Dialogue with Death

The Writer and Death

Truly, a person's talent is only appreciated after their death.

The day started off badly from the very morning. I had stayed up late working on my writing and didn't hear the alarm. I had to choke down sandwiches and cold coffee on the run. I burst into the publishing house like a madman - angry, disheveled, and sleep-deprived. Although I was only ten minutes late, management didn't care. For half an hour, they berated me, cursing my stupidity and irresponsibility in every possible way. God, how tired I was. The main thing was not to explode and tell the old hag where to go. After my hundred and fiftieth apology, she finally left. Exhaling, I finally got to work. The only distraction was my constantly aching heart. Giving in to my friend's argument, I had made an appointment with a cardiologist for a check-up.

In this vein, another gray day flew by unnoticed, as usual. I always looked forward to the evening. To bolt like a bullet from this hateful place, rubbing my tired eyes and stretching my neck, to run into the store. To grab a snack, to smile politely at the equally exhausted cashier. A small thing, but it would make her feel good. These little things shape us. Being human is difficult; being selfish is easier. Everyone has problems. A new phone, a loan, a mortgage. But no one notices that the circle is tightening, life is passing by. And here you are, a creature bitter at everyone, hating everything beautiful. Find beauty in the little things. Enjoy the moment.

The phone rang anxiously. It was her. My curse and my joy. Long ago, we had decided to remain friends, and although quite some time had passed, I never stopped loving her. I answered, and her cheerful voice burst into my gloom, dispelling heavy thoughts. We chatted, and as always, I heard that we wouldn't be able to meet today. I jokingly said she was selfish, although deep down I was very upset. I missed her. She had always been my ray of light in my dreary and empty apartment. Discussing various silly things, I ran home. Playfully exchanging phrases, I flew into the apartment. At the hundredth "bye," we ended the conversation. I was home.

The bag flew onto the couch, and I comically hopped on one foot as I scattered my shoes. Kitchen, unpack groceries. Coffee, quickly whip up an epic sandwich of the "mouth-exploding, gastritis-inducing" variety. Almost ready, dinner on the table in the living room, get out the laptop. Now everything was set. Now it was just me and my work. I've been writing it for a long time, but each time, looking back more calmly, I realize that not much is left. Turn off all the lights, and begin. Another world awaited me. Full of colors and life. A world of which I was the creator.

... I don't know how much time had passed; when I immersed myself in the book, I lost connection with this world. A polite cough sounded like thunder in a clear sky. I turned sharply; in the half-darkness of the room, where the only source of light was the laptop, sat a man. Due to the semi-darkness, I couldn't make him out. Strange, I thought I had closed the door. I don't live on the ground floor. Who is he? How did he get here? I wanted to stand up to turn on the light, but my legs felt like lead, my ears started ringing, and my heart began to ache again...

"Don't bother, Mr. Walter. You shouldn't strain yourself now," sounded an even, strong, not particularly loud voice.

"Wwwho are you? How did you get here?" My voice was hoarse and quiet. God, how painful it was; my heart ached more and more, it seemed that with every movement of my lips, red-hot needles were being stuck into it.

"How I got here is not so important. Who am I? Let's say, the last one you'll see in this life. The Blind Ferryman, the Noseless One with the Scythe, the Banshee. As many cultures, so many names, choose one to your taste."

"Ddeath?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"Your heart, Mr. Walter. Shortness of breath, periodic loss of consciousness, weakness. Heart failure in its final stage. You have at most a day left."