Death's Narratives

Chapter 5

Dawn emerges indicating the start of a new day. While the moon exits the firmament, the dark sky changes its shade to a glow of purple and orange. The fading city lights give way to the slowly surfacing sun. For some people, another day is a blessing that they are grateful for. Others consider it an affliction for it is one more day to be lived out.

I belong to the others. Myriads of times, or possibly every single day, that I have been saying this but I am going to say it anyway. It's just another day. One more day of fetching souls. Thousands of souls. Again. Ah, this never ends.

Little girls and boys will die because of illnesses and accidents, some will get murdered. And when I say some, it still means hundreds. Suicide rates are continuously increasing for the past five years, large percentage of these cases involve teenagers. Mortality rates for the working population add over a half of today's overall deaths, which will amount to exactly 163,438, a percent higher than the average. The remaining numbers come from the people of declining years that usually die of old age and complications associated with it.

Again, I stand on the top of a tower in New York, looking at the beautiful view of the cityscape as it is slowly revealed by the rising star. This is one benefit that I want the most by being anywhere at the same time. To attend to every passing soul is one thing, but having, say, a repose of my own at the exact same time compensates for the angst I shoulder.

On the sleeve of my robe, Bird lands. Bird is my raven friend here who greets me almost every morning for the past twelve years. I call her Bird because basically, she is a bird. I just got tired of countless names to begin with. I am never fond of them.

Her left eye is gone and that's what makes her distinct from other ravens. She's been one of my few friends for the last decade. I think she is always telling me stuff about hunting and scavenging for food. Too bad I can’t understand her. She caws again as she joins her pack, leaving her excrement on my robe. There is a reason why a flock of ravens is called unkindness.

There are many lores that attribute ravens to death. About them bringing omens, symbolizing lost souls, crossing the other side to send messages, and stories alike. One thing is certain, though—they are able to see me in my real form. They are able to see Death with their deceptive eyes.

Unlike humans who possess hourglasses, nonhumans don't have one. Based on science and animal physiology, ravens don't have much to live. Having a minimum lifespan of ten years, Bird is nearing her end. Her passing would not be a difference for I will also be the one to attend to her death, but she'll have to say goodbye to her fellows soon.

Going back to my unending job that I have been doing for the whole day, every day, for the longest and onerous time, I hover in the air to collect the souls of 34 people who are about to die at an hourly interval within the state of New York alone. I already collected five souls earlier and there is still time before the sixth. I decide to rest on a rooftop before going to the next household, but it does not mean that I am totally taking the time off. Remember that there are almost two people dying every damn second.

My inactivity just lets thousands of thoughts swarm inside my head. Every conversation with every soul my other self is catering to this very moment flows like an infinite string of information, nullifying the rest I am having right now. However, having one is better than nothing at all. Even though I get no relief mentally, the physical benefit it does to my human form is good. Rest makes my human form more human. That is why if there is a chance, even if it is for a little while, I still take a break.

The gentle wind makes my torn robe sway. I wonder who designed this attire of mine. What was the idea behind this sick getup? And why a scythe? Whoever they were, their creativity is still a mystery to me. They really thought thousands of years in advance for me to slay the dressed to kill notion.

After some time of pondering, a sound I always hear brings me to my senses. A response of the body to, commonly, an emotional state that causes the lacrimal glands to produce fluid known as tears. A silent cry. Based on the cadence of her voice, it is a woman's. I turn around to confirm and see a lady facing the metal door by the stairway, connecting the rooftop and the floor below. Her face is covered by the fringe of her black and shiny hair which extends below her shoulder.

I did not even see her coming, like her presence is concealed until I notice her. I am sure that she is working in an office because she is dressed like one. Skirt above the knee and a collared white sleeve, her black blazer is on the floor. An assistant? A company staff? Or maybe an early bird aiming for the title "Employee of the Month". If she is, she is way too early. Only the workers doing the maintenance are the ones seeing the sunrise.

But why is she crying? There is always a reason behind every tear that is being shed. The moment she walks to the parapet, I know that it is not tears caused by joy. She has these eyes which lack emotions and each step she takes is certain. She has resigned herself to death.

Depression is one of the key factors why a person wants to end their life, or should I say it makes their lives unbearable to the point that they just don't want to continue on living. The desolation it fabricates is just destructive to one's overall well-being, heedlessly changing the way of thinking until despair succumbs. It is a reason that pushes people on the edge that forces them to kill themselves—to end the pain they are feeling. To escape from endless thoughts of hopelessness that they have to live through every single day. To comply with the desire of their own scheming mind saying, "When you're dead, it will all be over."

Nonetheless, pain does not really end. It will just be passed on to the people who care, mainly family and friends. It will all be over for them, not for those who will be left behind. I am sure people who kill themselves already think of this night and day. That is already selflessness on their part. Usually, this is the only reason that prevents them from doing it. Still, this thought adds up to the burden. They are just living because of the people around them, but not because they want to.

Often, suicidal people are misunderstood. Lack of faith that leads them to go astray. Attention seekers who should not be taken seriously. Weak individuals who cannot live with their own failures. Crazy people who let their mind get ahead of them. While these arguments lack enough justifications to be considered a fact, it is a veracity that all cases of suicides are a tragedy, an ambiguous incident that could have been prevented if there is a support system involved. But at the end of the day and most of the time, everybody just leaves a sinking ship. That's just how it is.

However, no matter how hard they try, no matter how powerful words of encouragement are, there will be a time when the ways of coping up just do not work anymore like they used to. People who experience this phase just tend to break down and let all the pent up emotions completely devour them. They shut themselves down for isolation, instigate self-harm to negate the numbness and to take back the control, at least, over their body because their mind has thoroughly been consumed by the dark, and punish themselves in various ways as they drown in self-pity. As a result, there will be a dismal state wherein the conflicts that are happening inside are needed to be won from time to time. And those who lose their own battle will not be granted to see another sunrise.

Millions of people who died by using their own hands, and I just know where this is going. This lady is watching the slowly appearing sun, but she chooses it to be her last sunrise. She does not want to live through another day of tormented life anymore. She has had enough. After all the hardships, she is finally determined to do it, which I commend because not all who think of committing it have the resolve that she has right now. It takes a great amount of courage to be able to end it all.

I do not exactly know what her reason is. But whatever it is, it is heavy enough for her to carry all of the weights given by life. If she feels that life casts her out, I will be here to welcome her should her fate wills it. And this is true for every soul I ferried. That has been a part of my job all along. The other side, the Realm, and I, Death, will always be waiting.

Queen's Chasm, a building that is recognized for its retro architectural design but is known for the times it has been mentioned on the news. I surmise that she works here. No one in their right mind would go to a rooftop of a building before office hours without getting caught by the augmented security. And yet, this twenty-two storey skyscraper will bear witness to another suicide.

Her hourglass shows her remaining time. In less than a minute, she will finally be free of her suffering. The feeling of envy grows in me as I recall the time when I tried to abscond, taking all the guilt with me, but failed terribly. There is just no escape. How does it feel to let go when things get tough? How does it feel to be human? How does it feel to die?

"I hope this time..." she says.

I wonder what these words mean. Failed attempts, I guess. 

She leans her body to see the ground. Slowly, she offers her weight on the parapet. For the final time, with her dead eyes, she looks at the vicinity, likely to be the last image she will ever see. Without a bit of hesitation, she jumps off. Based on the disposition of her body, she will plummet head first. It would deform her face, dismantle her skull along with the brain, splatter the blood even coming from the torso, and break a few ribs. Nobody has the chance to survive a fall like this. It will be an instant death.

People always have a choice to fight. But nobody has the right to blame them if one day they decide to concede. Nobody has the right to conclude about what happened to them or what made them that way. Because nobody has the slightest damn clue to what is happening inside their head. It is not my intention to condone this kind of deed. I just want to say that they already have suffered enough and the best thing we can do is to let them have the rest they cannot obtain when they were living. One can always dissent. Howbeit, one shall not disregard the fact that they tried with all their might. And that alone is worthy of my praise.

I place myself on the parapet she was standing at earlier with an aim to look at the image she last saw before jumping off. It is a paragon of peace. Establishments are not as busy yet, streets are still lit with street lamps, few vehicles passing, and the light of the emerging sun touching one's skin. Perhaps, she waited for this exact time before the city becomes lively.

I extend my arm and open my palm to fetch her soul. No soul ascends. No soul? I look down to check for her body. It is there, completely disfigured and bathing in her own crimson blood. I descend to the ground and confirm her death. No movement and breathing, of course. A person in this condition could not still be alive. I take out her hourglass and see it empty. I am not mistaken. She is dead. Or not?

Nothing surprises me anymore. All events that took place, all deaths that happened, I was there. I have been here for as long as I remember. But this occurrence happening before my very eyes leaves me dumbfounded.

Her face is restored to the way it was earlier; her blood is being sucked in by her revitalized body. She opens her eyes as she awakens and takes a sigh. Eventually, she stands and walks away, leaving the ground bare like no incident ever happened.