across from her.

  The two dug into their breakfast, the quality of a home-cooked meal hitting the spot. A few minutes of happy chewing elapsed before either of them spoke.

  “So, where are you from?” Angie asked.

  “From?” the girl wasn’t expecting that question, but it reminded her of her plight. “I’ve got to get back. I really can’t be here.”

  “Well, listen, if you’ll wait until I get back from work, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can help you get a bus ticket or something. Maybe even find you a ride if it’s not too far. Sound good?”

  She didn’t wish to appear ungrateful to the kind woman who had helped her, nor did she think it wise to get into a lengthy discussion of the difficulties of crossing to the realm of the dead, so instead, the girl just politely said, “All right,” and continued with her breakfast.

  Angela was savoring the last of her coffee when a glance at her watch told her time had flown by faster than she had realized.

  “Oh, crap, I’m going to be late! Hey, would you mind doing the dishes while I’m gone? I’ll be back later, but if you feel like stopping by the diner, come on in.” She grabbed her keys and headed out the door, calling back over her shoulder, “We’ll see about getting you a ride home when I get back,” then closed the door behind her.

  The girl who thought she was Death found herself suddenly sitting alone at the table, thinking.

  She’s sweet, but there’s nothing she can do to help me get back. But perhaps there’s something I can do.

  Rising from the table, she walked across the apartment.

  Angela’s bathroom was much like the rest of her apartment: clean with a bit of a classic look. It sported tasteful old tile and a refinished claw-foot tub next to the spotless toilet. The pedestal sink had to be from the 1950s, but with good care, it still looked relatively new. All of these were secondary to the girl’s main objective, however.

  She made a beeline for the medicine cabinet above the sink, pulled it open, and started rifling through it.

  Toothpaste, eye drops, hair clips, an assortment of Band-Aids, along with all the random things people tend to accumulate, thinking they may find it useful someday.

  She picked up a razor, but it wasn’t the shiny, straight kind people see in movies, but rather a crappy disposable plastic one.

  Nope, that won’t work, she thought.

  After much digging, she finally found what she was looking for behind a few bottles of nail polish remover. She brushed the fine layer of dust from the lids, then opened the two old bottles of pills and studied them for a moment, wondering if they would suffice.

  Is this enough? This will work. It has to work.

  Without another thought or hesitation, she started popping handfuls of pills into her mouth, swallowing them en masse as best she could until both bottles were completely empty. She then took a seat on the toilet lid to wait for her impending demise.

  Shouldn’t be long, she thought. I’ll be back where I’m supposed to be any time now.

  Fifteen minutes later, as her digestive tract dissolved the pills, she was pretty sure she felt the drugs finally kicking in. Twenty minutes later she knew it was working. Despite having just awoken, she was becoming sleepier and sleepier. Oddly enough, it was at this moment that something unusual fluttered through her head.

  A foreign feeling.

  Uncertainty?

  Fear?

  That makes no sense. Why would Death be afraid of dying? she pondered.

  Of course. It must be this meat-sack body. Fear has been hard-wired into them for thousands of years, so why should this one be any different? She found it harder and harder to think as her mind began to shut down and drift into unconsciousness. Doesn’t matter, she thought. It will be done soon.

  Shortly thereafter, the chemical cocktail churning in her belly took full effect, and she finally passed out.

  As she slumped over, sliding off the toilet lid she’d been seated on, she happened to fall forward, the edge of the bathtub slamming across her ribs, right in the diaphragm.

  The hard, porcelain-glazed iron hit her much the same as a hard punch to the stomach, and likewise, just as if she’d been hit by a boxer, her abdominal muscles jerked and twitched as her body vomited up both her breakfast and the dissolving pills into the bathtub. When the convulsions ceased, she slid away from the tub, slumping to the floor, unconscious, with vomit drying in her hair.

  “And, of course, it was caked in my hair.” Randy laughed as he sipped his mug of piping-hot coffee. “That was the last time I ever let an artist do a live painting session during a crowded opening. Oh my God, it was a disaster!”

  Angela topped off his cup. “Well, how does that old saying go? ‘May you live in interesting times’?”

  “Actually, I think that was supposed to be a backhanded curse.”

  “Eye of the beholder, though, isn’t it?” She plopped down next to him at the counter. “Speaking of which, I’m glad you came by early today. I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remember the girl you were chatting up last night? Well, after she ate, and thank you for that by the way, I decided to let her crash on my couch. She’s back at my place right now, cleaning up. She keeps talking about getting back home, but if she sticks around for a bit, maybe you might still have a chance.”

  “Such the matchmaker, Angie. You sure you didn’t miss your true calling?”

  “Just trying to help my friend finally get a date. Tell ya what, I’ll swing home at lunch and drag her back here if you’ll stick around.”

  “I appreciate it, I really do, but you know my situation.”

  “It’s been four years, Randy. It’s time to get on with living.”

  He squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, maybe, but I’ve got responsibilities. Samantha lost her mom. I can’t just go picking up random women if I’m going to have her move back in, and—”

  Angela cut him off.

  “Randy, she’s staying with her grandparents until the end of the school year no matter what, so what’s your real excuse? You’re a young guy. You should date again; it’d do you good.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Tell ya what, hang out for a while, and we’ll see if you’re up for it when I take my break, deal?”

  “Okay, I guess… but no promises.”

  “All right, Romeo.” Angie quipped as she moved off to check on her other tables.

  Randy stared into his coffee, a bit nervous at the thought of a second chance with the unusual girl from the night before.

  “Maybe she’s right,” he mused. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  A few hours later Angie broke for lunch, and with a tiny bit of arm-twisting, Randy had tentatively agreed to hang around just a little bit longer while the happy matchmaker scurried home to collect her young houseguest.

  Angela walked into an apartment with the smell of breakfast still hanging in the air, and a dining room table full of dirty dishes sitting where she’d left them that morning.

  “What the hell? Hey, are you here? I thought I’d swing back by and pick you up on my lunch hour. Helloooo?”

  Either her houseguest was ruder than she thought, or something was wrong. The uneasy feeling washing over her made her suspect the latter.

  She made a quick check of the house, starting in the kitchen. Nope, not there. Then she moved on to her bedroom. Likewise empty.

  “Well, nothing’s missing,” she muttered as she walked to the bathroom.

  Angela pushed the door open and nearly
jumped out of her skin at the sight of the motionless girl sprawled on the floor, empty pill bottles strewn nearby. Pushing down her panic, she quickly grabbed her phone and called 9-1-1.

  “I need an ambulance!” she began, then rushed back to the bathroom and checked on the girl, while the operator took her information and told her help was on the way.

  She watched her unconscious guest’s chest rise and fall slowly.

  “Yes, she’s still breathing, thank God,” she told the emergency operator.

  Angie realized what had happened, weighed her options for a moment, then reluctantly pocketed the pill bottles before rinsing the dozens of half-digested pills that had been vomited into the bathtub down the drain.

  The paramedics arrived minutes later, sirens blaring down the street as they sped to her home. With quick efficiency, they loaded the unconscious girl into their ambulance and took off, Code Three. As slow as her pulse and respiration were, the man taking her vitals commented that it was surprising she was still breathing at all.

  The girl who thought she was Death might have found that comment amusing, but in her current state, she wasn’t aware of a single thing.

  What…? Where am I? Did it work? No, wait, what’s that noise?

  It took her a moment, but when she finally managed to open her eyes, she saw Angela standing nearby.

  She did not look amused.

  Is this a hospital? That can’t be right. I should have crossed back over. I don’t understand. Why didn’t it work?

  The girl who thought she was Death glanced around and realized she was sharing a hospital room reeking of disinfectant with several other patients.

  The one-size-fits-all bed was fine for her slight frame, but the obese man hooked up to a ventilator two beds down, she noted, was nearly spilling out of his inadequately small accommodations and onto the floor. The woefully inadequate side rails were only the only thing managing to keep him in, and just barely at that.