MusicCrit Blogging · @MusicCrit
31st Oct 2010 from Twitlonger
In honor of Halloween, I decided to share something with you all that I wrote about a billion years ago. Enjoy, lovies.
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Kiss of Death
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Drip, drip.
She waited patiently in the middle of a mostly empty room, knowing the one she sought would come to her. Dingy fluorescent lights illuminated the area, yet she remained shadowed, her features indecipherable. Time passed, and still she waited.
At long last, a tall man entered the room. His age, she knew, was fifty-two; his hair had been grey since his fortieth year. The room they were in was the living room of his sparsely-furnished apartment. He flipped the switch by the door, but the light remained off.
The man had just return from his daily five-mile run, and would now proceed to get a bottle of water from the fridge. He had, as could be expected, the long, lean figure of a runner. Despite his apparent good health, he did not notice the woman doused in shadow, and she smiled as she watched him go into his small kitchen. After a moment’s deliberation, she followed. The strange shroud never left her, and the man still remained blind to her presence.
Drip, drip.
As she followed him around the tiny room, always managing to stay just beyond contact, she thought of all she knew of him – namely, everything. His name was Albert Michael Thomson; he had been married once, but he and his wife, Maria, had divorced nine years ago; he had three children by Maria, ages twenty-seven, nineteen, and sixteen; his wife had gotten everything in the divorce – custody, the house, the car, the money; he’d been living in this apartment for six of the nine years away from his wife, having moved in after he lost his job; he was working again, but saw no purpose in purchasing a better place; he kept in contact with his children, but was not allowed to see the youngest, as she was still in the custody of her mother, and the terms of the custody agreement forbade it.
Her mouth twisted into what passed as a smile at the irony. She knew his life story, and more, and he wasn’t even aware of her existence.
All of this coursed through her mind as a second passed. Albert hadn’t even reached the refrigerator to retrieve his bottled water. When he did, and turned around, she was close enough to touch him, but still he remained unnoticing. Had it been possible of her, she would have laughed in his oh-so-close face. As it was, she simply shook her head and moved just barely, following him when he passed back into the living room.
Drip, drip.
He didn’t, as so many would have, turn on the television. Instead, he retrieved a book from the coffee table – The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe. Again, the shrouded figure would have laughed. Faustus could not escape his eventual end – she knew well that no one could.
For over an hour, she waited patiently for him to rise once again from his seat. During that time, she never moved, never blinked… never drew a breath. She just stared patiently, thinking, waiting. When finally he placed his book back on the table, her mouth twisted into that frightful grin once more. Albert rose and walked over to the window. He could see little beyond the tops of nearby building, the harsh city lights, but he enjoyed the view all the same. The covered figure drew nearer to him, feeling that her waiting would now end – only to be interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Her countenance changed just barely, and Albert Thomson felt a chill as he walked over to the phone. The light nearest the phone suddenly blew, and Albert frowned as he answered the phone. It was a new bulb. The figure listened as he answered; it was his eldest daughter, Anna, telling him that the baby had said his first word. The conversation continued, and the figure decided that now was the time; she would no longer wait. The next bulb didn’t blow – it shattered. Albert Thomson swore into the phone, asking his daughter to hold on. The shrouded figure slowly made her way to the man as he bent over the shards of thin glass on the floor and placed her thin, dark hand against his chest. His eyes widened and he gave a yelp of surprise as, for just a moment, he could see her – this woman, this thing. He tried to speak, but no words came. On the other end of the phone line, Anna grew worried and called out to her father.
She would never receive an answer.
He fell to his knees, and the telephone fell from his hand. Receiving no answer, Anna hung up. She would call the police, and they would send an ambulance, but they would be too late. When they arrived, they would find Albert Michael Thomson, a man of good health, dead of what appeared to be a heart attack, though he had no history of heart disease, good cholesterol levels, average blood pressure, and healthy habits. They would never understand how it happened.
The woman’s fearful smile returned as the man finally found his voice and managed to mutter, “Who are you?” She knelt at his side and bestowed on him a gentle kiss; it was at that precise moment that he drew his last breath. The stranger straightened, listening to the sound of sirens in the distance. Slowly, satisfied, she turned and made her way to the door. The shadow briefly lifted from her hands, showing them to be drenched in red. Drip, drip.
Who was she?
Her name was Samael. Her name was Azriel. Her name was Hades. Her name was Death.
And she was indiscriminate.