When Death Loved an Angel

by Cheree Alsop

  Death stalked back to the kitchen he never used. Rust ate at the sink and the refrigerator hadn’t been plugged in for years. The apartment itself came from a tenant whose name had been on his list. The owner had been a family man, but one with a wandering heart. He used the apartment solely to satiate an appetite for other women, one which eventually led to his heart failure. Since the rent had been paid for through the man’s trust, no one bothered to check the minimal expense. Death had lived there uncontested long enough to feel like the apartment was home.

  He saw it now with different eyes. He would never show Nyra his place, not that she would want to see it. It was disgusting and slovenly, a hole suitable only for the rodents and pests that frequented its empty cupboards. Yet it was his home? The thought came out as a question, surprising him. Death rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his hand and cursed the habits of the living. He didn’t need a home. The world was his and the names on his arm proved his occupation.

  He slumped on a chair and studied the one name still written there. He ran a finger over the marks, mere shapes that made up sounds his brain put together, forming words. It was amazing, really, that such marks dictated his life. What if he couldn’t read them? What if they meant nothing to his brain? What would he do if he wasn’t Death?”

  “What’s your name?” Nyra’s voice repeated in his mind.

  He bowed his head, then laced his fingers over it, pulling his elbows to his knees. He had vowed to stay away from the hospital when he was in living form, yet all he wanted to do was talk to Nyra not as Death, but as someone else, the man she trusted. He was not that man!

  All the same, he rose from the seat and found himself at the door. He forced his fingers to turn the doorknob. The hinges opened with a soft squeak. He listened to his footsteps down the stairs, a thump that was dull and lifeless compared to the hurried staccato of the annoyed women who had traveled down before. He preferred the dull thump.

  His time living was short. He reminded himself of that as he pushed open the door to Gregan’s room. His heart leaped at the sight of Nyra standing by the lone window. He pretended not to notice and took the chair by Gregan’s bedside.

  He was glad she spoke first. “I think he’s doing better,” she said, though the uncertainty in her voice contradicted her words.

  He nodded, his eyes on the tubes in Gregan’s mouth and sticking into his arms. Gregan looked the exact same as the day before. “I think so.” It felt strange to reassure someone about a person he was supposed to take.

  She crossed the room toward him. He looked up at her in an effort to slow her advance. “What do you do when you’re not here?”

  She paused, which was exactly what he wanted; however, he found himself curious about her reply. “I’m here most of the time,” she said, her answer cautious.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said off-handedly. “I’m just attempting to distract myself from Gregan’s condition. It’s no big deal.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter.

  She reached out as if she wanted to set a hand on his shoulder. He rose and moved out of the way, pretending to be interested in a sign on the wall about oxygen use.

  “I go to the Place of Accounting,” she said, breaking the silence.

  Intrigued, he looked back at her. “What are you accounting for?”

  “All guardian angels have to keep a tally of what they do, how they help those under their guardianship. It’s not always easy.”

  Death leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “Whispering in their ears, guiding them in the right direction. What’s hard about that?” He realized as soon as he said them that the words were flippant, but they were out and he couldn’t take them back.

  Instead of being offended, Nyra’s mouth showed the hints of a smile. Her eyes creased slightly at the corners when she answered him. “Humans are also accountable. Life is about the choices they make, the direction they decide to take. If guardian angels push too far, we take away their ability to choose for themselves.”

  “And if they decide not to listen?” he looked at Gregan pointedly.

  “Then there’s nothing we can do,” she said quietly.

  “If it’s his own choice that put him here, why are you so heartbroken?” The words came out gentler than he intended. He was Death. He didn’t care about anyone. Yet the sorrow in Nyra’s eyes ate at the empty place in his chest. He swallowed and felt his heart give a shuddering beat. He willed it to stay still, but her gaze rested on him. Her sad smile made it beat again, then again. He took a seat next to the bed and tried to distract himself from the feeling of her eyes on him.

  “I tried to warn him,” she said, unaware of his internal struggle. “I could feel something was wrong, but he didn’t listen. He always heeded my warnings, but he was in a hurry.” She sighed softly. He wondered if angels needed to breathe, or if she chose to. “I spoke to Mark Jeffrey’s angel.” Worry touched her eyes. “We’re not supposed to do that.”

  He held up both hands. “I’m not going to tell,” he said gently with a smile, another real smile that felt foreign but welcome on his face.

  She gave an answering smile. “I guess not.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so human he had to remind himself that he spoke to an angel. Her gaze avoided his. “We aren’t supposed to question if another angel did their job, but Mark Jeffrey’s angel said she tried to tell him not to drive drunk. He had just lost his job and didn’t want to tell his wife. They have five little children to support.” Her voice choked off. The empathy that filled her eyes made Death’s heart pound harder.

  He broke the silence filled with her anguish. “Did Mark die?” He couldn’t remember that name on his arm, but he took so many people it was hard to recall all of them.

  She shook her head and a small grateful smile touched her lips. “He’s alright, and Sarian, his angel, said he would never drive drunk again.”

  “Do you think he deserved to live?” At her look of shock, Death gestured toward Gregan. “He’s a good guy, so why should Mark get off just fine when he’s the one that made the bad decision? Why should Gregan pay?” He had never asked if anyone on his list deserved to die. Their time was up, that was all. He had a job to do and he couldn’t listen to the stories on the other side.

  “Accidents happen,” Nyra replied. Her understanding tone grabbed his heart, gripping it tight as it beat with maddening regularity. She was trying to help him feel better about Gregan’s condition. The thought made him want to laugh and cry at the same time, and Death never did either. “That’s just the way of the world. Sometimes we can’t control it.” Her voice cracked, letting through emotions she tried to keep hidden.

  Death turned his head slightly at the sound. “It’s not like you can keep him from dying if it’s his time, can you?” He was pushing it. He knew that, but he wanted to understand why she would go to such an extreme as to argue with Death to save one life.

  She looked as if she didn’t know whether to tell him or not. He was supposed to be Gregan’s brother, after all. He shouldn’t know such things. But he watched her, hoping she would continue. “I tried,” she admitted. She swallowed and tears showed in her eyes, glittering brightly in the dull neon lighting. “I argued with Death for him.”

  “For his life?” he asked, feigning surprise. “You can do that?”

  She shook her head. He let his head drop to hide his gaze from view, reminding himself that he was supposed to be a brother in mourning. “I tried,” she said again, “But I don’t think I can keep Death away very long. I’m so sorry.”

  He almost jumped out of the chair when her hand touched the back of his shoulder. Warmth flooded through him so sharp and bright Death couldn’t breathe and forgot he didn’t have to. His heart pounded so loud it echoed in his ears. Trails of fire and ice laced from her fingers through him, pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow. He felt like a drowning man reaching for air, while air existed all around him. He wil
led his mind to focus, but the feeling of her fingers on his shoulder distracted him from whatever she was saying. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Death rose and rushed out the door. Whatever Nyra thought could stay with her. He vowed never to go back. He didn’t care that Gregan Parker’s name burned where it was written on his arm. He would never return to that room.

  Chapter Eight

  ANGEL

  Nyra stared at the closed door. The look of panic on Death’s face replayed over and over again in her mind. He couldn’t have felt her fingers on his shoulder. No one felt her touch. Guardian angels didn’t have the ability to feel or be felt. Maybe the thought of her touching him had scared him. Humans shouldn’t be able to see angels after all. Perhaps she had gone too far. Maybe he just didn’t like to be touched.

  She kept seeing his face in her mind. The emotions that showed in his eyes were stark and fresh as though it was the first time he had ever felt them. She felt drawn to him and wanted to comfort him. Guardian angels couldn’t touch humans; she didn’t know why she had tried. She just wanted to ease his heartache, though he was so distraught she didn’t know what to do.

  The sorrow in his eyes when he spoke about his brother was real; it made her ache to know how much he cared about Gregan. Though she had only been Gregan’s guardian angel for a few years and had never heard of his brother, the man seemed genuine, more genuine than many people in Gregan’s life.

  She lingered at Gregan’s bedside until the bell sounded. She didn’t fight the pull toward the Place of Accounting, and smiled at the other angels around her. She tried to keep her spirits high, but when she went inside and it was her turn to go to the books, the little angel met her eyes and gave a sad shake of his head. Nothing was spoken, yet so much passed between them.

  She was no longer able to make an accounting because she no longer had promptings. The man she was supposed to guide didn’t listen, but she had fought Death to keep him alive. Gregan should have died as a consequence of the accident; yet he lingered because she had begged for his life. She had defied the very principles she was supposed to use to guide him. She had gone against everything and in return lost what Death called her job. What did a jobless guardian angel do?

  Lost, she wandered around the city. Nobody could see her, yet when she passed by smiles spread across faces and eyes lit up. She treasured the little differences she made in the people around her. Pausing near a doorstep, she watched a little baby roll a ball to her mom. Giggles flourished when the ball bounced against the child’s outstretched hands. The mother praised her little one and laughed with her. Nyra held in the sound, letting it fill her with joy. No matter where she was, there was still goodness in the world. It was enough to remind her to never give up.

  Nyra walked until she found a walkway hidden among the busy city streets. Entering through an alley that looked just like any other, she turned to the right and found beauty before her. Roses reached from vines strung along trellises that reached clear up the sides of the two buildings that made the small walkway. She wished she could smell the scent of the flowers around her. A memory of the soft brush of a rose against her lips made a sad smile touch her face.

  Nyra walked through the garden walkway with a feeling of peace as though someone had personally planted it for her to ease the ache of no longer being able to account for the things she did. Fading daylight made the rose petals glow, beautiful soft shades of orange, lavender, maroon, coral, burgundy, and violet. She touched the petals though she couldn’t feel them. She imagined the soft velvet against her fingers. It was almost enough to make her feel better about her page missing from the account book. Almost.

  Chapter Nine

  DEATH

  The inferno roared around him, fire eating up the walls, floor, and ceiling as if it had starved its whole life for just this moment. The very air shimmered with heat. Death felt none of it as he made his way through the building. It was a decrepit structure some billionaire had thought to save in the heart of the city, yet the wiring was bad and sparks had rushed out of control faster than the construction crew could contain it. Now someone was trapped within the blaze.

  Death might not have empathy, but he tried to help others pass over before they felt the true pain of their killer. The man in the room before him wouldn’t have to burn before Death touched him. Death crossed the glaring floor with a hand out, intent on the arm that covered the man’s face as he huddled in the corner.

  Before Death could reach the man, though, his head lifted. He looked squarely at Death, his gaze abrupt and straightforward. “Are you an angel?” he asked. Something passed from the man to Death in that moment.

  Death staggered backward, trying to make sense of what happened. Images flowed through his mind. He saw a boy run through a school hallway chased by three bigger boys. He turned a corner and listened to their footsteps thunder past. The image changed into a college graduation. A girl in a yellow dress spoke at the podium. In the next image, the girl was holding his hand. She wore white and beamed at him, her hair wreathed in a halo of violet flowers. He stood on a lawn with three boys running toward him. He knelt and wrapped them all in his arms. They held him tight, saying, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” over and over again.

  Death leaned against a wall for support, then fell through it. He staggered upright and made his way back to the room where the man waited. Something wet ran down his cheeks. He wiped them with his hand and stared at the tears that moistened his fingers. “What is happening to me?” he asked out loud. His heart gave one beat, then fell silent again.

  “Are you an angel?” the man repeated.

  It was so important to him. Death did the only thing he could do. He nodded.

  “Then I’m ready,” the man said. He held out his hand.

  Nobody had ever gone willingly. It was always a fight in the end, yet the man who had so much to live for reached out to Death. Tears streamed down Death’s face as he took the man’s hand in his own.

  ***

  Death stood across the street and watched the building collapse in on itself. Firefighters aimed streams of water to contain the inferno, but there was no saving the old building, only preventing the fire from spreading to the structures around it. As far as Death knew, no one was aware of the man who had burned inside. He was just another person, a name on the list that vanished as Death watched it. Timothy Welsh no longer inhabited the body inside the fire. He was on his way to the gateway, leaving behind a wife and three boys.

  Death couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down his face. He fell to his knees in the alleyway; sobs wracked his shoulders and tore from his chest. Those who passed the alley walked faster when they couldn’t find the source of the haunted sounds. Death hit his fist on the ground again and again, hating that it didn’t hurt, loathing that he couldn’t cause himself pain to chase away the agony he felt inside. His heart beat in a steady rhythm that made his body ache with every thump. The thought of lonely shoes on a stairway repeated itself in his mind, tormenting him.

  “What is wrong with me?” he asked quietly, then he turned his face to the sky and shouted with all the agony that filled him, “What is wrong with me?”

  A cat yowled and took off through the alley. Dogs barked in the distance. Several firefighters who held hoses toward the flame looked back at the alleyway, but there was nothing to see besides a lone newspaper flapping in a gently swirling night breeze.

  “What is wrong with me?” Death whispered.

  The names on his arm throbbed, demanding to be heeded. He eventually forced himself to his feet, his shoulders hunched and head bowed. He walked unseeing down the sidewalk, following the relentless call of the list. Several people walked through him, but he didn’t hear their gasps of fear or take joy in the cold shivers that ran up their spines. He stumbled through a door and touched the arm of a lady lounging on her stoop, calling her soul from her body without looking at her. The woman’s name vanished from his arm.

  Death
found a man in the back of a taxi hurrying home after working all day. He clutched a briefcase to his chest like his life depended on it while he desperately tried to ignore the aching, numb feeling that was spreading through his left arm and chest, the first symptoms of a heart attack. Death touched him and left without a backwards glance. Another name erased from his arm.

  He made his way to the city’s museum. A little old lady sat in the corner staring at a picture of a gentleman with a top hat. The way the picture was painted, it looked as though he stared straight back at her, one eyebrow slightly raised as if he was asking a question. A tattered umbrella and a well-thumbed Bible sat beside her. When Death touched her shoulder, she gave a sigh of relief and smiled before closing her eyes.

  Death’s list took him to a gang fight, knives out, guns used as clubs to erase the faces of youth who thought of each other as enemies, but who all looked the same. A gunshot sounded and a boy fell, clutching his chest. The fighting stopped. Everyone watched in expectant silence. Several members of the boy’s gang hurried to his side, falling to their knees in the grime and debris that littered the street. Death swept by and touched the boy’s side, trying not to notice the tears and anguish on all faces, not just those of the boy’s gang.

  Death went through his list without seeing. The names vanished one by one until the only name that remained ached with every beat of his heart. Death stopped in a park sheltered by trees, the bark of which had been etched with the names of thousands. It was a memorial of sorts to the living and dead whose lives meshed briefly among the oaks and aspens.

  Death sat down beneath the shelter of the gently swaying branches. He felt his body become alive as his time of living reached him. He took a deep breath, noticing for the first time how air pulled at his lungs with a cool rush and left in a sigh as though his body had longed for such a thing. He put a hand on a tree and closed his eyes. The bark felt rough beneath his fingers. He liked the feeling so much more than silk.