A Negative World(A collection of short stories)

The Story of a Dead Man(2)

While on the train, George Baker had a few things to contemplate about.

For instance, where the train he and Death was on was heading. If Death could speak. If he himself was truly dead, or was nearing being dead.

Who he himself was.

A smirk nearly made its way onto his lips before sinking away dully.

If Death was on the train with him willingly or not. If Death was a he or a she. If Death was-

"I'm only Death and that's the way I'll stay." It was a voice so near and calm and hollow and dark and silent that it was impossible for Baker to be surprised.

So this was how it sounded, with Death speaking.

So Death could speak!

"Of course I can converse, convey my message to others; however, there is no solidly defined way of speaking in my realm. I could speak through the beak of this crow-" Death shook his crow. "-, speak through the earth, whatever. I'm only pretending to speak through myself, for that is the most familiar style humans are, I believe, familiar with,"

Baker didn't find any of this horrifying, shocking, striking. But he did find it fascinating.

"Can you speak through your crow?"

The shrouded shoulders of Death seemed to wince and groan, but before long, they had straightened as if giving in. And in the next second, Death had tapped his stick on the metal floor of the subway.

"So many dead clients of mine have asked me for such stupid fascinations that I no longer feel pride for accomplishing my job," The hollow-eyed crow said in the same tone of voice as Death, its beak opening an inch from time to time.

Baker, despite Death's former slight and oldened admonishment, still found it a bit cool.

But now, he found something odd, too.

"What do you mean with cl-"

"The system of a client and Death differs from that of the human society," -Ah, goddam, Death seemed to be able to read minds- "A dead human becomes a possible client as soon as he or she hits the end of life. The first Death available for the person-any Death who has time-will come to pick the soul up. Now that I have done just that, you're my client."

For a moment, Baker just let the rubles and jumbles of the train vibrate straight through him to his heart. Then, he let all the questions pour through him.

"Why did you pick me up on a train?"

Death shuffled his stick and walked over to sit in the seat straight across from George Baker-there was no grunt, no sigh nor cursing.

"I know everything passing through your heart, George Baker," It was the first time Death had ever pronounced his name directly. The hooded head looked up, the darkness underneath it pronounced for a moment. "I knew your thoughts the second you were born, in fact. However, it was in a vague form, as if you were fighting against me. Anyway, I wasn't interested in your thoughts too much-I had plenty of other human minds to look into, and other dead human souls to pick up."

Baker decided to dismiss the last statement simply; he wasn't in the mood to rebut to Death's circumnavigatory style of criticizing him.

"But when someone dies, his or her thoughts become clearer; like I'm looking into a glass frame of something. The second you died, I felt it-your thoughts getting clearer and focused. By the time I reached your soul hovering in your apartment like a deflated balloon, you were afraid, wondering, faraway,"