Death’s Warmth

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How long has it been? 140? No closer to 150 now? Yeah... something like 150 years now. You should have been dead 1 and a half centuries ago. A French bayonet pierced your side and it all went dark. Or it did for a moment. It was smoky and your vision was fading but you saw her. A pink haired woman draped in black and a large, ornate scythe in her hand. You watch in confused curiosity as she taps the still cooling bodies of your comrades and enemies alike with her weapon and pulls a faint, glowing sphere from them, the disinterested look on her face never changing. Your confusion grows when you see your still living brothers charging right past her without so much as a glance. She sticks out like a sore thumb! How do they not see her? Her cold gaze warms slightly when she catches your gaze and wanders over to you, tapping the sharp point on the few soldiers in her path. “Oh? Not quite dead, not quite alive. I can feel it. You’re special”. She places the back end of her scythe against your back and as it warms, so do you. You feel your heart beat faster and strength returns to your muscles. Soon, you’re even able to stand.
As you’re acclimating to your new found vitality, her voice strikes you again. “Follow me”, she says. You turn around and see she’s already walking away. “Wait!”, you scream out, “I should stay and fight!” She raises her hand and, in it, a string that you could have sworn wasn’t there before and puts the edge of her scythe against it. “It wasn’t a request.” The icy venom of her words got your feet before your brain and you trailed behind her into the nearby forest.
And that day brought you here. 150 years in the future. Your life with Calli had been... interesting, to say the least. You traveled the world with her all the time. For reaping souls, mostly, but you found ways to enjoy yourselves in other ways and were even permitted to be her assistant when she wasn’t feeling up to it, and it was fun. At first. She drilled into you, day 1, what your relationship would be. She saved you for one reason. You were WARM. Your soul exuded a warmth that was very rare and she was cold. That’s all. She didn’t love you or care for you very much. You were just a comfort, a luxury, in her daily life and, for a time, you were okay with that.
Eventually, the inevitable happened. You began to age. You weren’t as spry as you used to be, things hurt more and for longer, and crystal clear memories became foggier and foggier as time passed. Still, though she would snuggle against you at night or hold you close while you walked together. Never a word spoken to you, never a courtesy given to you. Eventually, you get so old that even getting out of bed becomes painful. Even so, every night, Calli walks into the room and lays next to you trying to get warm. After a moment of thought, you turn slightly to look at the beautiful face of Death and ask a simple but heavy question. “Isn’t it time for me to go?” Her eyes snap open and their faint rose glow turn to you. “What would make you say that? Would you throw away a perfectly good shirt simply because you had it for awhile?” Her eyes closed again and after awhile, she fell asleep.
You sit in your chair reflecting on that night. The carelessness she had given your suffering made you resolute on one thing. This needed to end. Although, try as you might, death wouldn’t come to one as close to it as you. Your lungs filled with water, but you couldn’t drown. An entire bottle of ambien just resulted in a stomachache and a 2-day long nap. Clearly, you were not allowed to go gentle into that good night. You’re snapped out of that moment of despair when the fog disappears slightly and remember that once, and only once, she has threatened you before. Your wrinkled hand reaches your chest and though you can’t see, a thin string connects you to her. Tonight, you’ll make your move.
You sit on the edge of the bed and wait the Reaper to go into the bathroom and you turn your attention to the imposing blade leaning against the wall, your heart beating faster than it has in quite some time. It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe you’re weaker than you thought. It’s been some time since you held it, after all. A press of a button unfurls it and you place the blade parallel to your chest. This is it. You’ve had a decent, if not lonely, life. Anyone you cared for has long since passed and you haven’t cared enough to start over. You pull the blade with all the strength your frame can muster. The blade catches so you pull again. And again. And again. Your blood runs cold. You can’t sever it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”, Her deadly calm voice rings out. She walks out of the bathroom and plants herself directly in front of you. “Did you think I couldn’t feel that? I’m always watching, dummy. I know what you’re up to morning, noon, and night.” You don’t even realize that you’re still holding her scythe until she takes it out of your hand, not like you’re even strong enough to fight her for it. “I’m cold. Death is cold and you are my warmth. I won’t allow you to leave me. Not ever.” She hums a sigh of contentment as she brings her arms around you. You are her warmth but you’ve never felt colder.

You yearn for death, but it never comes.
You yearn for death, but Death won’t let you go.