A Bargain with Death

It was supposed to rain that day. I hadn’t thought much about it, but what if it was the first sign of something wrong?

Thinking back, there were signs everywhere. I just didn’t notice. The way my mother hugged me a little tighter, the way my little brother Jackson actually let me use the bathroom first that morning, the way I lingered a little longer on our porch, standing on tiptoes, as if I might fall any moment.

I slipped into the seat beside Jenna, tossing a half-eaten croissant onto her desk.

‘No butter with extra almond flakes?’

I nodded, handing her my half-empty cup of hot chocolate as well. ‘Soy, extra pump of syrup.’ I said.

‘Is it still on tonight?’

‘Of course.’

Our car is crammed with girls who look just like me who look just like Jenna.

‘So what did Greg get you anyway?’ Monica asks, her eyes goggly.

‘Our birthday girl won’t tell. Let her be. She deserves this little piece of privacy.’ Jenna orders. She glances at me from her rearview mirror.

Just like that, the world stops. The world explodes, and engulfs me.

Whoever is there, they smell good. It is magnetic, pulling me in even before I see anything.

‘It’s about time you wake up,’ A pale, skinny boy smiles. His jet-black hair flops into his blue eyes. Matte black walls, glassy mirrors, black mattresses and black floorboards scare me.

‘Jenna’s fine.’ He says, his eyes on me.

I hitch myself up slowing against a bedpost.

‘Ah, sensible questions,” he says, though I barely remember what I ask. ‘And the ones that really matter too.’

He crouches down in front of me and holds out his hand.

‘I’m death.’ He says it quietly.

‘Pardon?’ I say. A smile forms on my lips. ‘is this an idea of Jenna’s–?’

He pulls me upright in one go and leads me through a door to an even darker room. There’s a white marble basin sitting right in the middle of it.

Life.’ He says. He sweeps his hand in front of me. I step up, looking down into clear water.

I stare up at this boy in front of me. The water moves.

‘You are a devil. A son of a—’

He glances into the basin, his gaze careless.

There I was, lying on top of a stretcher, my eyes staring up at the ceiling. My hair was matted with blood clot. I looked like a raggedy doll from horror films I grew up watching. The kind where they’re so intensely breath-taking they take your life away when you look at them. Mum was on the floor, with Jackson beside her.

The boy stands in front of me, blocking my view of the basin. ‘That is not what I brought you here to talk about,’ he says.

I edge myself back from him.

‘There are instructions for me. The instructions that came with your name are weird. Weirder than what I usually receive. You were supposed to have a choice.’

A rush of air comes over me.

‘There’s a catch, though,’ he says.

‘In order to go back you have to kill. Take people’s lives.’

I freeze.

‘It’s not murder.’ His eyes calculate. ‘You have to take away people’s love for you. Make them miserable, crave death, loathe you. Take away your source of life from these people. Take it back.’

‘And…?’ I say quietly.

‘You’re really considering this, aren’t you?’ For the first time since I’ve seen him, he looks grimly happy, or something like that.

‘Go back to your life. As simple as that,’ he shrugs.

‘How?’ I ask.

‘Making people hate you is easy,’ he pauses. ‘It’s making them love you that’s hard,’

‘I’ll do it.’ I say.

Madonna blasts through my iphone speakers and I groggily slap it, in hopes it will just stop screaming. I sit upright as his eyes and creepy, slow smile shoots through.

Oh God.

I look around my room. It is still the same room I had for 18 years. The peeling cotton-candy pink wallpaper is the same, since I was, like, six. The battered night light that I hide from Jenna every time she comes over because, duh, Jenna doesn’t own a night light, and so you don’t either. I look at the familiarity of all this stuff around me, calming me.

A bad dream? Maybe I’ve had too much to drink—mum always says I had an overactive imagination as a kid. Yeah. That must be it. My mum’s voice floats up the stairs.

‘Get up, Emma! I’m not letting Jenna stomp through my living room!’

I freeze. I’ve heard that before. It was what mum said exactly the morning Jenna—the morning I meet that crazy guy, who calls himself death and—

A loud rap on my door disrupts my train of thoughts and Jackson grumbles through the flimsy door. ‘Hurry up and use the bathroom, will you?’

He’s letting me use the bathroom first, again. Wait, not again. Not technically. Are we doing this day over again?

‘I guess the weather forecast got it wrong again. It was supposed to rain today.’ Dad grumbles, sipping on his third cup of coffee at 8 in the morning. I freeze. The weather. Now I am certain I am not losing my mind. It’s not some kind of sick dream.

How am I supposed to make everyone hate me?

Dad slides a fifty dollar note across the table and winks at me. ‘Happy birthday, Em. Go have fun with your friends today.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Like you would know, considering you haven’t been here on my birthday for the past 3 years.’ I snort.

The air around me goes still. Mum lowers the half-eaten piece of toast, staring at me. Jackson shoves past me, grabs a granola bar, and glances at me in disgust before pushing himself out of the room. Dad clears his throat.

Granted, what I said was the truth. Dad is a law firm partner, and his schedule rivals those of a celebrity. He is seldom at home, and we often joke that he basically treats our home like a hotel. We used to joke about it but we stopped when it stopped becoming funny and started becoming hurtful. He was absent from all those parent-teachers’ conferences mum had to attend. He was absent from my first public speaking competition at the town hall. He was absent from Jackson’s very first baseball match. He was absent from mum’s birthday five years in a row and he forgot about Valentine’s day, until Jackson and I came along to save the day by sneaking him a rose and card when mum wasn’t looking.

But still, he is my dad. He is the one supporting all of us. He loves us. I know he does.

It just hurts, sometimes, when you know he chooses work over you.

I grab a muffin, my face getting redder every second. If this is what I am expected to do, I do not know how I am supposed to get through today.

I rush out of the house when I hear Jenna pulling up.

‘What? No croissant? You know I loathe muffins.’ Jenna screeches, snatching my half-eaten muffin anyway.

‘I thought you said you gained 1.7 pounds yesterday,’ I say testily, still reeling from what I said at breakfast.

‘Um, hello? I was kidding? And anyway, you said I don’t look as if I gained weight!’ Jenna says, her eyes widening.

‘Well, watch that,’ I say, gesturing to her waistline.

‘Okay, what got into you?’ Jenna asks jokingly, turning towards me. Her eyes are serious and scrutinising. Jenna isn’t patient. I can feel hers waning, especially when she is personally attacked.

‘I can’t do this. I cannot stand it anymore,’ I murmur.

‘What?’ she asks.

I struggle to get out of the car, turning the car handle frantically. ‘Let me out,’ I beg. ‘I need to leave. I do not want this. I do not want to hurt people.’

A light takes me over.

‘We have got to stop meeting like this,’ Death says. We’re now on a first-name basis. He crouches beside me when I try to get up.

‘You failed. Sorely.’ Death looks genuinely concerned.

I shake my head. ‘I failed on purpose.’

‘What? Why? This is your only chance at survival!’

‘I cannot do this. I won’t do it. Do to me whatever you wish to do, but I won’t do this. The deal is off.’

‘You do understand that this means death? This means you are giving away the only chance of survival with your bare hands?’ He stares at me.

‘I do. But I cannot hurt them. I love them, don’t you see? When you love someone…you would rather hurt yourself than to hurt them, especially if you are the one holding the knife. If you saw what I saw…how they were hurt…’ I feel myself saying, ‘I will choose death. I will choose you.’

‘They feel hurt.’ Death keeps going. ‘They weren’t even physically hurt. They won’t die. You will.’

I suppose he does not understand. He is death, after all. He is used to seeing decay and darkness. But me, I should be better than this. I feel guilty for even agreeing to this in the first place.