When Death Writes a Sonnet
Chapter 1: The Heir
Death is the color of sunlight at high noon. Even as nonsensical memories cartwheel about my mind and then are whisked away to some far and mysterious unknown, that color—that thought—keeps coming back as persistently as tides searching for shore. I lay there in a pool of stale blood, incapable of nothing but staring at the ceiling with its old flakes of drywall somehow defying gravity.
The scent of lavender and aged paper wafts by like a derailed train streaking through a thirsting desert and placates me in ways I cannot understand. I wrestle blindly with an invisible force to keep it, but the scent evaporates as if it was but a raindrop on the smoldering summer ground.
A second later and I can't even remember what it was about.
A little girl appears and disappears before I can discern the color of her eyes or the texture of her hair. Others, too, come and go, taking whatever connections I have with them into oblivion. As my thoughts continue to fade faster, I'm forced to mourn memories I don't remember making—smiles I can't place onto a face, laughter that has lost its reason, bruises and scars without stories, rage I can't understand, books and purple flowers without names.
It’s almost as if the world has forsaken me. Or perhaps, it was I—whoever I am—who has forsaken the world. And this is my punishment—to be trapped in a place where everything collides and nothingness begins—a place where reason fails to understand.
Half of me wants to escape and be relieved from the suffocating emptiness rushing faster from all sides. The other half has surrendered and waits paralyzed, as if to say, “You deserve this.”
Just as I'm about to step over the ledge of that dangerous precipice into insanity, I notice a painting on the nearest wall. It was of daffodils with bright petals composed of delicate strokes not only of yellows but also browns and purples and reds and oranges. As absurd as it sounds, I'm envious of that painting, of its colors that will remain even as I fade into an empty canvas.
Then, that envy, too, is gone. My churning thoughts still like an ocean after a hurricane. Waves stop forming. I try to protect that sunlight color, tucking it against a safe corner in my head, but it too disappears, never to return again.
I feel as frail and hollow as bubble ready to burst. The ceiling blurs in and out of focus for a few minutes before returning in absolute clarity. I blink once—twice, trice.
"Well that was dramatic."
The man's voice is deep enough to fill the confines of the room. My body, too, drowns in it. My eyes crawl to the side in search of him only to discover that I'm in a kitchen, one on the verge of collapse if not for sheer effort put into cleaning it. From the sink shining as brightly as its rusted surface would allow to the mismatched set of china arranged on lopsided cabinets, everything but me had its place.
Then, in the farthest corner, I spot it—a winking shine catching pieces of moonlight. For once, a semblance of feeling—of control—surges outward. I begin to name my hands and feet. My boundaries that had been undefinable not long ago are suddenly as fine as the edges of a line.
A figure steps forward wearing a face of death that forces me lucid. His skeletal mask has high cheekbones, which would look beautiful had flesh filled it out. A hooded cloak of inky and webby gossamer cascades around his entire body in waves, and on his back is a polished scythe as white as alabaster. The muscles at the back of my throat contract and tighten like the taut string of a bow ready to fire.
There are no footsteps, just the hushed rustling of cloth. It's the sound of death approaching steadily, surely, inevitably, and almost undetectably.
I should have felt terror, and I do but only for mere moments. Inexplicably, my mind sorts through every flutter of movement and every word Death has just spoken and leaves only one thing: instinct. Lackluster embers rush to life all along my arms and legs, and my confusion recedes in an orderly fashion I would have found bizarre had I a chance to contemplate it.
I wait until I spy the edges of his robes a few feet away before surging my legs upwards to strike him in the torso. Death steps back in time, jumps over my leg sweep, and lands with all the grace of a trained predator.
“That’s not very nice,” he says, tilting his head. “We had an agreement.”
"I've never met you," I say, and from the soft pitch of my voice, I realize I'm female. "Stay the hell away from me."
The curtains billow, slamming against the cracked windows, but the breeze against my skin is light, delicate, and almost nonexistent. I wasn't cold or hot. I wasn't anything, my body numb from all sensation. I glimpse by hand and notice something different, something that has to be abnormal. Like a fool, I shift my attention away from Death.
There is a sharp, shaking shriek I soon realize is me. I lift a hand I scarcely believe to be mine, scrutinizing every bizarre detail. The edge between darkness and the stream of moonlight from the window is visible behind it. "Why am I transparent? What did you do to me?" The accusation is there, turning my questions sour.
A pregnant silence follows, and it's frightening how much it has in common with my own mind. I can't find anything—not my name, my childhood, my family, or the events that led up to this. My head is only for show.
"You really don't remember?" he finally asks.
"Cut the cryptic bull. What don't I remember?"
"Everything."
"What did you do to me?" I ask the question again, louder than I prefer to be.
"Wasn't me," he answers. His mask, cloak, and scythe begin to shimmer black before disintegrating into shreds of black ash. Each one spirals around him before finally settling around his right bicep, creating a thin tattoo comprised of swirling characters I can't read. And now, standing before me is Death unmasked and appearing mundanely and solidly human with hair dusted in light and eyes flecked with greens and browns. "It was you."
“So—” I swallow the oversized lump of disbelief stuck halfway down my throat. I stagger back, unbalanced, but my hand goes through the subway tiles of the counter when I attempt to steady myself. There is a chalk outline of a body around the bloody pool, which is now brown and crusty save for its center that refuses to ripple no matter how much wind blows its way. “—I’m dead.”
“You’re almost correct. See, you’re not just dead—”
“I’m not?”
"Nope. Since you signed the contract, you're a special kind of dead. You're deader than dead. Congratulations, little lady, You are now first in line to be grim reaper of the United States—my heir so to speak. Your prize is an eternity of servitude." There are no flaws to his speech despite the speed of his delivery, and his expression maintains a charismatic levity I find unnerving.
As I rush to process the information, he snaps his finger. There is a cooling sensation coming from my left bicep where a tattoo identical to his glows black.
"Wha-What is this? What are you doing?" Then, the markings peels off into tiny flakes that spin like a tornado with me at its eye. It spirals faster and faster, my white dress whipping to and fro and my hair fanning out above my head. "Stop," I scream.
As if heeding my words, the specks stop, stilling midair. They linger around like fine dust refusing to settle before coalescing into a new shape. A parchment more ghostly than real presents itself to me, written in letters similar to that of the tattoo.
"You signed this. Just fifteen minutes ago," Death says, pointing to the bottom where a blurred signature lies. I rub my eyes, wondering if my vision has gone bad. "You're not allowed to view your name," he says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
"That’s rather convenient for you," I say. "It's my name. I have a right to know it."
"No, you don't. You used it as payment."
"Payment?" I ask, backtracking as far as I’m able to, but my earliest memory is his voice speaking to me minutes earlier.
He smirks, the kind that's uneven and imperfect and yet somehow still beautiful. My patience snaps in two, and I grab Death by the collar and shove him against the wall, my elbow to his throat.
"Stop waffling. You better start making sense soon or—"
He meets my heated gaze with his muted one "Or what? You'll kill a grim reaper? That's hilarious but original. I like it."
"Just start talking," I say, pressing deeper into his throat.
He doesn't blink. "You know, this is no way to treat your lord."
"You are not my anything."
"Contract says otherwise, sweetheart," he says, "You were chosen just like me. You paid the price with your name and memories. The moment you signed the contract, you sold your soul. You will never reincarnate and be human ever again."
"That sounds like a stupid contract to sign," I say.
"Yes," he says, "and like me, you we're stupid enough to sign it."
"What sort of nonsense is this?" I say, "Am I supposed to believe you without any proof? That I would voluntarily enter such a reckless contract?"
He snaps his finger again, and the parchment scatters. Its pieces take aim and land on my bicep with accuracy, and I resist the urge to scrub my arm clean knowing that it will only leave it chafed and scarred, if that's even possible for spirits.
Which I apparently am.
Somehow.
"No one can force you to sign the contract. You did so of your own volition despite knowing all the consequences. The proof is that tattoo on your arm. The proof is the irrefutable truth that you can't remember a thing about your life," he answers. "You know I'm not lying. You are my heir."
Grinding my teeth, I release my hold on him. The ground is stained by two more pools of blood, each with their own chalk bodies. My attention lingers on the drawn hand that appears to stretch for my own outline, and I'm left wondering what I would be feeling had I not forfeited my memories. I must have had a good reason to, right?
"And the other two? What became of them?"
Death shakes his head just once, a finality to it that has my insides burning, if I have any insides. "Anything from your former life is forbidden knowledge."
"So I'm just supposed to give it up?" I say.
"Yes," he says, "The contract is irreversible. From today onwards, you are forevermore heir Nightingale of the United States. Nothing more. Nothing less. Get used to it, and if not, you have an eternity to adjust." He holds out his hand. "I'm River, by the way. Lord River," he corrects himself. "Current grim reaper of the United States."
I drop my gaze but make no move to shake his hand.
"Oh, come on. You've already made the worst deal you could ever make. Shaking my hand can't be any worse."
"And if it is?"
As an answer, he just takes my hand in his and grasps it firmly. "Pleased to meet you, Nightingale. I hope you like that name. I thought it was pretty."
"You gave it to me?"
"Of course. Who else would name you?" River asks.
"My parents."
"Touché."
Just like that, I become a servant of Death for a reason kept hidden, secure, and always out of reach.