by Kayla Krantz
I don’t bother to study the third corpse. Turning my back to them, I look at the other half of the room. An empty gurney sits in the fourth corner of the room, littered with various tools and a small empty glass toward the end.
I stare at it, marveling at the significance of the tiny object. It looks so out of place here. The empty glass cup reminds me a lot of the bodies surrounding me. At one time, it was full of something; useful and much needed in its duty. Now? It sits, empty and forgotten by the world that left it behind.
I glance back at the disemboweled man. At one time, he too was full of life, with a unique personality and soul. Now he is empty, drained dry of any trace of the energy life had given him. Just like the old woman on the other side of the room—though life would’ve proven them much different. I wonder what this situation looks like from his point of view. Can he see himself in this state of disarray? Is his soul aware of the things happening to his body as it’s perched in Heaven (or Hell)? Or is he oblivious to his fate, reduced to the slab of meat that he now resembles?
I shiver again. Glancing back at the empty glass, I feel it mocking me from its place on the table—a materialistic version of the corpses in the room. I step closer to it, observing the only thing in here not connected to death, yet with more strings attached than anything else. As my eyes focus on it, I see a hairline crack running up one side.
Even though the glass isn’t alive, it’s dying in here as well. Soon it too will experience the feeling of being cast aside, forever forgotten to the rest of the world. A new one will replace it, and the empty glass would be no more than a memory in the minds of the few who care to remember it. Is that how the dead feel when they watch their families moving on, carrying their lives forward without them in it?
I look at the bowl with the man’s organs, resting a few feet away from the cracked, empty glass. I know that everyone ends up in this place eventually, with their organs in a bowl and no longer able to give the vital support needed to sustain an existence. Who we are, what we did in life, the people we befriended, loved, and hated—none of it matters as we lie on the cold, hard gurneys waiting to take the final steps to be forgotten.
We are destined to this place like the cracked glass is to the garbage—brought to the morgue and forgotten. This is the first step on the long road of no return. Just like the shattered glass at the bottom of the trash can; once we fulfill our purpose, we have no place left on Earth.
You pushed me down to the depths of my sorrow, until I thought I wouldn’t see the light of day again. You expected me to drown, didn’t you? To be left there for an eternity, waiting for your hand to pull me up? What you never realized is that I live in the shadows, thrive even. When I pull myself from the darkness, I’ll be stronger for it and you’ll regret leaving me for dead.
A Letter to My Stalker
TO MY “ADMIRER,”
You know me, but I don’t know you. All I have to go on is a note—one simple anonymous message—passed to me through the cold vines of the internet. A message, a taunt, a promise, a threat—you want to hurt me in ways I could never imagine, and destroy my mind and body with unspeakable acts.
“Catch me if you can,” you said.
Maybe I’ll figure out who you are, but maybe I won’t. I have clues, of course. You’re no stranger to social media, just as you’re no stranger to my life. You watch me, don’t you? At least you’ve said you do.
I wonder: did you watch me pack my car with boxes? What did it make you think? Did you want to stop me? Are you angry that I’m moving on with my life, or do you think I’m moving because of you? Do you think you’ve scared me into running away?
I assure you—you have not.
Your words have never left my mind, but let me make this very clear—you have no control over me or my life. I do not fear you, nor will I let your words influence a single step I make. Perhaps one day I will be unfortunate enough to find out who you are—to cross paths with you and bring an end to all this ugliness. And perhaps I won’t. Maybe you are merely the coward I imagine you to be. Either way, one thing is certain—I will not let myself be a victim.
Not again.
Sincerely,
Your Not-So-Delicate Flower
An odd surge of relief hits me as I press send. It’s odd really. Nothing has changed—I’m still in just as much danger as I was a moment before—yet all seems right with the world. I have no idea if my stalker will even read my response, but knowing it’s out there waiting for him in the same place he first noticed me, gives me strength.
If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s for him to know just how much his letter terrifies me.
Hateful messages are one thing when you know the sender. But when you don’t? They’re terrifying. Every sound becomes a threat and before you know it, one eye is permanently looking over your shoulder, because you can’t trust the world to let you go anywhere alone.
I followed you at your job once.
He could be lurking anywhere.
I watch you every time you leave your house.
He’s the reason I moved, though I’d never let him know that I don’t feel safe in my own home.
I’ll sneak into your home and do things to your body that you’ll never forget.
After that line, even locks don’t seem secure enough. I feel dirty, though I shouldn’t. I wanted a fresh start, so I got one—far away from my old town on the other side of the country. I wanted peace of mind. The drastic move gave me just a bit of my freedom back.
If I ever catch you alone, it’s on.
Even the biggest of creeps wouldn’t be willing to invest that much time, money, and effort in one victim, right?
…Right?
The town was a dead end anyway. The same job for almost ten years, a handful of friends that avoided me more than they included me—I easily convinced myself that I hadn’t left anything important behind.
With what I have, it seemed easy enough to start over again as if the last few months of unpleasantness never happened.
That is, until I got the reply.
My Porcelain Doll,
Shall I teach you a lesson in fragility? Don’t you see that with life comes vulnerability? Of course, you’re weak and breakable—like a newborn kitten. Your life could end in the fraction of a second and you’d be no wiser to it—at least, not in time to stop it.
I don’t want to hear that you don’t think of me. I’m always on your mind. I am right now, aren’t I? You wrote your letter to prove a point to me, to make a show of your strength. There’s no other reason for it. That’s all well and good, but you don’t seem to realize that calling me out is the opposite of forgetting me. You’re engaging me; drawing me in more and more with every little word you dare to spew my way.
Your letter shows a lovely color in you, one I never imagined existed. I like it—the boldness, I mean. You dare laugh at my anonymous status, thinking it shows cowardice? No, my sweet: it shows patience, preparation, and readiness. You think you’re anywhere near as prepared for what your future holds as I am? If so, you underestimate me.
I was kind enough to send you that message to give you a fighting chance when the time comes. Nothing more and nothing less.
You claim you won’t be a victim again? Well, sweetheart, we’ll see about that. Just because there are miles between us doesn’t mean you’re safe. I’ll let you in on a little secret—you’re never safe. You’ve certainly made a strong declaration, but I can do the same.
Run and hide, little girl. Wolves don’t rely on eyesight to hunt and neither do I.
Forever yours,
Your Distant Admirer
And in her life, she found the perfect death—a way to drown out the pain; a way to let go.
The Angel of Death
DARKNESS ENVELOPED THE neighborhood—not a sound in the desolate night. It seemed life was suddenly absent as the crisp, chilly winds blew, rattling the branches of the nearly leafless trees. No crickets chirped from the
foliage. No cats stirred in the shadows. The moon refused to rise on that late fall day.
“I can kill you, Johnnie!” an outraged voice cried. It came from the depths of one of the houses, breaking the deafening silence.
“You don’t have the guts,” Johnnie replied.
Scuffling sounds could be heard as the two men fought, struggling for their lives against the blows from each other’s fists. A gunshot rang out. The sound radiated through the stillness, marking the end of a life. The body thumped to the floor without so much as a twitch, and the gunman crept away from the scene of the crime to escape the evil deed of his blackened heart. His dark outfit blended in with the night, and he disappeared down the street, leaving the mess of his misdeed behind him.
Silence ruled the night once again. A small woman stood up from where she had crouched, observing the scene and crying quietly in the shadows. She had seen this before; jealousy and greed worth more than the value of a human life, as clearly was the case tonight.
She didn’t know why she bothered to hide—they couldn’t see her. She supposed it was a habit from the time she had spent as a human, centuries ago. She crept across the yard; her gentle footsteps making almost no sound as she lighted across the grass. She opened the door of the house and flicked on the lights. The room was a mess. The body of the dead man lay slumped on the ground, blood and brain matter splattered against the wall and the floor.
She frowned, deeply saddened. She never liked this part, but she had no choice. It didn’t matter who she was; her stomach and heart ached at the sight. Creeping over to the body, she knelt beside it. Her fingers shook as she set them atop his arm, feeling a subtle bit of warmth leaving his body. She clutched his shoulder gently and backed away, standing up to watch the body closely.
A white mirage of the deceased man rose from it slowly. If she hadn’t already known what it was, she might’ve mistaken it for smoke. She watched quietly as the haze collected together and found its footing. It usually took the spirits a minute or two to learn how to do this, before they noticed her.
The ghost face of the man twisted as he jumped, as if he only just realized he wasn’t alone. He stared in silence, with a look of part confusion and part awe. She knew why. Her face could melt the toughest man’s heart. Her beautiful green eyes, always crafted in concern, and her lips, pursed to match. She raised her hands as a sign of friendliness, afraid that he’d be frightened like many others before him.
The man seemed to regain himself at her movement.
“W-who are you?” he asked.
She put her arms down. “The Angel of Death,” she said simply.
He looked as if he was ready to argue.
To prove her point, she unfolded her large, white wings. They billowed behind her, vaguely resembling an eagle’s, except hers were far more majestic. It was impossible for anyone to deny her once they caught sight of them.
“I’m dead?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
She hated this part the most. Avoiding eye contact, she nodded.
“I’m afraid so.”
“He really did it?” His voice broke, moving from surprise to grief in an instant. “I’m never gonna see my family and friends again. Or get that promotion. I’ll never…I’ll never see my kid’s first birthday,” he rambled. She realized suddenly that he wasn’t addressing her; he was talking to himself.
The Angel of Death raised her hands for him to stop. It was hard enough to deal with her own guilt—she didn’t want to add remorse to it.
He looked up at her through wide eyes, as if he thought she would hurt him.
“I’m sorry about it, I truly am,” she whispered.
“Sorry? What do you mean you’re sorry? Can’t you give me more time?” he begged. “Please…I promise that I won’t bargain for dirty money anymore. I’ll be a better person; I’ll start going to church again!”
She heard pleas like this before, but could do nothing to help them. The Grim Reaper decided their fate, not her. Humans found that hard to understand. The Grim Reaper didn’t show himself to humans the way she had to. It made sense for them not to know that he was the one with the icy heart.
It was easier to blame it on her.
“I have no say in it. I’m supposed to collect your soul. If I could give you more time, I would,” she said, honestly.
He hung his head in silence, realizing his fate. It was the closest he would come to acceptance. The Angel of Death didn’t speak—there was nothing left to say. She reached out to him. He stared at her for a long time and it was hard to register the emotions in his eyes. For a moment, she wondered if he would try to slap her hand away. Finally, his face broke. Gently, he set his ghostly white hand on hers. She could feel his uncertainty before she closed her eyes and, with a mental flick, whisked him off to the next person in the chain of the afterlife; the Sorter.
She opened her eyes. Once again, she was left alone with the bloodstained body. It was nothing but a carcass now, left to collect flies until it would be discovered in the morning. The Angel of Death turned to leave the house and disappear into the eerie fall night. Her heart was heavy.
She did what she was told—that was it. She didn’t want to, but was compelled to do it anyway, like being on constant autopilot. Her life felt scripted by invisible writers. Except, they weren’t invisible—they were made real by the knowledge they were her bosses, and in control of her every action. It didn’t matter what she thought, or what she felt. She learned that some time before, when she protested the position. Her job wasn’t to think, or to ask questions; she was just a pawn in the chess game of the afterlife.
She had two bosses. Lucy and April—twin angels, fair-skinned and fair-haired—who never left their comfy perches up in Heaven. They looked down their noses at her. None of the angels liked her—and why not? She might be the prettiest, but she was different, in both her job and her appearance. Lucy and April weren’t the only fair angels—all of them were, but her.
The Angel of Death had dark hair and clothes. “Might as well be Satan’s angel,” Lucy told her once. Her wings were the only thing that matched the other angels, and she cherished them for it. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be one of them, her bosses were quick to point out her flaws. Despite being an angel, she was never allowed to return to Heaven. That was Lucy and April’s favorite taunt toward her, except for, of course, the fact that she didn’t have a name.
The Angel of Death didn’t understand why such nasty angels had names, and she didn’t. She had a name once, a long time ago when she was a human, and a little girl. But that had long since been forgotten. Now she only had a title, like the Grim Reaper. She worked closely with him, and he was her only friend—to use the term loosely. He was the only one, besides her, that kept to himself.
She sighed, crossing her arms as she looked around at the darkness surrounding her. A flash of light crossed her vision and her arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders slumping forward. No one else could see that burst of light. It was a signal—she had another job to do.
She closed her eyes and uttered a charm. When she opened her eyes again, the sun was shining brightly, halfway toward the horizon. Nearly sunset. She had traveled to site of the next accident, on a highway with an overpass nearby. Heavy walls lined the outer edges, creating a cage-like area with stone barriers.
Beyond the walls, a forest stretched into the distance. The Angel of Death hovered in the air by one of the walls, suspended by her beautiful wings. She looked around, wondering why she had been summoned. There was no pain or suffering yet. She had to wait for the next soul who she was to help pass on.
A car swerved to the side—right into the car beside it. The loud screeching sound from the tires and grinding metal caught her attention. She watched as the cars slid across the highway, two more cars from the opposite lane joining the mess. One flipped over twice, landing upside down with a crash as it broke free from the pile. The remaining cars hit their breaks to avoid th
e rubble.
The sounds of a dozen breaking cars were all one could hear. The pile of wrecked cars became still, after merging across the four lanes of the highway. Destruction and chaos reigned. Oil dripped from cracked machinery and smoke seeped from under the hood of one car. Another began to spark, the likelihood of a fire very real.
All became silent. The sun reflected off the metal in the jumbled mess of cars. There always seemed to be silence before death, as if tragedy moved without a sound. The Angel of Death stared expectantly; it wasn’t her time to go in yet. She flapped her wings again to stay in the air as she waited. A flash of darkness cut across her vision. She knew it wasn’t visible in the Human’s Realm. It was the Grim Reaper, deciding the fate of each person in the pile of cars.
She fluttered her wings gently as her bare feet touched the ground. She closed them and crept over to the destruction. Agonized screams rang out broken only by the sounds of sobbing cries. Others had nervous breakdowns. Someone was calling 911 for help. She couldn’t see who it was, but she could feel it. Time is short. She headed for the red car; the one that hit the wreck last and flipped over.
She felt herself being called to it. The Angel of Death crouched down beside it and peeked through the broken windows. Her heart twisted at the thought of what she might see inside. A woman was trapped with her forehead smashed to the steering wheel, a trickle of blood running down her temple into her hairline. Her seatbelt had held her in place to the now upside-down seat.
The Angel of Death reached her hand out to her, then stopped. The woman wasn’t why she was here. Her face contorted in confusion as she pulled her hand back. Crawling around the broken car, she peered through the shards of the back window. A little girl in a red dress was slumped over on the roof of the car. The color made it hard to tell how many injuries she suffered. Her face was hidden beneath a wave of blonde hair, but she obviously hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt at the time of the crash. The Angel of Death knew that this little girl was the reason that she was here.
