I arrived just in time to watch the Police blow him away.
I'd seen this kind of thing before, a thousand times in fact. Blue suicide, they call it. I watched as he stepped out in front of the car, gun raised, tears streaming down his cheeks, ready to face any and all things that he knew in his heart that he deserved. That was my first glimpse of Caleb Chesterton. It also just happened to be his last moment of life.
Within a moment of his standing, the cops – seeing the weapon gripped in his hand – emptied their guns into his chest. The bullets tore into his flesh so quick, so effectively, the poor bastard was practically dead on his feet. People have come so far in the art of killing, haven't they? It's practically a science to them. I would like to say that it disgusts me, but the truth is, it's actually kind of admirable. It's amazing what humanity can accomplish when they put their minds to something.
He rattled around on his feet for a few seconds, and I could see in his eyes that reality had crashed into him like, well, a haze of bullets. I could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that he knew that this was his final second on earth. And then, like a rag doll abandoned by its master, the young man collapsed onto the ground.
There were several awkward moments of nothing, a strange silence that lingered somewhere between respect for the dead and fear of their survival. The cops who had done the deed breathed heavily, glad that their work was done but mortified that at what they had actually had to do. They relaxed (if one could truly ever relax in such a scene) and cautiously approached what was left of Caleb. Poor boy. His guts and blood were already spilling out onto the sidewalk. He was dead, or as dead as anyone could be at this point.
All this I watched from the coziness of a coffee shop booth. After eternities of doing this job, I feel no need to be close to the action. I go, I get what I came for, and I'm gone. It's as simple as that, no need to get romantic about the whole thing. Death was Death, and there was nothing anyone – not even me – could do to stop it. So I finished my hot chocolate, paid my tab, and walked out to collect the poor boy.
The body was already being swarmed by flies and – worse – people. His eyes were still open. It's not like in the movies, when people reach down and close the person's eyes and give them the peace they deserve. The hard, scientific fact is that it's often hours before the eyes can be closed. So the body just sits there, eyes agape, as if the corpse was desperately clinging to life.
Nobody saw me, because nobody ever sees me. Nobody heard me, because nobody ever hears me. Nobody stopped me, because nobody can ever stop me. I reached down, plunged my hand into the boy's chest, and yanked out his soul.
Anyway, I doubt you've ever seen a human soul. They're nothing special. They're just the same dead as they are alive, only now they can't eat or drink or smell. That last one was a state of being, by the way. The living stink, and always have stunk, at least to me. But souls are different. They're pure. Or as pure as people can be, I suppose.
Caleb's surprise didn't surprise me. I guess it's one of those people things. Maybe he – like pretty much everyone else who, you know, dies – somehow clings to the hope that it was all a dream and that they'll wake up warm and safe in their bed. Caleb wasn't so lucky, and my presence let him know it.
He looked down at his body, almost clinically, then looked up at me. He was shaking.
“Are you God?” he said. It was odd. Pretty much everybody looks at the black cloak and knows who I am. This kid was thick, I suppose. Poor kid sounded terrified, and why not?
“No,” I said simply. “That's my kid brother.”
“You're Death?”
“I've gone by that, yes.”
Caleb looked down at his body again, and I could see the reality of his life – or lack thereof – filling his eyes. He looked back up at me, teary.
“Am I going to Hell?”
“I don't know,” I said, and meant it. “It's not for me to decide. And ya know what, even if I could, I wouldn't be able to tell you. Why do you ask? Do you think you deserve Hell?”
I was being sadistic, I know. Call me a dick, I deserve it. But I'm always curious. I don't get to learn much in the way of people's personal lives. It's always nice to get to know the customer. That's what they are, after all. Just customers, consumers looking for a need that needed to be filled. My specialty just happened to be that of population reduction. Go ahead, laugh. It's okay. God knows poor Caleb wasn't laughing.
“I did something bad,” he said simply.
"We all do bad things," I said.
"No," he said. "You don't understand. What I did was worse, way worse. I killed someone. Earlier tonight. I murdered him. That's why the cops came for me, because they knew what I did.”
“So you killed a guy? Huh. Guess that makes you a murderer. God isn't fond of those, not even the 'nice ones' who reform and find religion. Hell? I dunno, that would seem a little harsh to me. But life is harsh, kid. Get used to it. Oh, yeah. You're dead. Don't get used to it. In fact, stop getting used to it.”
The kid's gaze lingered back over to his body. The sad thing was still shaking like a cold puppy. I felt sorry for him, really I did. So I told him so.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“It's okay,” he said. “I had it coming.”
The police were taking the corpse now, fitting it into a body bag. They lifted it up onto a stretcher, the boy's pale face still staring up into the starlit sky. They zipped up the bag, and loaded the corpse into the back of an ambulance that had arrived only a minute before. A small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“You're very young,” I said. “And, once again, I'm very sorry.”
And that's the truth. I'm always sorry. Well, most of the time I am. I'm more than happy to collect the Hitlers and Mansons of the world. But the normal people, the average everyday sinner? Can't help feeling a little sorry for them. Even the small-time murderers, like this kid, gunned down before his life had ever really begun. Didn't everybody deserve a second chance? I thought so, and I still do.
“What happens now?” said the boy, tearing his gaze away from the ambulance carrying what was left of his mortal shell. “I just, I dunno, follow you? And you you take me,” he shuddered, his thoughts returning to damnation, “to, wherever?”
I thought about this for a moment. Yes, that would be the easiest thing to do. Simply do my job, go home, take a shower, read a good book.
“Well?” he said. “Shouldn't we just get on with it?”
It was more out of resignation that any sense of anticipation. This kid was in no hurry to meet his Maker. He simply wanted it done, over with, a memory among memories.
I myself was in no particular haste. I had incarnations of myself running all over the world, doing everything that needed to be done. Being a Grim Reaper, and being awesome, I can be everywhere at once; I'm a lot like Santa Clause in that regard.I remember that night like I remember a lot of nights: scattered, disassembled webs when, later brought together, formed a poignant little philosophy about death and the human condition and something about why we're here. Somewhere in Mississippi, I was with a dog that had ventured onto the highway; somewhere in London, I was with a middle-aged man who had lost a short but brutal war with pancreatic cancer; somewhere in Darfur, I was with a child who was closing his eyes for the last time; somewhere in Australia, I was with a woman dying peacefully in her sleep, like I believe all people have the right to die.
“I'm free for a couple hours,” I said simply. “We could visit some old landmarks, stalk some old girlfriends, catch a movie. Best part about that last one is we can get in for free, being dead and all.”
“Is that a joke?” he said.
“Just trying to lighten the mood. Laughter's the best medicine, even after you're dead and technically shouldn't really be able to laugh. Go ahead, laugh.”
At first the boy said nothing, then, “So we could go and see stuff, you mean? Like my family?”
“We could,” I answered. “We could visit your family, if you'd like. That seems to be the big seller, these days. Years ago when I gave the offer, people were more obsessed with haunting their mortal enemies and nemesises.” I wasn't sure whether or not that last one was a word or not, but English was a fairly new invention, at least for someone my age; now French, there's a language! “You don't have any enemies, do you?”
The boy shook his head.
“So, family it is?” I said, and couldn't help but sarcastically throw in, “Unless you have something better to do.”
This time, he did laugh. It was a small laugh, more like a chuckle, but it was a laugh. That was good.
“No,” he said. “Unless you want to go haunt a mansion or something.”
“I've haunted a few mansions in my day. Believe me, it's not as fun as it sounds. So, family, eh?”
He nodded, tears welling up in his eyes again.
“Yeah,” he said. “I'd like that.”
“Lead the way, skipper.”
For a moment, he looked as if he was about to do just that.
“But...”
“But what?” I said. “Are we doing this or not? I have lambada tomorrow morning, and I shall not be late.”
“They'll know what I did.”
I didn't need to be told what he was talking about. He had done a bad thing, a horrible thing, and now he realized just how far his actions would reach.
“Yes,” I said simply. “They will. Everybody makes mistakes, and everyone pays the price sooner or later. Yours just happened to catch up to you sooner.”
“I'm a terrible person,” he said, slumping over.
"Not terrible," I said. "Flawed. We all are."
“They don't deserve this. None of them do. I've messed up their lives, and mine. Caleb the black sheep, Caleb the screw-up, Caleb the killer. I wish I'd never been born. Their lives would be better, then. They'd be happier, and they deserve that.”
There they were: the magic words. I didn't have a choice now, no matter how much I hated myself for it. I had to tell him about the Option.
“I can do that,” I said somberly.
“Do what?”
“Erase you,” I said. “Tear you from existence as if you had never been. It's a slow process, painful, too. I hate it, and I wish it wasn't even an option. But I've done it nineteen-thousand and sixty-four times in all my years of existence. It's no news to me. If that's what you want, then I have no choice but to give it to you.”
The boy sniffled.
“Erase me?” he said.
“Didn't I just explain it?”
“Yeah, but-”
“You were never born, you never existed, you never lived. You keep on existing, of course, on Earth or Heaven or Hell. Souls can never be undone. But memories can. Memories are powerful things, but not indestructible. Every thought and recollection of you is erased, as if you had never been. Your image fades from old pictures, your diaries are all unwritten, and everything that ever was yours is gone. You existed. You lived. But no one will remember you, no one will mourn you. You'll be a ghost of the world, there one moment then gone the next, a mystery fixed in the corner of every eye that ever met yours. But that's just an option.”
My point had been made clear. This was serious business, and I could see in the boy's eyes that he understood.
“And once it's done,” I said. “There's no going back. Once the last sliver of your memory has been erased, there's nothing I can do to bring it back. You'll be gone from the mortal realm forever, in body and mind.”
The boy nodded.
“I need to think,” he said, turning away from me. He sat down on the curb and buried his face in his hands. He was sitting on the spot where his mortal run had reached its end. I decided to give him some privacy. Death, I believe, is a very personal matter.
So I left him to his thoughts.
When I returned an hour later, his eyes were red and his voice sounded hoarse. Some people believe that crying stops when you die. It isn't so. When you die, the crying has often just begun.
“I take it you've decided?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
"And?"
He hesitated for a moment, and I had the feeling that he hadn't truly decided.
“I want to be gone," he said suddenly. "I want it to be over.”
“Your life or your memory?”
“Both,” he said. “I screwed over the people who loved me. I think it's time I made that better.”
I sighed. There was nothing I could do now. It was what he wanted, and I had no authority to deny him his dying wish.
“Very well,” I said. “Who shall we visit first?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Lots of people have memories of you,” I said. “If you start with those closest to you, the rest will follow. It's like a domino effect. Once one memory is gone, it's only a matter of time before the the others collapse. It's like pulling the pillars out from under a building: pull out the right ones, and you don't have to worry about the others. So who do we start with?”
The boy lowered his gaze to the ground and rubbed his eyes. I waited – rather patiently, I might add – while he made up his mind.
Finally, he said, “My mother.”
I nodded.
“Well,” I said. “Best get started, shall we? Here, I'll make a shortcut.”
I tore a hole in reality – as I often tend to do – and stepped inside. The boy tentatively followed me through the chasm. After meeting me, most people tend to let fear fly out the window. I closed the gap behind me and we started off into the vast nothingness between spaces.
“What is this place?” he said.
“Backstage,” I said simply.
The answer seemed to satisfy him, and we walked quietly for a few minutes in silence, all noise drowned out in the asylum of the void.
“This thing,” said the boy, after a while. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Hurt who?” I said.
“My family, the people I make forget. When you take the memories away, is it going to hurt?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I'm not taking their memories, by the way.”
“What?” he said, his voice betraying a hint of anger. “You said you could make their memories go away, that you could, like, wipe me out of reality and stuff.”
“I can,” I said. “but I'm not going to do it.”
“Then who is?” he said, coming to a full stop.
I stopped, and opened another passageway, this one leading back into the mortal world. I presented the opening to the boy, like a ringmaster presenting the first act of a long night filled with glory and fun.
“You are.”
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