Last Moments

Last moments: A short story narrated by Death.

He is in a hospital bed – like many others before him.

I do not approach him. I do not take him just yet; he is not ready. He, like many others, needs encouragement and I am hardly a creature of comfort.

I feel a warm presence next to me, and I know his time is near, and by the way his breathing changes its rhythm, I know he does too. I look down and see a woman made of blue light. I remember her – I remember all of them. This one has walked with me some twenty years ago. Back then she was relieved to see me. Happy to let go of the pain. Anxious to meet him again when the time comes. And now, here she is again.

Good.

I am glad she is here. He will be happy to see his wife again. He will not be afraid when he sees her. I know what they think of me, I know they fear me. I am their inevitable end, they try to outrun me, though I do not chase them. To a degree, they all fear me. It is natural for them to be afraid; that is how they survive, but their fear makes my job difficult, and I am, unfortunately, busy.

We step closer, just as he breathes his last breath. His dark skin is shrivelled on his hands, his cheeks are hollow, and his eyes are closed. I look at him closely. I commit to memory every detail of him, just like all the others before him. There are similarities between every one of them. This one, for example, looks very much like his father did when he went with me. Though unless my memory fails me, and it seldom does, the man in front of me would not like to be told so. They are all so similar to each other, and yet each one of them is so very unique. Unlike his father, this man is missing a birthmark on the back of his neck. And he looks far more at peace in his dying moment than his father ever did.

He might look like he is just sleeping, but I know better. She does too, and she is waiting. She has been waiting for the past twenty years, and now the wait is almost over. Her arms are crossed over her chest, she is tapping her foot frantically, her brows are furrowed, and her gaze never once leaves his face. I have seen this scene many times when I passed them on my travels. She assumed this pose many times over the years, whenever she had to wait for him to do something important.

Though her eyes never leave him, mine wander. Personally, I do not like looking at their bodies. They never tell the full story of the person in front of me. Their bodies are mere shells. Empty vessels for families to perform their farewell rituals with. Bodies are but leftovers. Besides, not only are their souls far more fascinating, if I kept my eyes on him, I might not have seen the smirk tugging on the corner of her lips.

Eventually, I look back at his face. His eyes are still shut; they will not open again. A small smile froze on his lips. His looks content. Happy.

He knows she is here.

That's when it happens. A light. A faint glow slowly emerging from the now lifeless husk of who the man once was. The same bright, faint-blue light as hers. I do not often see soulmates. Cautiously, his spirit sits up, leaving the stiff body behind.

He looks around confused – sometimes they are.

When he sees me – he cowers. Often they do. This is when it hits him. I see it in his face; the same look I have seen that look countless times before, and I will see it countless times after. Some will happen later tonight. The realisation of what is happening. His shoulders slump as he looks at the young man, sound asleep by his father's bed. He is lucky in that regard. I know he does not want to leave his family behind. They seldom do, but at least he has not died alone. It is hard for me to tell which ones are in more pain: the ones who die with their close ones nearby, or the ones who cannot say their farewells.

He looks our way again, but this time he does not cower. He sees her, and there is no fear in his face. Only recognition. He sits up, and his eyes well up as he smiles.

I do not have to look at her to know she is happy too. The air around her gets warmer. I have heard humans say that I am cold. That I send a cold shiver down their spines. Perhaps. I do not know what I feel like to them, I just know that in this moment these two fill the room with their warmth. I am not sure if the other humans would feel the change in temperature, if their son would notice if he were awake, but I feel it. It is pleasant.

He stands up from the bed, abandoning his body altogether; he will not need it anyway. He stands and stares at his wife, and I wonder if he even realises he no longer needs assistance with standing. I want to tell him that everything is okay. That he has nothing to worry about. That he is one of the lucky ones, because not everyone gets escorted by their loved ones. Like the one after him. That one has nobody to guide them. It is one of the unfortunate ones.

Instead, I say nothing.

After all, it is not my place to say anything. I do not interfere in reunions. It would only make it worse. I am not the one they wish to see, I am not the one they wish to hear from. That's why she came. She came because after everything they have been through together, after everything they meant to each other, she is the one he wanted to see the most. She is here to guide him, I am here simply to make sure he goes. Looking at them, I know it will not be hard.

“It's you.” He whispers as he shuffles closer to her, inch by inch. His steps are unsure, his legs out of practice. Without a word, she reaches her hands to him.

“My love.” he whispers again, as a single tear rolls down his now full cheek. They look much healthier when they die. I suppose it is because their spirits are much healthier than their bodies. His steps have more confidence now, though he still holds on to his hospital bed, as though expecting to collapse at any moment. I, once again, wish to reassure him, tell him he has nothing to worry about. I, once again, say nothing.

He reaches her at last. They have both been waiting a long time to hold each other again. Their embrace is tight, warm, and very bright. So much so, it is a wander than their son remains asleep. Eventually, she is the one breaking their embrace, though she still holds his hand. For a brief moment she looks at their son.

“Let's go.” Her voice is soft, and her tug is gentle as she pulls him somewhere behind me. She is taking him wherever it is she came from. I do not know where that is. I do not know what it looks like. I only know that they do not come back from there, unless it is to take someone back with them.

As their warmth starts to fade somewhere behind me, the machine to which the man's body is plugged in, pierces the silent of the night with a long, high pitched scream. The young man jerks awake, jumps to his feet, and screams for a doctor as he shakes the shoulders of his father's body. The warmth behind me stops fading for a brief moment, but is completely gone before long.

As I walk out the door, a group of doctors and nurses rushes into the room. They do not notice me, though one might think that they would by now. I am, after all, the most frequent visitor. I do not pay them any attention either. Not yet anyway.

I can hear them scrambling about. Rushing to the man's rescue. Their efforts are admirable, though entirely futile this time. They will not bring him back. He is gone. He walked away happy and he will not come back – not until someone needs his guidance when it is their time to cross.

I do not linger. Fascinating as humans are, I have a lot of work to do. I take my time going to the next one, on the other side of the hospital. There will be nobody to guide that one, meaning I will have to take it myself. That is quite unfortunate, because I really do not like children.