The Grim Weeper
Lit Up — June’s Prompt: Lucky sentence
“Death, where is thy jolly old sting?” — The Inimitable Jeeves, P. G. Wodehouse
A hospital. New Year’s Eve.
Maya clutches her hospital gown and slips into the steel elevator. Someone runs down the hallway towards her. Maya jabs a button.
“Go-go-go!” she hisses.
To her relief, the door slides shut. She grins up at the broken smoke detector, reaches down to her slipper and pulls out the cigarette and match taped inside. She strikes the match against the wooden panelling, lights up and inhales.
Suddenly, the elevator crunches to a halt.
The door slides open. A young man in his late twenties stomps in, dressed in a black kurta-pajama, a party hat proclaiming “Happy New Year!” and lit devil’s horns.
Maya stands there, the hand holding her cigarette frozen mid-air. But the young man glances at it, says, “One for a happy new year,” and turns away.
Maya smiles uncertainly and draws another puff when the young man’s phone BEEPS.
“Damnit.” he says.
The elevator screeches to a halt, lights flickering and short-circuiting.
“So…” the young man turns to her, “how would you like to go?”
Maya eyes her cigarette. “Tell me,” she says, flicking ash to the floor, watching the grey flakes swirl down, “What to be more scared of — dying, or that Death reminds me of Lady Gaga?”
The man frowns, then props his party hat up. “Just choose.” He grins. “Or do you want me to start having fun?”
“What’s least painful?” Maya says quickly.
“Dunno. Don’t feel pain.”
Maya brightens; she can use her one skill here. She puts her hand on his arm.
“You know, lack of pain is also pain,” she says softly, opening her dark eyes wide.
Death stares at her hand. “Not much pleasure either,” he says.
Maya slowly removes her hand, her face burning.
“You get that I’m Death right?” Death says, “Kill everyday, don’t feel a thing?”
“Oh, big shitty,” she snaps, “I live everyday and don’t feel a thing!”
She sees his shock and laughs. “Kiddo, did you really think I mistook pesticide for Mountain Dew? I want to be here, now do your job.”
Death presses a button on his phone, the lights stop flickering.
“What’s happening?”
“Read my poker face,” he replies, “I’m letting you live.”
Maya spins to him and grips his black collar– so starched it is almost sharp. “Listen funny bones, I made it this far, now you have to!”
“Do I?” Death asks softly. Maya realised his eyes are surprisingly dark, bottomless pools of space. Dark…and soft. Velvet eyes.
“Instead,” Death continues, “why don’t you take a good, hard look at Life, and try to see the joke. I guarantee you’ll never waste time gymming again.”
Maya glares at him. Figures. Death, like everyone else, was an infuriating, pretentious kid who refused to do his job —
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “You’ve never killed anyone!”
Shock flashes across Death’s face.
“HAVE YOU?!”
“Ehm,” Death starts, “Okay, no. Not entirely — I’m just an apprentice.”
“So what the hell do you do?”
“He kills. I clean up the mess. Sometimes…I throw up.”
“Are you seriously telling me — ” Maya breathes deeply. “ — that I’ve drawn Death’s pre-pubescent janitor?!”
“Fine!” Death punches a number into his phone. “I’ll get backup! Oh, I’m going to enjoy cleaning you up.”
His phone beeps and he jabs at it, “Huh?! Password?!”
“Ha! You’re actually more of a failure than I…”
Death crumples on the floor, breathing heavily. “I’m on my own. I’m on my own.”
“Come on, man!” Maya shakes his shoulder. “ Get up! What’s happening?”
Death looks up at her and moans, “PRACTICAL. EXAM!”
“SO PASS, moron! Here, karate chop my neck!” She turns and pulls her hair up, exposing her bare neck to him.
“I can’t!” Death sobs.
“Why the hell not?!” Maya explodes, watching him blubber over the elevator floor.
“Because every time I try to kill, I miss my life!”
Maya stares at him, a mix of irritation, impotence and fury rising in her throat.
“Wait! I know!” She stubs her cigarette, unfurls the white paper covering it and hands it to him. It is covered with writing.
“New Years Resolutions,” Death reads, glances at Maya and continues, “Use treadmill, smoke only one pack a day, force parents to stop referring to me as “that actor*cough*slut” at family funerals, find man who won’t break up on twitter. Buy pesticide. And nice underwear for hospi…”
Maya snatches the paper away. “We-ll… I hope this was sad enough proof of life for you!”
“Good point.” He pauses. “Yet…”
“What?”
“Yet somehow everyone remembers happiness when they die.”
Suddenly, his mobile beeps to life. An electronic voice pings —
“PASSWORD ACCEPTED. DEATH INITIATED.”
The elevator jerks to life and plummets.
“Oh!” Death says happily, “DIE’s the password, of course! Here we go!”
They struggle to their feet. Maya clutches his arm. “Is it scary?”
“Yes.”
But,” he continues slowly, as if figuring it out himself, “only if you want to live, to…”
Maya presses her lips against his. “Thank you for living with me,” she says.
Death stares at her, she’s right, he has lived —
CRASH!
Darkness.
A hazy, beaming Death slowly comes into focus.
Maya opens her eyes, sits up awkwardly.
“Wow,” she says gloomily, “You really suck at your job.”
“No, I’m very good.” Death pushes the broken door open and a stark white light floods the elevator.
“You see, Maya,” he says, “Death’s apprentice is Life itself. And admit it, sweetheart — today, you wanted me.”
He tips his party hat and trots into the bright light. Artificially cooled air, the smell of ammonia, and the beeps of monitors flow into the elevator. Maya looks out into the bright hospital hallway as the stretchers, desks, wheelchairs and people fade into life.
She smiles and steps out into the light.
