Audrey

“Your time is up,” I said as I gallantly pointed my scythe onto her neck. You could see her calmness despite the fact that I came here to take her life. On the brink of dying, she was composed like I was just a customer ordering a cup of espresso in the coffee shop she was working at. Without a glimpse of fear, she asked me, “Are you the one they called Death?” And as the breeze passed through us, I claimed, “I am.” It was a windy night on a rooftop. The sky was hazy, it was obvious that rain might fall anytime. Rooftop was good for watching. Having myself from such a spot made me observe the people from below as they were rushing to go home before the rain caught up. City lights also fetched my attention because it complemented the shady horizon. Observing the scenery gave me a brief hiatus. “So you can recognize me and you’re not even flustered. Are you not afraid of me? You know I came here to take your life, don’t you? I can’t sense a trace of fear,” I quipped. She lowered my scythe as she was walking in front of me. “Not flustered? I am. ‘Death’ appearing in front of you while drinking coffee in the breeze, who will not be flustered? I am afraid. A skull-head in a black hooded robe with its scythe pointed at me to take my life, who will not be freaked out?” she responded. “You’re afraid and you still come near me,” I stated, “and you dare to pertain to me as ‘its’ like I am just a mere thing.” I forcefully batted my scythe’s staff on the floor. I wanted her to think that she was an inferior. After all, she and her kind are just life forms capable of dying when their time runs out. And her time will soon be mine. “Don’t fret. If you’re not a thing, then, what are you? You aren’t human, are you? Your voice sounds like a man but it’s too hefty that I nearly consider you as a whale giving birth to deformed sextuplets,” she retorted. She walked to the deck. It has a small garden with sorts of flowers and a pleasant couch, a table for two with an umbrella attached upon it and a fiberglass roof. The flat lighting provided a solemn mood. “Come sit here, mister. Rain might fall anytime soon. Be my guest,” she invited. Not only was she insulting me, she was completely ignoring “death” in her front. It was humiliating, but I got the hang of it. After all, she was a sardonic biological being. “Are you into black or creamy coffee?” she asked as I accepted her offer. “Let me have both. I’m not into coffee but I want to reprimand you and I bet cups of coffee will fit the bill.” “Is death always that pensive? I’m surprised,” she impassively said. She lacks emotions— those that my past prey have shown when I approach them. Emotions are what distinguish humans from other life forms. It is an easy read that they display emotions too often. You can clearly see what they feel. Both yield a positive and negative outcome. But most of the time, it can be a hindrance. It precedes oneself until actions are done and words are said. “Am I? What do you think?” I asked. “Well, given the condition that you are just a concept for me before, and that concept abruptly showed off and now having a coffee talk with me, I don’t know. Death really has a physical form as they’ve said. My mind’s in shambles,” she replied. “A concept. Everyone thinks of me that way. But I am an entity like you, people,” I addressed. “That’s why you exist,” she reckoned, “here. It’s not the same as those I make in the coffee shop. I don’t have my ingredients, still, that should be fine. But how will you drink my coffee? It will just spill. Is that nose even working? What’s beneath that robe, anyway? Are you a pure bone from head to toe?” “Humans really are mean. That’s why you often make misunderstandings. You tend to make your own mistakes… always. And as a result, you put the blame to others for what happened, yet in the first place, it is you, yourself, who should be held accountable,” I implied. “And by the way, your coffee’s great.” “By ‘you’, are you referring to just ‘me’ or ‘us’ in general? Yeah, humans are foolish. They make things worse. They seem to help you, but they’re just curious. If they have nothing to gain from you, they’ll leave. It’s like everybody’s just using everybody else to get what they want. I sometimes wonder why they’re defined as rational beings when they make the worst judgment. Some act like they’re your friend, but they aren’t. They’re your foes, your destruction, and your vanity. You know what’s worse? They rule this world. They’re cretin,” she affirmed. Her notion aroused my interest. At that moment, my thoughts about humans became turbid. Who would have thought that a mere human like her could seize an entity like me? “You don’t recognize yourself as a human? It seems that you despise them,” I questioned. “I am a human. That’s the fact. Or I was once. I am a life form— a creature, but I no longer deem myself a human. I guess I failed at being one. I don’t mean that one must succeed to be a human; it’s just that… they’re a mess. I neglected humanity in me long ago,” she answered. “Then, what do you think you are?” And with a tear in her voice, she claimed, “An unknown entity.” Drizzle moistened the surrounding. Thunder started to rumble indicating the incoming rainfall. “Can I be vulnerable with you?” she questioned after finishing her first cup. “Of course you can,” I said as I laid down my scythe. Trying to be tough outside but slowly dying inside. She is a human after all. She’s also foolish. She’s just making it hard for herself. That’s one interesting part of their nature. “Thank you,” was all she managed to say as tears rolled down her cheeks. And before I knew it, it was already raining. I thought that the sky might know the history of this lady that’s why it accompanied her in her anguish. We kept silent— listening to the raindrops plopping on the floor. I couldn’t fathom how an emotionless lady created an atmosphere that was heavy enough for me to lift back and bring this one to an end. Those words she said, she’s broken, abandoned and damaged. Upon watching her working in the coffee shop, I can see her struggling to cope up with life. Wearing a curve on her face to cover up the torment that was condemning her as she was taking orders from their customers. It seems that I was compelled to listen to her; after all, she was the only one who made it this far on talking with me. “I don’t feel sympathy towards humans. I only see them as my livestock. But I am obliged to listen to what you have to say. I may not be able to shed a tear or satisfy your emotional needs, but I will listen,” I asserted. The ambient fall of the rain was wistful together with the feelings she was emitting. She couldn’t utter a single word for a while. I believed it was her first time crying for a long time. Wiping your tears using your hands signals a gloom that no one is there to wipe them away for you. Fighting your outer self while your demons are slowly devouring your inside is the same as burying yourself to the verge of rotting. “It’s mortifying— opening up to someone, you know that? They don’t deserve to know me of what I really am. Of what I am made of. Of what made me this way. I’m afraid they might not see me as an equal again. It’s not good that you’re being defenseless against a variety of humans when all you want for them is to understand you. It’s uncomfortable, really, especially if the one you’re opening up to is someone who has his scythe lying on the floor, dressed to kill— ready to slay you anytime,” she nagged. “Just think you are doing yourself a favor. Allow that weight to diminish until you can easily breathe. Think of me as anything so that you’ll never feel uneasy,” I advised. “Then, I will think of you as a prop on a Halloween party,” she joked. “That will be… fine,” I muttered after halfway finishing my first cup. Rain continued to fall. It was compulsive to presume how these cups of coffee gave us warmth she needed as compensation for the years she lived in the cold— isolating herself. “Life is a cliché. Everyone lives in a stereotypical way thinking that there is all there is to it. The moment you realize that there’s more to life than living, it’s too late. "In my case, I failed at trying. Or I already failed before I even tried. That’s a simple wordplay, yeah? Then, let me make it intricate. I am trying to have a life but life doesn’t let me. It always keeps me on edge. People don’t let me. They’re all a bunch of users craving for their own satisfaction. Everyone has a mindset that they’re all difficulty to test you as a person, you have to overcome it in order for you to become stronger. That’s too mainstream. But how can you know if ‘too much’ is too much? That’s only an excuse they’ve been using to stay positive disregarding the fact that everything is messing them up, that everything is a decoy for a better tomorrow, that everything isn’t under their control, that everything belongs to those who strive and nothing belongs for those who slack. Sometimes, you just get fed up by these people’s principles. It’s toxic. Just because their ideals don’t suit mine doesn’t mean I am rejecting it. It’s just that… after all I’ve been through, I don’t know what principles I should implement to myself anymore because life controls me. Life owns me.” “I see. I am staggered. You’ve always been wanting to say that but no one was… no one will be able to comprehend. Let me tell you wordplay, too: Everything happens for a reason. No. People just give reasons to everything that happens,” I concluded. “I like that wordplay. It does make sense,” she broke in, “everything happens… for what reason? A mother died giving birth to her child for that child to feel desolation all her life? That’s absurd. Really.” She blankly looked at the rain. “You see, I am that child. I was in third grade when my father told me what caused my mother’s death. It was me. My parents had a hard time deciding whether to have a child or not because of my mother's health condition. My mother told father that she wanted to give him a child saying that it wasn’t a family they were making if there was no child to raise and it was the least she could do for him. My mother died giving birth to me. All that left were a mourning husband and a daughter delusively treated as disaster by her father. You know what it feels like being raised by your own father knowing that he only sees you as his wife’s murderer? "I was nine years old when I tasted my father’s wrath. It was a cold December night. The sala was effusive with the smell of cigarettes. The table was filled with bottles and cans of liquor. He was obviously drunk watching his and mother’s favorite movie. I approached him saying that he already had enough; he should rest because tomorrow is another day. What I said might be what triggered for his rage to suddenly flee. He took one bottle and smashed it on to my head. While crying in my blood, I perceived him as a demon. The words he said still cling to me until now. I am a misfortune. I am a killer. I am nothing but a tragedy waiting to happen. I often think and hope that they should just kill me so that I am not the one who’s suffering from what kind of mistake I am that they’ve made. My grandparents took my custody. It was hard at first— having no parents that was supposed to be with you on eating at Noche Buena and watching the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. But I got used to it. I got used at everything that a child is yet to experience.” I wanted to feel her. A child that age normally would just dream of he or she wanted to be and enjoy the caress of his or her family. But her fate doesn't allow her. Life doesn’t let her as she said. “I already failed before I even try,” — how can someone afford to live— how can someone attain life if those who gave them to you abhor you to the peak of their conviction? And she has been carrying them alone since she was a child. It’s no wonder how she has grown into a strong independent woman. “How about your grandparents?” I inquired. She looked at me and smirked. “Oh, them. I am grateful to them because they taught me that Santa isn’t real and they’re squeezing my father’s wealth out of me.” “I shouldn’t have asked.” “It’s okay. Before you cast judgment out of this unknown human-shaped entity, I might as well cast my abomination to this world. That isn’t bad, is it? So that my decomposers will not be able to taste the misery lingering upon me.” “Go ahead. I am listening,” I assured. She poured on another cup and sighed after showing me the scars on her palms. Both palms with deep embedded scars. You could see a still-fresh wound caused by laceration. She was self-harming. “They said that high school was the best part of life. Friends, friends and a lot of them. I believed that I would finally be able to have them. Those whom you can say anything without the fear of being yourself. Without the fear of having them by your side knowing that they’ve got your back. Eat with them. Study. Even ditching sometimes. I had the best time of my life with them. "A simple joke that was meant to cheer me up ruined everything. A simple joke that inflicted me to self-harm. ‘Your parents love you, that’s why they work abroad to support you.’ That was a joke. That time, all I thought was my father holding a broken bottle of liquor. I accidentally slapped her. I wanted to say sorry but instead, I ran away. That was better than explaining yourself. I never told them my secrets. I told them lies to protect myself. Weeks passed that I was alone and longing for a company. I wanted to approach them but I thought that would just make things worse. That’s a girl thing. Another month passed and I decided to give them a letter stating that I was so sorry, that I didn’t mean to do that and blah blah. They responded. I felt happiness. I envisage that everything will be back to the way it used to be. I told them everything. I told them ‘me’. I revealed myself to them. Everything turned out fine for a while. For a while. Everything went wrong. They said I became too dramatic. I became another person who seeks attention. I wasn’t the old me that they knew. That I had changed. Like, what the schnoz? After knowing the real me? After knowing how twisted I was? From that point, I’ve been inculcating myself this: Don’t let anyone know the actual you, because you are giving them an edge to destroy you. And if that happens, you’ll just feel lost.” Looking her in the eye, I concluded the way she showed me her scars meant that she wanted me to take away the pain. The pain that she couldn't describe using words. “You are forsaken. I understand why you are self-harming. But why on your palm?” I curiously asked, “so that it would be easy to hide it?” “That’s one thing. People say that we, who are self-harming, are crazy, dangerous and attention seeker. We are not. It’s our way to cope up with feelings like sadness and emptiness. It can be very addicting. It puts an exclamation to what I feel inside. It’s a way to have a control over my body because I can’t control anything else in my life. It is my emotional cure. Emotional cure converted into scars. You asked why on my palm? It is because when I cover it with my fingers, it will form a fist— telling me to fight. To keep on living.” The coffee became cold just as the rain fell harder. Tears that flowed from her eyes connoted that she finally freed herself from years of misery that imprisoned her. “Are you still listening, Mr. Grim Reaper? Where are Billy and Mandy, anyway?” she sneered while wiping her tears. “You are Death, sitting in front of me. So am I literally experiencing a ‘near-death experience'? You get the pun?” “If mocking me helps you feel at ease, I will not stop you. Cry all you want. I am here,” I reassured. "Don’t fret. It’s my way of retorting. I just opened myself to you. Don’t retaliate. That’s the least you can do,” she snickered. "If that’s the case, then—“ “If high school had the best of me, college was well-aware and I am certain it witnessed just as the opposite. There were two sides of me saying that if I want to start anew, now is the right time and the one saying that being alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely. I was not alone at all; I had sadness deep within me. That’s when I thought that I was just continuing living a miserable life if I let myself depend on my feelings. ‘Nothing is too late if you try’. With nothing to lose and something to prove, I gave myself another chance to experience this ‘one shot at life’ only to experience the worst. “I needed someone to talk to. Someone who will take the risk of picking up the shards of me just to heal me. Someone who will sail through the storm to dive to my deepest ocean. So much for the sugar-coated words. I fell in love. I fell in love with a pretentious predator hiding behind a look of a shepherd who preys on my flesh. It’s erroneous to depend your happiness to someone, especially if he or she only thinks of you as his or her pastime.” I witnessed everything that happened. Death flag of a person is being raised shortly after he or she has reached the critical point of discerning that he or she wants to die. It will make their time stop— giving way to the lost time to emanate. That tells me if a person will die. But if he or she accepts life once more and opposes the reigning of his or her lost time, that person is bound to live his or her life again. I witnessed everything. And I can’t do anything but to watch. “Consumed by the stress and pressure because of the acads, I decided to loosen up. He invited me to his place saying he wanted to help me. And there I was, a foolish sheep, hoping to eat more grass became an easy meal to a hiding wolf. I fought. I screamed. I resisted with every ounce of strength that I had but the more I resisted, the more pleasure and satisfaction that he had. Using me against my will to feed his satisfaction, it was like my soul, being the only remnant of humanity left in me, abandoned me. “Despair enveloped me. The ‘someone’ who was supposedly the one to heal me… just break me. The shards of me scattered. The storm turned into calm. Everything turned against me to the point that I just wasn't able to feel it anymore. I want pain. I want more pain because it tells me if I’m still alive. Although I am living, I feel numb. You know you’re hopeless when you’re inviting more pain to heal the numbness. That’s the purpose of my life— to feel unending pain.” “You might not feel pain anymore,” I implied as I took my scythe. I stood up and fetched some rain water on my hands. “I witnessed everything.” “And yet, you did nothing,” she choked. “I can’t be involved in the way how a living dies. It’s against my directive.” “Yeah, right. Your duty is to let us die. To watch us die. How cruel.” “Death exists because life exists. Life is a beautiful lie while death is an ugly truth. All that lived will meet their end— me. I am a paradox. I am death, myself, but I feed on people’s lost time for me to exist. Lost time is the span of one’s wasted time upon searching the meaning and purpose of his or her life not knowing that the purpose of life is to live; you find the meaning of it by living. “People are my livestock. They are my lifeline. Would you call me vicious if I want somebody to die? That’s why I, death, am hated and life is loved. And I have nothing against that.” I walked near her and washed her bleeding hand. “Life is beautiful,” I continued, “you just have to make a good use of it. In your case, life seemed to cast a curse on you. You hated life because of that.” I turned my back on her and faced the rain that was washing the city. “And if life despises you that much… just remember that I am waiting— right from the time you were born. People are more than accepted to my realm. The condition is they just have to give their lost time to me. Would you call me selfish because of that? All I wanted is to welcome them when life gave them the reason to feel outcast. I am giving them a place to belong where suffering and pain will never be felt.” “That was a grandiose farewell advice. I am moved,” she admitted, “pain and suffering no more... because they’re dead.” Death has been considered a sad occasion. But as she was impassively staring at me tells me that death wasn't a bad idea given the condition that she had. It’s hard. Taking their lost time. Just thinking that someone has only one shot at life and I am the one who steals that chance. But that’s my directive. If someone is destined to die, then, be it. I willingly accept the responsibility of enduring the sorrow. I faced her and hovered my scythe above her. “I don’t want life to control me anymore. I already gave life its last chance and I can't accept it anymore." She stood up and earnestly walked through the rain. Slowly, offered her weight on the palisade. "Make a good use of my lost time,” she said as she was slowly vanishing in cold air. It was a windy night on a rooftop. Rain stopped just as I finished my second cup. The noise caused by the heavy rainfall was replaced by the commotion of the people from below as they were clustering in a circle making a hushed street transformed into a crowded and uproarious one. The siren of the ambulance followed. I am waiting. I am inevitable. Don’t bother for I will take all lives with no exceptions. I may not be able to shed a tear or satisfy your emotional needs, but I will listen.