Duty Calls.

I spoke to Death the other day. It was brief. She’s busier than ever these days you know. What between this plague and the events over there. It’s been an eventful three years for her. In the past three years she’s picked up almost a million souls. And that’s just the ones afflicted by the plague in America!

 -Is it hard?

-Not at all. 

 I asked her if she was willing to outsource her work, perhaps take on an apprentice or two. I mean, business is booming these days, certainly she could use the help.

 -No.

 She caressed my cheek as she explained that no one else has her touch. I swear I felt my heart stop.

 -Do you ever get tired?

-No.

She told me that the job is easy—rewarding, even. I mean, every soul wants to go home sooner or later.

 -What if they’re not ready?

-Darling, they’re always ready. They just don’t know it all the time.

It’s rare that a soul fights her when she arrives, she says. We spend our whole lives running from her, but when she finally catches us she says we always succumb.

-Succumb?

-Oppressive language, I know. But am I not the one in charge? It’s really not as bad as it sounds, I promise.

I asked her to explain, and she obliged. First, she comes to you as a fond memory—almost like an old friend. She told me that she takes your hand gently while you’re still swept up in this memory (that’s when your heart stops). Then, she puts her lips to yours and inhales your final exhale. It’s painless, she says, a smile on her face.

It’s a process she’s perfected over thousands of years, and she simply hasn’t the time to train someone else.

I wanted to ask her more. She told me she had to leave. Duty calls.