Darkscribes.org

Searching Wounded Valentine: Margaret.

    The rain had ceased. This might seem just an
ordinary literary device to draw the reader's
interest to what eventually proves to be either
an offensive or just boring story. But it was in
actuality a great deal more. The fate of the
world was affected by it.
    With a hissing of wet tires, the car of
a woman named Margaret Velestroni travelled
along a water-slicked road. It was 7:23 p.m.

    It is when the danger seems to have passed that
people become most vulnerable.

    Margaret never anticipated that, as she changed
lanes, her tires would hydrofoil on the water,
sending her car up onto the pavement. Nor had she
anticipated that she would hit a pedestrian who
stood waiting to cross the road, earphones in
their ears. Nor had she anticipated hurtling
at 78 kilometers an hour towards an electrical
power pole.
    She knew nothing. For her, all was a moment
of numbness as she realised the impending
consequence of her error, then, as though she had
been dreaming, she awoke.
    And she awoke in a place which was unlike that
which she would have expected.
    She was seated in a dining chair at a dining
table in the centre of a restaurant. The furnishings
exuded luxury and taste. The table was lit by candles.
The chair was comfortable, and before her was a small,
white plate, on which was a slender slice of pie.
Beside the plate stood a glass of wine, and a neatly
folded, floral-print napkin.
    Margaret gazed upon these things, and her gaze
ran until it was caught by the slender hand which
picked up another wineglass across from her and
brought it to a pair of thin, rich, red lips.

    It was a strange personage which was seated
across from her. A woman, it seemed. She wore a
hooded cloak, but the light from the candles
illuminated her face well, showing her dark green
eyes and perfect skin. Her jaw was somewhat long,
and she had an elegant nose.
    Touching the glass to her lips, she drank from
it in a fashion which gave an impression of great
training in the etiquette of dining. Then she placed
it down on the table, taking up the napkin and
touching it to her lips, then placing it back down
again.

    She sat there and gazed at Margaret, folding her
hands upon the table. A faint trace of a smile spread
across her mouth.

    Margaret spoke first. "Who are you?"
    The woman closed her eyes for a moment, then
opened them again. It gave the impression of a
deliberate blinking of her eyes, one which was
not mistakable to be merely a natural action.
    Her lips parted, in an act of seeming deliberation,
then she answered unto her, "I am Death."
    Margaret snorted. "Yea, right. Since when was
*Death* a woman?"
    Death gazed upon Margaret, her eyes glancing from
her hair to her forehead, then to the rest of her upper
body. She opened her mouth, making a slight clicking
sound as her tongue released the vacuum of her closed
mouth. She replied unto Margaret, "Wisdom is a woman.
If you were not so ignorant and arrogant, you would
have known that."
    "Ugh," spat Margaret. "I don't have to take this
shit from you! Who are you?"
    Death motioned towards the Margaret's wineglass.
"Take a drink, and perhaps it will cleanse your lips
of the profanity which pours fourth from your wicked
heart."
    Margaret took the glass in her hand and sneered.
"Is this kind of stupid game?"
    "The question is more foolish than any
satisfactory answer," replied Death. "You know
perfectly well why you are here, hence you do not
inquire as to the circumstances."
    "Where am I, then?" Margaret looked around.
"This is a restaurant...spooky," she mocked.
    "It is when you cannot leave."
    "What?" asked Margaret, screwing up her face.
She let out a sigh of exasperation. "I deal with
idiots like you all the time."
    "You won't be dealing with this matter."
    "What matter?"
    "You are near death," replied Death.
    "What are you talking about?"
    Death snapped her fingers. Immediately, a darkened
figure came running in from a door which was situated
at one end of the room. It carried two covered trays in
its hands. Placing them down upon the table, it turned
and ran back to whence it had come, taking the plate
with the uneaten cake which had been sitting before
Margaret.
    "I think you would be hungry. Eat something,"
said Death. She removed the lids from both their
trays.
    Revealed was a delicate assortment of foods,
each about two small bites in size. There was
small balls of rice with toothpicks, and small
slabs of a dark, rich cake of some kind. There
was also a few other items, but they will not
be mentioned.
    Margaret looked at her tray with suspicion.
"How do I know you aren't trying to poison me?"
    "You don't," replied Death casually, taking
a rice ball and biting into it. She chewed and
then swallowed.
    Margaret gazed at her and frowned. She
placed the wineglass down, crossed her arms,
and waited.
    Death took no notice of her rudeness,
instead quietly and elegantly eating each
item on her plate. When she had finished,
she wiped her mouth with a napkin. Then
she spoke.
    "Death is almost perfect in its statistical
predictability. Life is a statistical anomaly."
    Margaret narrowed her eyes. "No. Everyone dies."
    "Not everyone. There is at least one
certifiable exception."
    "Whom?"
    "If I told you, it would not change you in the
slightest. It matters little, though it matters more
than anything else. That is relativity."

    Snapping her fingers again, Death waited as the
darkened, indistinct figure again came. It took
Margaret's untouched tray and Death's tray. It had
brought something with it: a newspaper, and two cups
of milk-tea, along with two cubes of brown sugar.
After making this exchange of items upon the table,
it vanished back the way it had come.
    Sipping from her unsweetened tea, Death took her
left hand and placed in upon the newspaper, pushing
it towards Margaret.
    Margaret stared at the front page, then picked
up the paper and brought it closer to her face,
squinting.
    "You cannot see," said Death. "Although...
perhaps that is not accurate. You see, but do not
comprehend; you hear, but you do not understand; you
feel, and then you refuse to acknowledge what you
have felt."
    Margaret opened the newspaper.
    "It's on page six," commented Death. "Most events
of tragedy are. It is written in point seven and a
half Times New Roman font, and it is on paragraph
three: that which is of most interest to you."
    Margaret found page six. She blinked with surprise
as she found that she could read the text.

    And these are the words which she read:

    A nineteen year old male and a 23 year
old woman were killed in motor-vehicle accident on
June 14th. The driver of the car was Margaret
Velestroni, Los Angeles lawyer and gay rights
activist. The car struck and killed the nineteen
year old male, who is yet to be identified. The car
then ran into a power pole, killing Margaret
Velestroni. Police say the accident was possibly
triggered by water on the road caused by recent
flooding. Her family are coming in from San
Francisco.

    Margaret looked up at Death. "What?"
    "You killed a person."
    "I'm not dead!"
    "Then how did you leave your car, Velestroni?"
    Margaret gazed blankly at the table. "I...I
don't remember."
    "Because you never did. But you aren't dead."
Death sipped her tea. "Not yet, anyway."
    "What in the hell do you want with me?" Margaret
slapped the newspaper down on the table.
    "You are going to die, in real time, in
approximately seven-hundred milliseconds. Your
death will be mourned. There will be an album
of music dedicated to you."
    "Why are you telling me this?"
    "Because I pity you. In seven-hundred
milliseconds, your soul will awaken in Hell.
All in keeping with the statistics. Salvation
is a statistical anomaly, also."
    "So are you some kind of last minute
'turn or burn' evangelist?"
    "I am the representative of death. You could
call me a ghoul. Death is my profession. And
statistically, you are dead. In flesh, you
still live."
    "What?" asked Margaret, exasperated. "Stop
talking shit."
    Death took up a sugar cube between her fingers.
"Life is a vapour. It dissolves into the waters of
death in an instant." She dropped the sugar cube
into her tea, and it was gone. "Although...the water
in this cup is very hot."
    "I'm not dead!" repeated Margaret.
    "The you whom you understand yourself to be is
going to die, regardless of anything you say or do.
I am offering you life, Margaret Velestroni."
    "Really? What's the lovely catch?"
    "Margaret Velestroni dies. You live."
    "That's bullshit."
    "Alan Stone was destined to accomplish certain
things. You were destined to die a boring death in
a motor-vehicle accident. He was killed, which is
an unanticipated and undesirable effect. But once
someone has crossed to the other side of the chasm,
even I am powerless to save them. I cannot bring
Alan Stone, the man you killed, back. But if you
are willing to take his place, and achieve the things
which were intended that he should achieve, then I
can offer you a life...of sorts."
    "So, what? I become a man?"
    "His body has been separated into three
portions...does the word 'dead' mean anything to
you?" inquired Death.
    "Yes."
    "You remain the same, but from that instant
forth, you believe what he believed, you say what
he was to say, and you do what he was destined to
do."
    "And what was he destined to do?"
    "Many things. He becomes a researcher on the
subject of climate change. He was to attend sit ins
at hospitals, trying to convince mothers not to
kill their unborn children. He was to suffer verbal
abuse, have his house vandalised on seven occasions,
become an employee of I.B.M, and is lose his
position because he was to publicly call
homosexuality a sin. And he was also destined to
become the President of the United States of
America."
    "So I'm supposed to become some..bigot?"
demanded Margaret.
    "It's a clear choice, Margaret. Burn in Hell
now or live for a time, then possibly burn in Hell
later. You choose. But perhaps your heart has chosen
for you. For the wicked are shown the ancient path,
but they say, 'No, we will not walk this path."
    "This is fucking sick," Margaret stood, knocking
over her wineglass. "Who gave you the right to molest
people like this?"
    "Are you really that blind? You are standing
at the crossroads of death, Margaret. The
choices are: life or death. I advise you to choose
life." Death snapped her fingers. The figure rushed
in, bearing two new covered trays; it then removed
their teacups, placed new glasses full of wine
in their places, and then disappeared. Margaret
stared after it, a bitter expression on her face.
    "I'll make my own choices." she said "And I
choose my own way. The way I live my life. I've
fought for years so I can live my life the way
I want to."
    "The road to destruction is wide, Margaret.
That is the logic behind the vindication of
the minority."
    "You're the kind of narrow minded bigot I've
spent my life fighting. Then, apparently, the
afterlife is full of them!" Margaret sat down and
downed her entire glass of wine.
"This is so...natural," she said sarcastically.
    "A bigot, by definition, is one who dies
after saying, 'By God, no!' When the Christians
were burnt alive, they would often be asked to
recant their beliefs. They would refuse, reciting
that statement. To be a bigot is quite an honourable
thing, so long as the meaning is not corrupted. But
you, Margaret Velestroni: you would know much about
the deliberate corruption of the meanings of words,
would you not?"
    "What are you implying?"
    "Nothing. Everything I say is clear."
    "Well I've made my choice. You and your offer
can--"
    Death raised her hand. "Very well. But you still
have time to change your answer. This is your last
meal, Margaret. You aren't arguing because you know
it is true. When this meal is over, your decision
will become reality. And whatever choice you make,
make it wisely."
    Margaret did not reply.
    Death removed the lids of the dishes. On
the trays was finely sliced, tender lamb, along
with an assortment of herbs. And on each tray
was a small loaf of bread.
    Taking the loaf from her tray, Death broke
it, then placed the second half on the table
before Margaret, whilst she held the first piece
in her hand.
    "As we eat, Margaret. I will tell you a story.
And I advise you to listen with care."
    "What sort of story?"
    "It's about someone I ate this same meal with
a long time ago."
    Margaret sighed, taking the half of the small
loaf and holding it in her hand. "Go ahead, I'm
listening."

    The answer and the choice are not
written here. It is elsewhere, in other
forms. And perhaps some are bitter, even
angry. But Death is a respecter of no-one,
and comes often to people deep in their
dreams.
    But this was not a dream.