The Flood

Death pulled the keys to his little country home out of his robes, and opened his door.

It squeaked.

He glared at the hinges. He had just oiled them. He opened and closed the door a few times, listening to the squeak.

He sighed and closed the door.

Death rested his enormous scythe on the hat rack, and pulled back his hood to reveal his pearl white skull. He stared for a moment at the scythe.

Today he had taken a young man from his family. The man had died quite peacefully, surrounded by his loved ones. They wept as he was taken away to whatever awaits him.

The man had been very understanding, and very amiable.

Death's bony hand clenched into a fist.

He shouldn't have had to be.

His fingers relaxed and he took a deep breath, exhaled as a stream of cold air. He tried to exhale the memory.

It almost worked.

Death cast another angry glance over his shoulder at the hinges of his front door, and made his way to the kitchen.

He carefully selected his ingredients from the refrigerator, laying them out on the counter just so. And with practiced precision he crafted himself a fine sandwich. Just as he was putting the last ingredient away, the phone rang.

His head snapped up, and his eyes locked on the ancient black phone in the corner of the kitchen. The two brass bells on the wall unit rang sharply, pulsing again and again. He glared at the brass trimmed handle, willing it to stop.

But it didn't.

It would never stop.

There was always another job.

Death finally arose, and closed his refrigerator. He collected his sandwich and moved to the phone, defeated. A bony hand reached out, but paused before reaching the handle.

He remembered his day.

He closed his hand, but did not let it fall.

He had had a long day.

His hand fell to his side, and he stepped past the ringing black phone into the living room. The bells clanged sharply over and over. He placed his sandwich on the little side table adjacent to his favourite chair. He stepped to the bookshelf, and ran his hand along a stack of thin cardboard containers.

Something stopped his hand, and he slipped his bone fingers into the stack, and pulled out one sleeve in particular. He held it up and inspected it, nodding.

He slid the record out of its holder, and placed it gingerly onto his record player. It began to play, and he picked up his headphones.

Death sat in his red leather chair, trying to adjust his headphones to fit on his skull. They had fit last time, so they should fit this time he thought to himself. But at the same time he knew that that never seemed to be true.

After a bit of fidgeting, he got them to sit right, and the music flowed into him like a river into a drought. He closed the black pits that were his eyes, and let the sound flood out the memories, and the bells of the phone.

Death enjoyed his sandwich, and his music, and letting the phone ring and ring and ring.