A CHAT WITH DEATH

Xavier Menezes
We set off in the silence of early morning. Sunlight, tinged with red, filtered through the trees.
It must have been very early, because not even the birds were chirping. Normally, l love long
walks in the morning. I took a closer look at my surroundings as I trudged through a park of
some kind with my companion
The sunlight wasnt the pure the pure golden light I knew. It was a dim red light, that for
some reason, depressed me rather than filling me with energy. There were no birds to be
found. In fact, I could see no signs of life at all, not even an insect. The leaves crunching
under my feet were glowing green, pulsating with a rather frightening light. And since when
was the sky coloured reddish orange? And then it struck me. I wasnt walking through a park as
far as I could remember. I closed my eyes, trying to recall my last actions.
I was standing at the school-gate, waiting for my school bus to arrive. I also recollected that
someone was standing near me. I looked and saw a tall man. I couldnt make out his build,
because he was dressed in black robes. Robes that seemed to change shades every second. I
never knew there were so many shades of black. It almost seemed he had a river of darkness
flowing throwing his robes. His hands were skeletal with long fingers, so pale, they could be
mistaken for bones. He walked to and fro in a flowing gait, almost seeming to float over the
ground. The places he moved over turned to black as soon as he stepped on them.
Who are you? Why am I here? I asked my companion. I wasnt prepared for what his voice
sounded like. It was the rasp of a dying man, yet with a strange, haunting melody that echoed
among the dying trees.
I have many names, he said, And all of them are apt. I am the final stage of sleep, from
which men never wake. I am the cloud that blots out the sun. I am the fire that turns all life to
ashes. I am the water that drowns you in sorrow. I am the perfect hunter preying on lives, the
guide for every soul, a collector of departed spirits. I walk a lonely road, through hordes of
people may walk with me. I am unseen, though everyone knows that I am present. History
knows me well, untouched though I am by time. The Greeks called me Charon, the boatman of
the dead. The Egyptians called me Anubis - he who prepared the dead for the afterlife. The
Indians called me Yama, the god of death. Angel of death, Grim Reaper and a million more
names are given to me, but none of them fully describe me or do justice to my infamy. Now do
you know who I am?
I shivered. Normally, I would have laughed, but this guys words rang with ominous truth. The
hooded man snapped his fingers. The scene changed to a ravaged city, with buildings in ruins
and ashes strewn over the ground. The waters that surged around reflected a sick green and
the winds that blew reeked of death.
I am said to be evil, but I am in fact, special. I judge without bias, guide everyone who
comes out of the house of life to the next part of the road. First, my job was easy. I would not
take many, for only a few lived on the earth. The occasional war used to make me work a little
bit to guide all the dead. But now the count increases and soon billions must be guided down
the road. Man thinks he can run away from me, but he does not realize that I am omnipresent.
Said the hooded man Death.
I now had no doubt who he was. Am I dead? I asked him. He chuckled. The sound made
me want to tear my ears out.

No, but Im in the mood to give you a preview of what your last sight will be. He replied
gesturing toward the city.
A mushroom cloud bloomed in the distance. I finally understood what all this was about. The
future of man. The end the final war.
Death turned and I saw his face, the scene around me changed back to the bus stop. His face
wasnt a skull. It was that of a man, with deep black eyes. He didnt look terrifying or evil, I
thought. He was just doing his job.
Death smiled at me. See you, son, he said, I look forward to meeting you when your time
comes. I blinked and he was gone, leaving me standing where I was.
I grimly reflected that it was useless to be afraid of death. He doesnt come for us all he
does is wait for us to run into his hands. Our choices define our time of death, and in time, our
time will come.
And with that thought, I continued my wait for my bus, which unlike death, almost never ever
arrived on time.