Time Is Beautiful And Sad

The Pain of Death

A/N - The literal topic is death, so be warned. Mentions of alcohol, murder, suicide, dead children and  major historic events.

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The day They came to get me, I had woken normally. Everything had been normal leading up to it.

But then Death came.

For as long as I'd known They existed, I had avoided them. I lived an efficient and drawn-out life. I had a job in an office, jogged daily, earned a steady income, ate healthily and didn't have kids or a love. I wanted to live forever, or at least evade dying.

The day I died, I was a few months over 43. A good age, but years before I had wanted. The truth was, I deliberated the human relationship with death on a regular basis, and I realised that when everyone else asked questions of their god, they asked of the future beyond life. I never had a god - it was impractical and unnecessary - but I was curious of the beyond. According to science, dying is simply the lack of physiological continuation, it's the body's failure to continue producing the hormones and chemicals and cells that it needs. Religiously, dying was the door to the next something, like how birth is the door to this something. I wanted to lock the door

It was a brain aneurysm, according to Them. No pain, no warning, just a blood vessel bleeding into the brain. It was quick at least. I hadn't even noticed it at first. To me, I was just standing when a person appeared in front of me. It was like my body just fell away and I saw a darkness. Darkness. Different from the light that everyone wanted to believe in.

As I stood in front of Death, I was given the chance to ask about the universe. To ask about the truth that no-one knew. I wanted to know what comes after life, but there was more I wanted to know.

"Before I go, can I ask you a question?"

The change was instantaneous, Their face shrivelled and became hollow. Mild exhaustion mixed with agitation and their response was a simple and evidently bitter nod. They knew, as every primordial being does, that the only question mortals wanted an answer to, was that of The After. Time had seeped this question into their bones, and they could only wish to answer without a hateful finality.

"What do you remember?"

I could tell they were startled, this was something new. This was a question of the eons they'd known, of the lives they'd stolen, and the tragedies consequential to their envy. I knew, from the grief in their eyes, it was a question of all the smallest deaths, the moments unnoticed, the years lost to lies.

"I remember everything. I am death. I remember the laughs of drunken adults before they hit the trees. I remember the false gods of the old civilisations. I remember the first breath of a baby, and the last petal of the spring. I remember the small deaths, the ending of each moment, and the sacrifices of love. I remember the ancient deaths, Pompeii, The 10 plagues, The battle of Troy, The Ascension. I remember the victims of famous killers, the subjects of unsolved mysteries, the justice in taking a killer slowly. I remember the regretful ones, children who never saw the sun, the suicides of youth in doubt, the final bow of the greatest artists. I remember rivers run dry and cities collapsing. I remember searching crashed planes for the people better off gone. I remember sitting in the corner of a hospital room, watching a simple switch determine an innocent person's future, as their family sobbed their farewells. I remember the tears and agony of dying peace, the struggle of the titanic, and the everlasting stubbornness of a mortal refusing their fate. I remember the creators of everything, and everything they created. Everyone dies, but first they live. And one always outweighs the other. What I remember is the past. It is not to dwell on. My memory is of every death; and each moment, thought, love, truth, dream, and LIFE dies. It always has and always will. What I am still to learn is what I am still to ask about. What do you remember that is comparable to my pain? After all, I am Death, and I have seen everything that could be seen"

...

"I remember a life, woven with others, that has ended. And I am glad."