Have you ever met Death?

She’s quite nice. Oh yes, and she is a she. Before I met her, I always imagined Death to be some sort of scary looking thing with a cloak—not quite human, not quite monster. Death is actually quite beautiful, to be honest. Nothing to be afraid of in the least; on the contrary, I imagine people wouldn’t dread the actual event itself if they knew Death. It’s not the first time I’ve met her—right now, that is. I’ve caught glimpses of her passing by a few times during my career; I’m a fireman, you see. I saw her carry away a heartbreaking number of people over the years, those who were broken beyond my healing hands, and I even saw her come for me once or twice. Hazards of the trade and all that.

She’s here now, of course. Don’t worry. It wasn’t a surprise to me. I welcome her as she comes and lowers herself to sit beside me, taking the time to settle herself in before looking out at the forest beyond. What would you do with the last hour of your life? Me personally, I would rather be nowhere else than the redwood forests of Sonoma county. They have a certain way of making you feel...small. In a good way. Like there’s something majestic watching over you.

“Hello, Paul.”

“Good to see you again, ma’am.”

“Oh, well that can’t be the truth,” she says with a sweet chuckle. I laugh and take her by the arm, coughing as I do so.

“So, it’s for real this time, is it?”

“It is.”

“I’ll be honest, I always told myself I was ready for you. But now that we’re here, I admit I’m a bit afraid.”

Death sighs and puts her head on my shoulder. It’s silent, like the air around me has already died.

“Well, I’m here. I won’t let you go.”

I laugh again. “That’s a phrase most people would tremble at, coming from you.”

She smiles and holds me tight.

“I suppose. You’re not like most people though.”

I nod and fall silent once more. The trees sway ever so gently, soothingly almost, like a pendulum inside a grandiose grandfather clock. And yet, they tower above us indifferently, their agedness transcending the minutia of mortals like me, each human life but a blip of time held against the millennia that they’ve ruled this land.

“Did you ever fall in love with that one girl? The one you were with the last time I saw you?”

I smile wide, the joy hardly containable at the thought of my now wife.

“Tawni? Oh yes. Head over heels. Fell in love, started a family—three kids you know—got my white picket fence-home and all that. It’s been a fairy tale, to say the least. I wouldn’t have planned it any other way, even if I could.”

“Oh, that makes me so happy. I have to say, I could have predicted it. They way I saw her look at you...”

“Well, I had just saved a man from choking to death, forgive the phrase. I imagine that helped woo her over, lucky me.”

Death laughs again, and I feel a wave of warmth rush through me, a comforting blanket in a time that seems so cold.

“What about you?” I ask, honestly curious. “Have you ever fallen in love?”

A sparkle flits across her eyes, and her face lights up like it’s her favorite topic. “I fall in love every day, Paul. Everyone I meet. Not very many people know it, but I love you all so much; it’s why I do my job, in fact. I can’t stand to see a single one of you suffer for very long, so when your time comes, I’m there to take you to somewhere pain can’t find you ever again.”

My heart skips a beat at the thought, and a dark shadow passes over my face. Death must see it, because she looks over and nudges me in the side, giving me a questioning look. I take in a deep breath and train my eyes on the murky horizon. “Where is that? The place, I mean, where there’s no pain.”

Death pauses for a moment, and I can see she’s considering her next words carefully. Then, she releases my arm and brings her knees up to her chest.

“White shores. An endless field, ever upward, ever onward. A kingdom. An adventure. It’s different for everyone. It’ll be different for you. But one thing I know is that you won’t be disappointed.”

“Have you seen it? For me, that is?”

“I have.”

“Is it hard to get there? Is it hard to die?”

“Oh, no, love,” she says, placing her hand on my back. “I’ll be with you the whole way. You have nothing to fear.”

A tear runs down my cheek, my worries now somewhat abated. My thoughts turn to my family and to what they’ll soon be put through. I almost feel bad that it’ll be so easy, over so quickly, at least as Death so advertises, while they struggle with the inevitable challenge of losing a loved one. I can’t imagine what this will do to them. My oldest barely turned nine a few months ago. It’s not fair. But since when is life ever fair?

“Will they be there with me? Eventually, I mean?”

“Oh yes,” she answers, knowing to whom I’m referring, “but not yet. Don’t worry. They’ll be taken care of.”

We fall silent again, and I take the remaining time to dwell on Tawny and the kids. At least we’ll be together again, some day. That much gives me comfort.

A few more minutes pass, and soon I begin coughing more forcefully. It’s unbearable. The smoke is overwhelming, a suffocating pool of acrid air surrounding me on all sides. I can almost feel the oxygen fleeing from my lungs. Moments later, I see the wall of flame coming over the ridge, galloping down the hillside to greet me, faster than a freight train, just like all the others I’ve seen over the years, except this time I’m the one cornered on all sides. Panic suddenly clenches my chest, and I consider running for a moment, but I know it won’t do any good. I had hope the rescue team would find me in time, but the instant I saw Death, I knew it wasn’t meant to be.

I pull out my emergency fire shelter, already knowing it won’t do any good with how hot this fire is burning; but Death stops my arm before I can deploy it. She nods solemnly and I drop the shelter, taking her outstretched hand.

“Are you ready?”

I close my eyes, squeezing out the last few tears from my eyes, feeling my hands shake uncontrollably as the moisture instantly evaporates from off my cheeks.

“I am.”

Back to school sucks. Especially this year. Normally you can numb the pain by catching up with friends or by getting back into sports. But not now. It’s only classes this year, nothing fun, everyone separated by sheets of plexiglass like we’re at a bank or something.

And back to school sales? They always make it seem so joyous with posters of smiling, anthropomorphic pencils and apples that for some reason are just so damn happy to see you. Total BS. Everyone wears masks at the store now, but I know exactly what faces they’re all wearing—the same, dull, mildly annoyed expression that says “shut up and let me get my pencil sharpener and notebooks so that I can leave.”

I look anxiously down the road for any sign of the bus, but the street remains painfully empty. I told my aunt I was going to the store to get some school supplies, which I did, but I may have taken a detour through the skate park along the way. I can still make it back in time for the stupid dance classes she’s signed me up for—apparently, she doesn’t think skating is a good enough hobby for someone of my, you know, gender—but there won’t be enough time if I skate back. The bus is my only option at this point.

Finally, I hear the glorious sound of a diesel engine, and the big, blue city bus pops into view from around the corner. As it pulls up to the curb, I shoulder my bag—now full of colored pencils and erasers that I will never use—and am about to head up the steps when I feel someone push past me and cut their way to the pay station.

“Hey, watch it jagweed!” I call out angrily. I recognize the boy. He was in a couple of my classes at school last year, but I don’t really know his name. He’s super quiet most of the time and keeps mostly to himself. I let out an annoyed sigh as he disappears into the mass of people standing in the aisle, and I climb into the bus with angry steps.

“Sorry, ma’am. We’re at capacity. You’ll have to take the next one,” the bus driver says apathetically.

“No! Seriously? Just let me through, I’m small.”

The driver shrugs and covers the receiver on the pay station. “Sorry.”

With poison in my glare, I tug my mask down, stick out my tongue, and bound back down the steps, kicking the side of the bus as I disembark.

Well crap. I’m definitely going to be late now. I look at the rear of the bus just as it’s pulling away, and before my mind even knows what my body is doing, I drop my skateboard under my feet and grab a hold of the back bumper, just like in Back to the Future. I duck down low as the bus pulls me forward, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I laugh, shocked at myself. I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff before, but this has to be at the top of the charts. If my aunt saw me right now, I’d be in so much trouble. Shoot, if a cop saw me right now I’d be in so much trouble. There are a few pedestrians on the street, but no one seems to have seen me yet. My hands turn sweaty as the wheels of my board vibrate dangerously against the uneven pavement, and I consider letting go and forgetting the whole thing before we get going too fast, but a battle rages in my mind between my desire to avoid the wrath of my aunt and my natural sense of self-preservation.

If I could only turn invisible.

Then, just like that. I am.

I almost let go, that’s how surprised I am. In fact, at first I think I have let go when I look down and see nothing connecting me to the bumper. My arms, legs, clothes—shoot, even my board is invisible.

What in the actual hell?

My first instinct is to panic, but I’m too amazed and too excited about the endless possibilities to stay that way for long. Imagine all the places I could go skating that are usually off limits, all the movies I could see for free—whenever theaters open again, that is. This is nuts!

A few stops later, I’m scrolling through a mental list of ways to exploit this new development when I see the boy get off the bus and walk towards a patch of trees a ways off, his steps slow and his head held low. I wonder what he’s doing out here. This part of town is notoriously sketchy, and most of it is just abandoned warehouses and train tracks anyways. What this kid could be up to is beyond me.

I’m so distracted by this weirdo that I don’t even realize the bus is pulling away again, and I suddenly lose my grip. I rush to grab the bumper again, but it’s too late. The bus is already moving too fast. I cus internally and slam my board against the street. This fricken boy. That’s twice now he’s caused me some sort of delay in getting home.

He turns around at the sound of the board clattering along the street, and I pause as he looks directly at me, but then his eyes move on, unaware of my presence, and he continues walking.

Well, so much for making it home in time. As long as I’m stuck here, then, I might as well put my invisibility to good use. A fiendish thought crosses my mind, and I decide it’s about time to deliver some sweet justice to this kid. I’ll just scare him a little, just enough to make him piss his pants. I follow him into the trees, making sure to soften my steps as I walk, and trace his path through the loosely packed woods. We continue on for several minutes, with nothing but the trees and an occasional squirrel to keep us company, and soon the minutes begin piling up to an uncomfortable level. There’s a weakly defined dirt path, but certainly nothing trodden enough to indicate that it’s frequently used. I begin to worry that he’s headed somewhere weird or creepy. I don’t want to know what this guy does deep in the forest.

I’m about to head back and forget the whole thing when the trees clear and we emerge alongside an old, rusted railway bridge that spans the length of a canyon. It has to be hundreds of feet deep, with a small river curving lazily around a series of bends, its water green and brackish. What could he possibly be doing here?

I follow him to the edge of the bridge but I draw the line there. I’m terrified of heights. To my horror, he jumps up onto the rails and continues along the side of the bridge, making his way toward the other side. There are bits and pieces missing from the planks below the rails, and he’s forced to hop over certain sections, something he does with complete fearlessness.

This kid’s psycho, I think to myself.

Then, when he reaches the rough mid-point, I see him take a deep breath and climb up the barrier along the side until he’s practically standing at the very top. He closes his eyes and stretches out his hands, and I feel my heart stop, suddenly realizing what he’s about to do.

“WAIT!” I yell, practically flying up onto the bridge by instinct alone, my panic overriding my fear of heights. The boy lowers his arms and looks around frantically, but clearly he still can’t see me.

“Who’s there? Who are you?” he shouts, still scanning the edge of the forest. I run the final steps to where he’s perched on the ledge and take a second to grab my breath, a little unsure of how to respond. He turns back and looks down at the river again, and I can tell he’s about to proceed, so I force my mind to work harder than it ever has before in its life and spit out a quick response.

“Your angel! Yeah, your angel!” I say breathlessly. Crap, I need to work out more.

“My angel? Now?” He turns his head skyward, an enraged expression carved onto his face, and he begins shouting. “You know how long I’ve prayed for an angel, and you decide to send one now? I’ve been praying for miracles, I’ve been praying just to be seen, and now, after years of silence, right when I’m about to remedy my pain on my own, you send an angel, now? For what? To stop me? You want me to continue living like this? What kind of sick god are you?”

He takes one final step up onto the railing and leans forward, but I hurry and grab his jeans with every last bit of energy I have. He stumbles as I pull him back, hitting his chest and head against the cold, rusted steel before collapsing to the ground on top of me. I let out a strained wheeze and shove him off onto the space between the rails and the barrier along the side.

I look over and see him staring through the holes in the barrier, blood spilling from a gash on his forehead and tears rolling down his cheeks. I almost feel bad, but then again, I did just save his life. Then, without warning, he gets up and begins climbing again. With an exasperated groan, I grab him by the shirt this time and pull him into a bear hug, squeezing him so tight that he can no longer use his arms. After a couple minutes of a struggle, he gives up and slumps back down to the ground. Sobs penetrate the peaceful air, and he buries his head in his hands.

I sit down next to him, my mind alight with all sorts of questions, and I try to decide how to react next. I can’t really leave him here, can I? But what can I do? He doesn’t even think I exist; I’m invisible for heaven’s sake.

I’d guess probably a half-hour slips by quietly. His sobs stop after a while, but his head remains firmly fixed to the insides of his arms. I don’t want to abandon him, but I’m beginning to worry about what my aunt will think if I don’t show up soon. Still, I can’t leave him to do something stupid. I could drag him, maybe? But I don’t know, he might think it’s the devil or something, seeing as he’s religious and all.

“Please don’t make me go back to school. Please.”

“What?” I ask, surprised by the sudden break in silence. He lifts his head up and stares past me.

“Why didn’t you send an angel earlier? When I needed you?”

“Well,” I begin, making crap up as I go along. “I’m here now, yeah?”

“Can you make me normal?”

“What?”

“Normal! Can you make me normal? Like everyone else?”

I feel like throwing up, and guilt suddenly rocks my chest.

“Hey, no one’s normal, kid.”

“More normal, I mean.”

I’m silent. For once, I don’t have a witty remark or a throwback, and even if I did, now probably wouldn’t be the time. He shakes his head, seemingly taking my silence as a rejection.

“How about making someone see me? I don’t need much. Just something to let me know I’m not invisible.”

A tear rolls down my cheek as I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the intimate dive into this boy’s heart. I can hear the pain infused into his words, his longing pouring out of his eyes with each tear. Funny, how all I wanted earlier was to be invisible, and it turns out that’s this kid’s living nightmare. I stare at him through my clouded eyes, feeling more powerless than I ever have before.

“Why don’t you go talk to someone or something? You know. I’m sure people just need the chance to get to know you.”

“No! I can’t! If you’re my angel, then you should have been listening to my prayers! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just can’t. I try, but I can’t. It’s like something takes my voice and I stand there looking stupid!”

“Well, you seem to be talking to me just fine.”

He lets out a tired sigh and puts his head in his hands, kicking a broken piece of wood with his toe.

“That’s different. You’re an angel.”

His words make me feel all fuzzy for a hot moment, but then the guilt returns, guilt for not noticing this kid before, for stalking him through the woods, for impersonating deity. Deity? Are angels deity? I don’t know, I never really went to church. Regardless, whatever they are, I’m not it.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You give me one more day, yeah? And I’ll see what I can do. Just go home for now, get yourself to class tomorrow, and I promise I’ll help you out. Deal?”

School starts tomorrow, so maybe I can find him or alert someone or something. I don’t know, it’s a long shot. Hopefully I’m visible by then again. I’ll go home and see if I can reverse what I did earlier and wish my invisibility away or whatever. There’s a stab to my heart as I realize that’s what this kid has been trying to do, for years apparently, and to no success.

He turns his head to look in the direction of my voice, his cheeks stained by the dirt tracks where his tears cut into his face, and he gives me a small nod.

“Okay.”

~

I stand on top of my board, looking above the crowd of students milling about before the beginning of class, taking care to look out for teachers as I do so. Turns out this invisibility thing only lasts a day, for me at least. So, one less thing to worry about.

The bell’s about to ring and I haven’t seen the kid yet. I looked him up in the school directory by his picture, and, as luck would have it, we have our first class together again this year, but I’m by the door to the classroom and he hasn’t shown up yet. The seconds tick away the final minute on the clock across the hallway, and each flick of the little red hand sends my blood pressure spiking even higher, my breaths quickening with each moment. What if he broke his deal? What if he went back to the bridge and flung himself off? The thought brings the threat of tears back to my face, and I’m a fraction of an instant away from breaking down when I see him.

He’s over by the stairs to the second floor, curled up and hugging his backpack, staring at the linoleum floor as the masses flow around him, all oblivious to his presence as they rush to their first class. I jump off my board and cut across the hallway, ignoring the insults hurled my way as I bump into people. Then, my good sense makes a presence and I slow to a casual walk, not wanting to appear weird and creepy for running up to him.

He looks up when I stop beside him and I lower my mask to give him a friendly smile.

“Hey! How’s it going? You were in my class last year, right? I think we’re in the same boat this year, too.”

He lowers his own mask. A smile passes his face, and I wonder if he recognizes my voice. I reach my hand out to help him up and he takes it.

“Sorry, I never really got to know you. My name’s Tess, what’s yours?”

“Wyatt,” he says shyly. It’s probably the first time I’ve heard him say anything inside school boundaries. I smile wider and take him by the hand back across the hall.

“Well, come on Wyatt. Don’t want to be late for class on the first day.”

As we’re crossing the threshold into the the room, the chiming of the bell echoes loudly across the campus from one end to the other.

Just in time.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, listening to the cardinals chant their methodical morning tunes, and step out onto the balcony overlooking the ivory snow-capped forests of northern Virginia. Other than the birds, the surrounding area is beautifully silent and still, wrapped in a blanket of tranquility. It's one of my favorite places in the entire house, hell, in the world. My year-long experiment of disconnecting entirely from the world was quite the challenge at first—shirking off my dependency on city infrastructure and having to learn to hunt and live off the land—but I've really come to enjoy the tranquility and solitude. It'll be a shame to head back, to pick up my job where I left off. I have to say, though, I'm really looking forward to cookie dough ice cream again. Can't harvest that from your garden.

I pack up the few things I brought with me up to my remote cabin in the hills and head down to my truck. Every week, I'd come down and run the engine to make sure it stayed in working order, but besides that, I haven't really driven the thing for a whole year.

Once everything is stowed away, I hop into the cabin and start her up again, smiling at the familiar rumble beneath my seat. I admit, like a good southerner, I've missed driving my truck.

It only takes about twenty minutes for me to head down the mountain and into the small town of Wheatfield. It's the closest pocket of people to the Devils Backbone, but still about as far away from civilization as you can get. It was my fallback plan in case my experiment failed, though as I look around, it's not much more than a gas station with what looks like a farmer's market in lieu of your typical quick-mart. I'm guessing no cookie dough there.

I pull up beside one of the two pumps and get out to begin filling up. An eerie feeling washes over me as I uncover the gas tank and look around at my surroundings. There's no one here, not that being alone bothers me after a whole year to myself, it's just something about it seems off, like I'm off balance in just the slightest but I can't tell to which side. Eventually, I shrug it off, assuming people are probably still hung over from their New Year's Eve parties last night. I move to put my credit card in the machine, but then I realize the power's off. A few punched buttons later I give up, assuming it must be busted, and just hope my quarter tank can get me all the way back to Fairfax.

As I'm pulling out, I uncover an old mp3 player of mine from when I was in college in the middle console and charge it up. This should be fun, I think to myself; not only have I not listened to music for a year, but I probably haven't listened to this thing in more than ten years. I turn on the device, grinning at the iconic apple logo that appears, then start playing the Black Eyed Peas, cranking it up as loud as my ears can handle. Boom Boom Pow and other assorted gems from previous decades accompany me along the 66 Interstate for most of the way back; if it weren't the middle of winter, I'd have my windows down, too (yes, I'm one of those people).

About a half hour into my drive, I start to realize there's no one else on the road. It's a bit early for New Years Day, I know, but still, you'd think there'd be truckers or someone. My discomfort and unease only compounds at the sight of the occasional vehicle abandoned on the side of the freeway, and of one route marker that's been spray painted so that it says Interstate 666. I give my fuel gauge another wary look, then decide to pull off at a small town called Marshal. It seems to be a little bigger than Wheatfield; they have a gas station at least, and some places to get food, or so the blue sign says.

I enter the center of the town and pull into the gas station, then get out of my truck and once again try my luck at filling up. I nearly let loose an expletive, though, when I see the pump's dead screen. With a few forceful shoves, I jam my credit card into the receiver in frustration and knock on the pump.

"Come on..." I grumble.

"I don't know where you're from, boy, but those haven't worked around these parts in months."

I turn around, startled, to see an older gentleman rocking back and forth in a chair beside the adjacent mechanic's repair center. He has a long, grey beard that almost reaches the shotgun lying across his lap and a cold stare that seems to pierce straight through me. There's something hanging from his ear; it looks like a cloth mask of some sort with the words Keep America Great imprinted in white letters. "You'll be paying in cash, now, or you'll be on your way."

I take a few steps forward and raise my hand in salutation.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you have any idea what's going—"

The man pumps a round into the chamber and stops rocking.

"That'll be far enough, young man," he says ominously. I halt in my tracks, feeling the blood rush out of my face. What is this guy's deal? Is he actually going to shoot me?

"My deepest apologies," I stammer, somewhat surprised at the sound of my own voice and embarrassed by my atrophied speaking skills. "I'm not from around here. I've been away for a year now. Took a personal sabbatical up in the mountains."

The old man chuckles, low and slow at first, then deeper and heartier, each rolling wave bouncing the shotgun on his belly up and down. When I show no signs of reacting, he wipes his eyes and puts his feet up on an overturned Home Depot bucket.

"You mean you skipped all of 2020 by hiding up in the hills? Picked a hell of a year! Boy, you kill me."

I give him a confused expression and take a seat on the curb of the pump.

"What was so bad about 2020?"

At this, the old man doubles over and laughs so hard it's little more than a wheeze. It takes him several minutes to compose himself, during which he waves his hand in front of his face and has to take several breaks to spit out his dip.

"Jeez, you're not kidding are you?" he says, his face as red as a tomato. "You heard of COVID-19 at least, ain't yah?"

I wrack my brain, flipping through the archives of last year's memories.

"You mean that Chinese disease?"

"Huh, it ain't Chinese no more. Hell, listen closely and you might just hear it singing the Star Spangled Banner. Killed nearly a million of us, infected almost a third of the country. People just stopped coming out after it mutated and they started calling it COVID-20. Still wait'n on what that'll look like."

"Jeez. That's awful."

"Aw, buttercup. That ain't the half of it. I'm not much of a businessman myself, but I'm sure you can imagine what happened to them folks up on Wall Street when everyone stopped going to stores and shops. Anyways, they said somethin' 'bout the next depression and everyone just kinda lost their minds after that. You got food riots, race riots, anarchy riots, riots just for the hell of it. Whole damn country just about fell apart. Some states still tryin'a get control. 'Round October, November you got yourself some killer hornets, them terrorist bombs that took out the power grids 'cross the country, the asteroid we tried to blast away but just ended up turning into a dozen more than rained down on California and Nevada, half the troops we got left fight'n heaven knows which crazy dictator now in the Middle East and the South China Sea."

I have my head in my hands, dizzy from everything he's saying. There's no way all that could have happened in one year, but still, how else do you explain what I've seen so far? What reason could this man have to lie to me?

"So, what about DC? Fairfax?"

"Oh yeah. Good chunka her burned down with the riots. Arlington. Alexandria. What's left got looted soon after. You can understand why I've got Sheila here now, eh?" he says, patting his weapon.

After pondering the man's words a few moments longer, I stand up and make my way back to the truck.

"Where you headed, son?"

I open the door and step up into the cab.

"I'm headed back to the mountains."

He grins and begins rocking back and forth in his chair again.

"Good choice. Happy New Years, kid."

Some people can't wait to go to bed at night, to rest from the punishing day; some people dread going to sleep, afraid of the nightmares they might suffer. As for me, it's not so binary. I'm a little different.

See, when I go to sleep, I enter a world that's entirely under my control. I'm one of the rare few that retains metacognition while dreaming. With a brush of my hand, I create galaxies of stars overhead that glow with fluorescent magnificence. A thought is all it takes to raise mountains from the ground, build cities, craft a romance. My mind becomes master over a realm that has no boundaries, knows no limits. I build a universe every night, watch it grow, watch it flourish—I'm free to escape the tyranny of reality.

You'd think I'd look forward to this, which in one sense you're right. But each morning I wake up, and the colors of my imagination disappear into nothing more than an ethereal memory, destined to fall victim to the reaper known as time. The only way I can save my creations, to keep them from dissolving away, is to capture them with words—though, even language is a crude tool at best.

This is why I constantly strive to perfect my craft, to better ensnare the elusive worlds inside my head.

This is why I am an author.

This is why I write.