The sky itself was tired. The atmosphere radiated a deep chill. Even with eyes closed, he could feel that the surroundings were grey and listless, drab, as if to strike down any hope for sunshine. The schoolyard was deserted in the weather but one figure remained, a young man with ancient eyes that knew more than they let on. He appeared to have a walking stick, although he had no limp. He leaned on the trunk of a centuries old tree, enjoying the condition of grey. A light rain dripped through the pine needles.
He remained silent as he hefted his walking stick and looped it above his shoulders. The life he lived has been longer than time and a rather mundane one, if he cared to think of his life as pointless. Oh no, this young man knew he had a needed existence in the lives of man. Right now he was on the job, and yet he should be getting out of the rain soon. The child he looked for wasn't outside; nobody who cared about their wellbeing was out in this morose weather.
The tintinnabulum of the school bell interrupted the philosophical reasoning of his existence. He must get inside to do his job. The child was waiting.
Sighing, the man flipped up the collar of his jacket and with his heavy leather boots he sauntered across the mud and grass. The man's senses were acute beyond human reach and he could hear the soft squish of his boot soles sinking into the mud and the subtle bending of the grass over itself. His dark eyes looked up at the school's grand entry way and jogged his way up the cement steps. As he wiped his feet on the mat he could feel the eyes of the school secretary and the vice principal slide over him. He was nondescript to them, and because of his average looks the eyes of mortals did not see him. Not until it was their time. They were quite safe for now. Dark and looming like a raven, he was not coming for them but instead he was reaching out to the boy child.
Despite the hardened soles of his boots he was noiseless as he crossed the hall to the boy’s classroom. He jiggled the handle, testing it. The teacher and pupils contained within would overlook the sound as the toddler child of a visiting mom or a student aide realizing that they chose the wrong door before they opened it. And so, with this distraction in place, the man walked through the door. The people wouldn’t see the door open, they didn’t want to, didn’t want to see what wasn’t there. With the tiniest of grim smiles he glanced about the room, picking out the faces and reading what the Fates had on them.
One boy would live until he was ninety three but never marry; one girl would become the first female president. The Fates knew what they’d become, and this man knew when they would cease to. He saw the boy, an intelligent looking lad with sharp hazel eyes and a tousle of blonde hair, and cut through the desks to crouch beside him.
The hairs on the boy’s little arms rose in Death’s presence, but the boy smoothed them down with a frisson. His gaze from the teacher strayed to the girl beside him, a cute brunette girl with cherub cheeks.
Death smiled, truly. He adjusted his legs, crouching on the other leather clad foot. With a tip down to the boy’s ear he said, “This won’t hurt. You’re safe.”
The boy’s face distorted with confusion, turning in his desk to see behind him at the man who wasn’t there. The student behind him was oblivious to what the child was talking about. He looked back to the teacher.
Death removed his soft, supple leather gloves, heirlooms almost as old as he was and still just as strong. His hands were flushed, the way they were when Death was on-the-job. His fingers were long and spidery, the hands of a nobleman. He leaned in once more, “Do you have anything you wish to say to the little brunette girl?”
When it came to Death’s question (always interchangeable with the person in question) people finally seemed to hear him, and not question where the inspiration came from. So it was for the boy. He tore a corner of his paper off and wrote on it with his stubby pencil and chubby child hands, writing in young handwriting:
‘Julie, dew you like like me? Chek yes or no.’ With two boxes for her to check, a yes and a no box.
He passed it to the cherub girl, blushing soft red. She read it and checked a box, handing it over to him as she fixed her pigtails. She’d checked yes.
“Now is that all?” Death asked, knowing that the boy was satisfied. Since the boy did no more to say he wasn’t done, Death put his gloves in his lap, hesitantly tapping his fingers in the air. With a deep breath, the smell of cafeteria food and laundry detergent and the teacher’s faint perfume filling his nose and chest, Death laid the fingertips of his right hand on the boy’s arm.
A spasm, nearly unnoticeable, went up the boy’s arm and into his chest. Death could see his touch take effect, feel the blood in the young child’s body slow and cool down. He made sure the boy fell asleep first, made sure he wasn’t awake when he died.
Death left the classroom before the teacher noticed something was wrong in the atmosphere. He flipped up his collar and passed the front counter once more. He must have been off his game that day, because he let the vice principal see him.
“Sir, sir can I help you?” inquired the plump ginger woman from behind the desk, large hoop earrings bobbing side to side with her incessant movement.
“No mam, I’ve just finished what I needed. You’re lights upstairs are fine now. Call us if you have any follow-up questions and we’d be happy to help.” Death smiled at the woman and handed her a business card for a company whose habitat was just down the block. He was careful in doing so, as he’d yet to pull on his gloves.
The plump vice principal didn’t quite remember the lights upstairs giving her any trouble or anyone calling an electrician, but then again, the electrician had done her a favour and her head had been in the clouds lately. It wouldn’t surprise her if she’d called the electrician herself.
The man tipped his head chivalrously, leaving the school with a satisfied smile.
Death quiet enjoyed the tree outside the school, as it was an old soul he could relate to. He suspended his walking stick on a low hanging branch, climbing up into the tree with practiced ease. The sap clung to his trench coat like a fresh smelling reminder of the other trees he’d had the pleasure of dwelling in for one evening or another and this tree was pleased to add its own scent to the cocktail.
The morning came with a robin perched on Death’s head, his animal feet immune to Death’s effects as all animals were. The bird chirped, looking down as if it wanted food from the funny man in his tree.
Stretching and smiling at the inquisitive thing, Death delved into the dark confines of his deep pockets. He was used to birds and small rodents hitting him up for easy food. He often joked that over the generations of vermin and winged creatures memorized his description and passed it down as a name for food. The glove returned with seeds and an accidently crushed peanut in its palm. Death took off the glove and set it on a branch, seeds still in the middle. The robin chirped gleefully, fluttering down to investigate.
Death could hear its faint, frantic heartbeat and the rhythmic whooshing of the bird’s blood through its body. He could smell the trees and fast food crumbs on its feathers, as well as the smell of the robin’s mate. He tossed the meagre seed-meal onto the sidewalk below.
The bird dropped to finish it off, and so did a woman.
She laughed and added her own seed to the mix, a squirrel and a bluejay also joining the robin. She was a not very tall woman, but she wasn’t short. Her clothes were simple jeans and a dark green long sleeved shirt. Her laugh was clear, but Death couldn’t read what the Fates wrote on her. They must’ve been playing games with him. She looked up, thick red hair matting over her dark eyes. She’d seen him?
No. People did not see him, he didn’t allow it. The shadows hugged him in a dark embrace and hid him from all mortal eyes, including hers. Or not. Maybe she did not see him, or in fact was just looking at the walking stick strung up between the boughs of the weather beaten pine. The walking stick was not attached to Death on his person at the time. She reached for it.
He did not panic, he was incapable of panicking. He knew that the moment his fingers knotted around the polished wood of the walking stick it would cease to exist in her universe. But as he reached to envelope his beloved cane she swatted his hand away, his bare, naked hand. Death blinked twice, registering the thing he’d never seen.
She looked up at him, perturb laced into her eyes and down tipped mouth. She grabbed the cane belonging to Death with a grasp that should’ve killed her, should've sent pure death down her arms and into her heart. “Well who the hell are you?”
. 
