‘When Death Starts His Music…’
He slinked around, feeling bored. Humans, curse them all, he thinks, such a waste of time and waste of space. He wonders, for the thousandth time, why they’re created.
People who squander their lives away with boozes and drugs, they disgust him. He can’t bear the thought of those morons, who fritter away the life, who ruin their body and health, who welcomes death by their own hands. At least he could sympathize with people who died because of incurable diseases… that is destined upon them.
But then, those who put themselves in the path of sickness, who walk ignoring the traffic rules and splash on the roadside, become a bloody pulp of bones and skin — oh, he has no pity for them. Whenever he has to pass by them, he will smile, for he thinks, they deserve the death.
Today he doesn’t have to face the mess of blood. He hates blood. Oh, no, these days humans make it much easier. They simply snort drugs and die. What a cheerful lives they live!!! Pathetic fools!!!
He walks in and looks around.
The party is loud, boisterous and it overflows with booze, cigarettes, drugs and joints. Some pumping, ear-tearing music vibrates from the stereo.
He has an intense urge to kill them all. To squeeze their grimy, depraved soul off of them, like squeezing the juices from oranges. He itches to do just that.
But, no,he has the order. He has to follow the rules, the lists.
His eyes hone in on his Target.
Another stupid guy thinking he is living his life to the fullest. The curls of smoke leaving the Target’s (let us call him T from now on) cigarette engulfs the room. He wonders, whether T knows this is going to be his last day.
If T know that, would he be wasting it away in this dingy house, smelling of sin and dirt and grime? And when T knows that, would he want to erase this moment?
Why do I care, he shrugs and continue to watch T.
T’s eyes are glazed, he already looks high, but his dreamy gaze slides up as another guy sits beside him and it lights. The guy hands T a packet. Marijuana, cocaine or whatever the heck they snorts these days…
He watches as T’s smile becomes sort of crazy. And then T starts to snort the powder.
What a pathetic way to end the life!!! Oh, well, he doesn’t complain.
He moves in. He has stopped being an observer in the sidelines, now. His moment has come, the moment to do his duty.
He steps in front of the stoned Target.
T’s eyes widens and he gasps. At least the stupid boy is not too stupid.
“Who are you?” T asks.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” He answers.
T’s eyes are now full of panic. Nobody notices as T flinches back in the couch. Nobody sees the flash of intense pain crossing T’s face.
“What are you doing to me?” T cries out, clutching his heart, thrashing out.
“I didn’t do anything. It is you who have done it all…” He answers with a smirk.
“Please…” T begs.
“They say they see their life in flashes when they’re dying. Do you wanna?” He asks. T looks pale, frightened and his breath is coming in short gust. “Well, let’s start.” He claps.
It isn’t something worth watching, but he watches along with T. A movie of life. The music is full of violent static.
T sees himself, fighting with a guy, yelling at his mom, calling his dad bad names. T sees himself snorting the joint, drinking alcohol, sprawling across the roads, pavements, benches, ditching school, mingling with bad guys. T sees his mom crying, himself throwing a glass plate across the room, hitting a girl…
The movie goes on, and then comes to an end.
“What a gleeful, momentous life you’ve lived.” He says with a laugh. His laughter bounces off the walls, louder than the music and only T hears.
T is sweating now, gasping for breath. “Don’t I h-hav a se-second chance?” T stutters, eyes wide with pleading.
Oh, he is not at all pleased to hear that. His laughter turns into an angry scowl as he looks down at T, with eyes like smoldering fire.
“You’ve been given many of ’em, ’em second chances and its sad you’ve never wanted them then, when you really have a choice.” He grins, “now, lad, you’ve no other options. No Choices. Too late for second chances!”
“I’ll b-be goo-ood. One mo-more ch-chance.”
He flicks his finger, squeezes and T sprawls on the couch. Face white as snow. Dead, finally.
He, the Angel of Death, walks away humming, as T’s soul follows him, still pleading.
When Death starts his music, there’s no stopping it… And he said so to the soul.