Don't Fear the Reaper

Don't Fear the Reaper Chapter One

Don’t Fear the Reaper

Chapter One

                Her every nerve screamed as she ran forward, up the flight of stairs that creaked with every step. One of her shoes were slipping off, and she let it fall, closely followed by the second. Her bare feet caught stray wood shavings at the landing of the stairs, which splintered into her skin. Numb fingers opened the door, leading to a hallway. Her surroundings were a blur as she continued to run, ignoring the protests of her body. Her heart pounded, her eyes caught tears.

In the suffocating tension of her chase, and hazy vision because of the tears, she hit something. Precisely, she crashed into something – the window of the fourth storey.

Glass shattered into countless bits as she collided with it. Time seemed to slow, as those shattered bits dug into her. Her last thoughts hadn’t even framed properly, when gravity pulled her down, cracking her skull against the hard pavement.

                The street lay empty – save for her lifeless body – against the dark of the night. A lamppost at the bend of the road flickered.

Brisk footsteps severed the silence. His dark leather shoes paused at the sight of her. Gently, he bent down, removing the dark strands of hair framing her face. Blood had clotted at the side of her head, painting the pavement in red.

At his touch, the shade of her skin grayed slightly. His fingers traced her forehead, and within moments, a bright light erupted at their tips.

The silver light dimmed, reducing itself into a pearl that caught the flicker of the lamppost. Pocketing the pearl, he resumed his walking, brisk footsteps fading at the bend of the road.

**

                “Order up!”

I heard Mike’s voice as he placed table 5’s order – a classic dish of medium rare steak at the side of fries and coleslaw. His red apron flashed in my line of sight, while I took the plate and walked across the diner.

The diner was as usual beautifully packed. Old John sat behind his newspaper, at a table-for-one that was almost as big as he was.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said in the same enthusiastic tone that he addressed me in everyday. He was a typical man of his late sixties: round at his waist, pinkish at his cheeks, bald at the head. The baldness was usually covered with a gray hat, which complimented the gray vest. The hat was probably a sign of denial of getting old – he was wonderfully young at heart. However the hat never lived up to its purpose, it always became askew halfway through the day.

                Setting the plate down, I smiled at him. “How does the news look today, sir?”

“Terrible, always terrible, my dear. And every day, I never cease to wonder what the world has gotten itself to.”

Before I could reply, another voice called from another end. “Yo, Claire!”

“Tyson,” I muttered.

And before I could retort, Amanda came to my rescue. Stiffly, she walked over to his table, wearing the same red apron as I was, tying her blonde hair up in a bun in the process just like I had. Although the colour of the hair differed – mine was jet black.

“I’ll be your waitress today, Tyson,” she put forth in a cool voice, paper and pen at the ready, perfectly poise even with her glossy high heels.

Dismissing the groan she received from Tyson with an inevitable shake of my head, I headed back behind the counter, sorting other orders in, well, order.