I’ve Seen Him Thrice

I volunteer in a nursing home.

It's mostly okay, more boring than anything else. What I do depends on what they need that day. Usually, though, I just go room to room, for whoever needs it.

I often talk to the residents. They love to tell stories, and I'm a willing audience.

Mr. Willis was one of the oldest residents, being 95 and remarkably healthy for his age. He was a veteran, World War II. It was near the end of the war that he lost his leg, a story he used to tell over and over. He had a prosthetic for awhile, but switched to a wheelchair a year prior.

Everyone in the nursing home knew who he was and always loved to be around him. His room was always one of my favorite places to visit.

By then, I had been volunteering for years. I was going in for what I thought would be just another ordinary shift.

It was a slow day, and I agreed to help deliver flowers.

As usual, there were no flowers for Mr. Willis. He never discussed any family except his wife, Bonnie, who passed before he moved into the nursing home.

My delivery duties took me right past his room, though, and I decided to stop in for a quick visit.

When I entered, something seemed off. The first thing I noticed was that Mr. Willis was lying in his bed. Usually, he spends his days in the little armchair in the corner.

Then, I saw the look in his eyes.

They were glazed over, as if he were dead. His mouth was open in a feeble gape of fear.

I turned to press the call button, as a bony hand curled around my wrist with an iron grip, pulling me back.

"Don't call them yet."

I tugged my hand free, stepping away from the bed. "Why not?"

"I need...I need something."

"What do you mean?"

"I can feel it;" he rasped, not answering my question, "my time on this Earth is numbered. By hours if not minutes."

I shook my head. "I don't understand."

He chuckled. "You wouldn't. You are young. But I can feel him."

"Him?"

Mr. Willis looked over at me with a weak smile. "Death."

I frowned. "You're perfectly healthy."

"I'm tired;" Mr. Willis replied, his hands shaking. "Too tired to keep on living. To me, Death is like an old friend."

"An old friend?" I asked.

Mr. Willis nodded. "I've seen him thrice before. Fourth time's the charm."

A silence settled over the room, the only sound being Mr. Willis's raspy breath. Finally, he spoke.

"The first was...when I was young. I wasn't always so healthy. It was...1918. The Influenza outbreak. I was a sickly child, of course, and when the epidemic reached my little town, it ravaged our population. My family got sick, and then I did, too. And I saw him. He was like...a shadow, almost, just darkness, with two glowing eyes and hands of bone."

"What happened?" I asked, completely captured by the story.

He smiled again. "I remember...not wanting to die. And not much else. Then, I got better, and I didn't see him anymore. But..." I saw a shadow settle over his face, "Death doesn't spare you without a price. My whole family, my twin sisters and my brother and my parents, they all died."

I shifted in my seat. "You said you saw him three times?"

The old man nodded. "Three times. The second was during the Second World War. It was a bloody battle, and my unit was on the wrong end of a grenade."

He patted his leg, the one that he had left behind in the trenches that day. I could do nothing but stare.

"Again, he spared me, and again, he did it for a hefty price;" Mr. Willis said, coughing a little.

"And the third?" I asked, my voice small.

Mr. Willis frowned. "When my wife passed away. I was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer, organ failure. And I saw him. He never spoke, but I understood when I saw him. A life for a life. She was in a car accident that night, and I went into remission. Doctors called it a miracle."

"And you see him, now?" I asked, shivering a bit.

Mr. Willis shrugged. "I can sense him. He's close...waiting. You can't evade death four times. And I think I'm ready."

"Good;" I said, standing. I dropped the flowers, walking steadily to his bedside.

Mr. Willis only smiled as I approached. I think he knew, even before. I like to think that he knew me for who I was when he first saw me, but I don't think I'll ever know the truth.

"Good to see you, old friend;" he said with a soft smile.

I kissed him on the forehead and watched as his eyelids drooped, closing for the last time, his smile reflected on his face as he fell into an eternal sleep.

I smiled back. "Good to see you, too."