I like to think this town is one Life forgot so Death marked it as his territory. If you listen to the classroom silence around us, you can hear him breathing. He knows us all by name, recognises our habits and keeps us tuned like clockwork. We think we act by will. We don’t. We act by him. We dance and sleep and love by him. And, at the right moment, we lay our heads against his chest and are devoured by him.

People like to think that he’s betrayal’s bitch, that he steals us from Life when no one is looking. But what about the one who’s careless enough to let our hungry mouths slip from her neck? Rather than mourning a loss, she conceives another, repeats the cycle, while we pine for her.

But I like to think of him as a friend, the last true honesty that will hold us close as everything fades into credits. Death is something that exists at the bottom of our lungs, prompting each breath into being with his presence.

He’s no enemy. He’s more like an accomplice at our spines, pushing us to live while we can.



He came to me as he comes to everyone else: as a corpse.

In all fairness, it was only my sister’s goldfish. Still, its rigor mortis-wrung fins forced out of the water and its eyes staring through, inside and beyond whoever stood in front of it was enough to leave an impression on that younger imprint of me.

I stood in the kitchen with my palm pressed tight against the glass, feeling every scale on its stagnant body – just to learn how Death felt against my skin.

And I remember kissing him once underneath the desk in nursery and how his fingers felt like frozen cinnamon as they lingered on my wrist, hunting for a pulse.

“You’re not mine yet,” he told me, “But, one day, they won’t be able to pull the you from I.”

I heard he seduced many girls in the same way under bridges, on rooftops, in alleyways. He left many with a taste of impatience on their lips.



The wind rises around my knees, tempting the hem of my skirt with its playful fingers, and I don’t stop it. This is the closest I’ve gotten to seduction in a long time.

Some people get vertigo from being up this high. I just get an urgent need to be back on ground level. By any means.

My eyes are closed but I know it’s him by the touch of cinnamon in the wind. “Please say you’ve come to push me,” I say.

“You’re not mine yet.”

I laugh sceptically. “Am I ever?”

“Always,” he replies, “But not in that way.”

“Never in any way,” I correct.

“Don’t be like that.”

I turn to him, eyes flaming through his. “You took him from me,” I tell him, “You took him from me and now you refuse to take me.”

“I told you, it was his time and it’s not yours.”

“But what if I want it to be?” I ask, turning back to the skyline and closing my eyes once more. Beneath me, the city calls so deep and resonant it becomes the perfect canvas upon which I could depict myself. I smile. “I could so easily step off and there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tells me levelly and I turn back to scowl.

“Are you daring me?” I ask, pushing one foot closer to the edge. I feel a coy finger of gravity tease over my toes, pulling at them cautiously - unsure. I can almost hear it begging his permission and frown. I’m not meant to be his sacrifice.

“Think of Elliot,” he says, “He wouldn’t want this.”

I swing back to him once more. “Don’t you dare use his name as a weapon. That’s not fair.”

“But he wouldn’t,” he repeats, “He isn’t ready yet. He’s still healing from what happened.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “Don’t mention that. Please.”

“But it’s true,” he insists and I hear him stepping closer, “It won’t be long now. You should see him. Remember that chip in his front tooth? It’s almost gone now. He almost has an unbroken smile again.”

“Please.”

“Hali…”

“Please don’t.”

“Hali, you’re off the ledge.”

I glance down at my feet and I’m stood on nothing but roof. There’s an odd settling feeling in my stomach and when I glance back up I can see him tucking my will to jump in his back pocket. I look over my shoulder at the city crawling with so much life beneath me and take a shuddered breath. “Do you remember?” I ask him, “This was the third time I saw you. When that guy jumped off in a drugged-up stupor. I was so young, I thought he was flying. And I wanted to fly too.” I raise my eyes. “Everyone was focussing on him but I could see you fading into the background as soon as he gave himself up to gravity. You looked like the fiercest calm I’d seen. I swore I could still see ‘Jump’ sewn into your lips.”

He says nothing. Just walks past me to step onto the ledge and glances down as if he could see this fated character stretched onto the concrete beneath him. “I didn’t tell him to jump,” he says, “I never do. I just let him know that I’d be there to catch him when he was ready, that I’d touch him before he’d even land so he wouldn’t feel a thing.”

I step beside him and take his hand. “Would you catch me?”

“You won’t go that way.”

“But would you?” I press.

He pauses, tightening his grip on my hand so subtly it’s almost a mistake. “Yes,” he says.



He told me he’d find me in a motel and that would be my finale. That’s why I felt his tempting caress when a friend mentioned we’d be staying in one midway through a road trip. One that was supposed to be taking my mind from Elliot.

“We’re bound to be tired,” she told me, “So I booked us in. At least then we can get a decent night’s sleep.”

It was all I could do not to laugh.



They told me he wasn’t looking where he was going, he stepped out too soon, he was too absorbed in thought to notice. Anything really to pass the blame onto someone who couldn’t argue their innocence.

The thing is, they don’t get it. He wasn’t meant to be looking. If he did, he’d still be alive and that’s not what Death wanted. He planted that train of thought into his head at the exact moment when his foot left the safety of the pavement and the world needed to blank out around him.

And, when that lorry turned the corner, his arms were already open for him.



He waits until I’ve thrown in my fistful of dirt before placing his hand on my spine. “He’s fine, you know,” he tells me, “I’ve got him.”

I tense back into his touch. “Yeah, I know.”

“He wants you to know he appreciated everything.” He smiles. “He told me to stay away from you for just a little bit longer.”

I turn back to him, hopeful. “And will you?”

“I told you. You’re not mine yet.”

Scorned, I pause and watch them fill his way out in with mud. “Why him?” I murmur.

“It was his time,” he explains, stepping beside me.

“But couldn’t you just make him better?”

“It’s not my job.”

“It’s going to be so hard without him.”

He takes my hand apologetically. “It isn’t going to be easy for him either.”

I scrub at the last of my tears and turn from the grave to him. “What’s it like?” I ask, “Truthfully. What’s it like?”

“Easier than people make out it is.”

“That’s all you’re going to comfort me with?”

“Well,” he starts, “It’s not the Grim Reaper, tombstone story everyone makes out it is. It’s just like an extended rest. Trust me, life is much harder.”

“So it didn’t hurt him?”

“He never felt a thing,” he replies, squeezing my hand, “It was just like falling asleep.”

I smile and go to squeeze his frozen cinnamon hand in return. “Thank you,” I say, but he’s already gone.



He told me no time but somehow I guess he’ll be here by midnight. I just sit at the window and watch for him.

Behind me, Kelly sleeps unperturbed, unsuspecting. I wonder how she’s going to cope in the morning, finding me here like I will be: a body too rigid to be beating with eyes staring beyond seeing. I wonder what she’ll say.

And I’m not apprehensive. Just curious. I’m almost desperate for him now. I’ve been waiting so long that my impatience has sewn itself as wrinkles through my best dress. My nose is damp against the motel room window. I pull away to glance at the clock. It’s three minutes to midnight. He’ll be here soon.



The machines beep out the damage from down the hall. In the intermissions between each one, I tell myself it’s not true, that he’s all right, this symphony – it isn’t for him. But it doesn’t work. This is too much like reality to fictionalise.

From the doorway, I watch him sleeping. I’d like to say he looks peaceful but he doesn’t. The stitches binding him together show the pain he’d be feeling if he was awake. But he isn’t awake. And the beeping from the machines repeat the fact that he still may not.

Still, I’m hopeful on one count at least. Death isn’t here yet.
* * *
It’s four-fifteen when he finally arrives and the room crowds with cinnamon. I turn to the door where he’s stood, glancing at the bed, the too thin sheets upon it and the all too broken body beneath them.

“Not yet,” I say, “Don’t take him yet. Give him five more minutes at least. He can get better.”

His eyes swing in a slow pendulum from Elliot to me. “No, he won’t,” he replies, his eyes the shape of sorrow, “I wouldn’t be here if he could.”

“Please,” I beg.

“I’m sorry.” He steps into the room and the cinnamon’s so strong I’m crying. Still, through the cascade, I can see his moves are slow, apologetic. He doesn’t want to do this. He stops on the opposite side of the bed from me and sits, balancing on the edge - trying not to touch him. He sighs. “I wanted to pick something more peaceful for him, I promise.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I bite.

He raises two tear-spun eyes to mine. “Because then you wouldn’t have had a chance to say goodbye.”

I take Elliot’s hand at this revelation, watching as the tubes plugged into it move with him. “I feel I should thank you. But I can’t.”

“It’s ok. I didn’t expect you to.”

I’m analysing his hands now and how his veins look like tightropes beneath his skin. If I look close enough, I can see the blood trying to balance from one side of his body to the other. “When are you taking him?”

His eyes drop from his watch chain to our hands. “I can give you five more minutes.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He knocks his head back, groaning as he does, then stands. “I hate doing this when people are around. They make it so much harder.”

“Then why do you?” I ask, looking up through lashes laden with tears.

He stops at the window and the all-too-living world painted upon it. “Because no one can live forever. That’s not natural.” He pauses before turning back to me, his eyes scalding our held hands. “That’s the problem with humanity. They spend so much time trying to catch glimpses of me so they can avoid me that they forget they’re meant to be living.”

“You sound so conceited.”

“It’s true,” he insists, leaning back against the wall, “You don’t know how many irises I’ve stared into and stained with fear. I hate it.”

“But it’s not fair,” I argue, looking at Elliot’s white-washed cheeks, “I love him.”

“And that’s the thing!” he bursts, vaulting himself from the wall with the thought, “You don’t realise that nothing will change that fact when I take him. You’ll always love him. And that’s the beauty about humanity. That’s the one time when you’re stronger than me.” He stops to catch his breath, his chest heaving with the excitement he’s feeling but, as soon as he sees my tears are unresisting, one trickles out concrete - like a sigh. He crosses the room with renewed energy and crouches besides me. “I’ll look after him. I promise.”

“Just. Don’t hurt him. Please.”

He places one cold, sweetened hand to my cheek and I try to shiver but can’t. “It’ll be painless. I’ll take him now while he’s sleeping. He won’t realise a thing.” His hand slips in a slow trickle from my cheek. “Say ‘goodbye’.”

I look at him through wet vision and then back down at Elliot with trembling lips. I brush back the ruffled hair from his forehead, kiss his lips and shiver at how they’re colder than Death who’s now stood beside me, stepping forward and detaching my hand one tense finger at a time. I feel every nerve weep as the last touch between us is torn.

When I finally glance back down, Death holds tight what once was mine.



I’ve drifted off to sleep by the time he arrives. It’s the cinnamon that wakes me up. He’s stood in the doorway and he’s smiling. I’ve never seen him look so handsome than when he’s performing this last seduction.

“Now?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies, “Now.” And we both grin.

He crosses the room in light steps and stands right in a flood of moonlight. He’s so pale I can almost see through him but, when I take his hand, it’s solid beneath my touch. I can almost feel an echo of what must have once been a pulse.

I glance across at Kelly, sleeping so peacefully in her humanity and, despite her beauty, I won’t miss it. Truth is, I’m tired. Even more so when his grip tightens on my hand and the almost-pulse becomes a lullaby.

With one free frost-bitten hand, he brushes the hair from my face and trails a straight line of goose bumps down my neck. “You’re mine now,” he tells me and I laugh.

“I always have been,” I say as I stand. His hand has dropped from my neck now to my waist and there’s no anticipation anymore. Just peace.

I brush his ruffled hair back from his forehead, smooth his white-washed cheeks and feel warmed by how cold he is. He pulls me tighter to stop my breathing and touches a whisper of his lips to mine. I know I don’t have to worry about falling.

He’s always had me.