The Life of Death #Wattys2016

The Brass Ring

Death walked with stealth toward his daughter's room, which wasn't exactly a major feat considering his occupation. Peering around the corner, he could see her hurriedly throwing her belongings into her favorite trunk, the one she used to play inside for the brief period of time where she actually played make believe as a little girl. Her back was to him, but he didn't need to see her face to know how angry she was. He knocked and watched her body tense.

"What?"

"Can we talk?"

She didn't turn. "We've done that already. You laid down your mandate and I believe we have nothing more to discuss."

"I just—,"

"If you have something to say you can say it when I get back in eighty or so years."

Death wished he could pinpoint the moment when his beautiful daughter's demeanor became so clinical. Perhaps he could have stepped in and put a stop to it but, immortality not withstanding, time travel was just not within the realm of his powers.

He placed his hands on the lid of her trunk and gently lowered it. "This is not what I wanted, though I know I shoulder much of the blame."

"Really not in the mood for a heart-to-heart...father."

The formal tone was intentional, and it stung. "No. I suppose not. But please listen. This isn't the route I chose, and you won't see it the same way, but you forced my hand. But I have a proposition for you, or really—more of a guarantee. Once you return home—however long this takes—the show will be yours."

This made her eyes brighten.

He wanted to say more—to press the issue at hand. He wanted to plead with her to make the most of this experience and actually try to see his side, but he knew it was futile. Still, he was certain this experience would teach her the lesson he so desired her to learn.

"Really?" she asked.

The sight of her smile caused one of his own. "Really."

Her smile faded and her eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

Death placed his hand over his heart. "There is no catch. No matter the outcome, you're in charge." He hoped for some reaction—a squeal of delight, or an excited jump, but he settled for a smile without malice behind it.

He paused before exiting. "Oh. There uh...there is one thing I forgot to mention."

Again the smile disappeared. It was nice while it lasted. "You'll have a guide, if you will."

"Go on."

"The young man—the one you tried to...,"

"No." He voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Yes."

"No! And I don't mean no like I think it's a bad idea, but no as in it's-a-terrible-idea-and-it's-not-happening."

This time there was no emotion in his voice—not compassion, nor malice. His tone was matter of fact, because if Death said it, it was matter of fact. "Yes. It is happening, and there's nothing you can do about it. I already have a substitute body on the way for his soul. A tragic young homeless boy who died of appendicitis because—well, I suppose it doesn't matter." But it may soon, he thought.

He left before she could rage, or argue, or anything close to the two. It never mattered to Madeline if she lost with no change of reversing the outcome, the rage still came.

"And you'll be staying with your Aunt Leona," he called over his shoulder.

Clearly, she wasn't too upset, thought Death. Whatever she threw against the wall hit with far less force than it would if she were truly angry.