Work Text:
Just one more chapter.
She said it every time she saw him.
Please, I am almost finished. Just one more chapter. Please do not take me until I am done.
He waited. He gave her that extra chapter. Maybe he felt sorry for her, always scrabbling for that extra hour of life, maybe he was curious about what she was writing, how it would end.
It didn't matter to her; she always got her extra chapter.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
She's typing furiously when he first comes to see her, sitting on a bed with a laptop computer. The screen is the only light in the room, just as the rapid tapping of keys is the only sound beside her rattling breath. His eyes take in the small details while he waits for her to notice him. The bloodstained tissues lying next to her on the bed. The fever-light in her eyes. The rapt concentration of her face. Her lank, unwashed hair. The untidy room, smelling of sickness and unwashed human. The books and clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor. The way her eyes and cheeks have sunken in.
She looks half dead already.
Her breath catches in her chest and her fingers pause their dance on the keys. The room goes silent, making the racking cough that much louder. She grabs a dirty tissue and holds it to her mouth as she coughs. A tear leaks from her eye. It must hurt. A few minutes go by, the coughing stops. The tissue shines wetly with fresh, dark blood. She allows herself a moment of weakness, another tear, a quiet sob. And then she notices him. She doesn't try to run, doesn't try to hurt him, to drive him away. All she does is look at him with an incredible sadness. Her voice is slightly roughened, but still melodic in a quiet way.
"Please, let me finish this chapter and I will go. Just one more chapter and then I can go."
Maybe it's the fact that she doesn't plead with him, bargaining wealth, power, someone else's life. Maybe it's just the longing in her sunken eyes. He gives her the chapter and turns to go.
"I will see you soon."
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
March 3
I had to bargain away another year of my life today. This story just can't come together quickly enough. Death is coming soon. I have to finish this story before I die.
March 28
The trader seemed surprised to see I was still alive. I guess I am too. Not many can beg more time from the Lord himself. The chapter is almost done, but the book is not. He must give me more time. I do not care if it lands me in Hell, it must be finished. I'm coughing more blood than usual today, the end is nearing. I can feel something tear in my chest when I cough. I must finish my story. I must beg more time from the man who gives none.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
She looks worse than she had the last time he had been here. He wonders how long it has been for her. Her glazed eyes are black holes in her face. Blood has dried on her lips, turning them black as well. Her skin is pasty, a film of sweat greasing it. Her hair hangs in limp, greasy strands around her face. She is still sitting on the bed, still making music with the computer keys. Her breathing is shallow, and every so often it rattles in her throat.
"How long has it been?"
His soft voice makes her head jerk up, the sharp intake of breath sounds like tearing paper. Even he, who has never felt pain, winces. She leans over a clear blue plastic trashcan as she coughs. It takes a few seconds before she spits the bloody sputum into it. He watches as the mucus stains the side. It takes her longer to regain her breath. When she is able to speak he finds that her voice is rougher now, less melodic. She has to pause often to catch her breath.
"It has been…almost a month… Please…Just one more… I'm so close… Another chapter…"
She is panting through her open mouth. Many people have begged him to give them more time over the years, none were like this. They all had oxygen tanks and masks, morphine drips, pristine hospital rooms with caring attendants who are good at their jobs. They were so numb they couldn't feel how much pain they were in. This woman, she can feel each breath like sandpaper, living in this dark squalor, and yet she still begs for more time. It astounds him. He can see how much it hurts her to talk, to breath, and yet she begs him. He finds himself intrigued.
"I will return in another month."
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
"THIS IS NOT LIKE YOU COUSIN."
The Creator's voice is always loud in his mind.
He is standing on the street, watching as life passes by. Humans are always so brilliant in his sight, walking pillars of dying light. They are his amusement in his ever-lasting existence. The amount of effort they put into making themselves look younger, the lengths they go to, the pain they put themselves through, he finds it hilarious. All that effort into making themselves believe he will never get them. Their lies all mean nothing. He always gets them in the end.
"She is intriguing, cousin."
"SO TAKE HER AND BE INTRIGUED WITH HER SOUL."
"She intrigues me with her life."
"DO YOUR DAMN JOB!"
He winced.
"She won't live forever."
"I GIVE, YOU TAKE. DO NOT GIVE HER ANOTHER DAY."
He sighed and rubbed his temple. He wondered if it was actually possible for him to get a headache. The Creator's presence disappeared from his mind.
Sometimes, Mondays suck. Even for him.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
April 7
I feel like I am getting worse. I know I am getting worse. It hurts to breath. Joanna wants me to go to the hospital and let the doctors look at me, do tests, fix me. I already know it is not possible. If I weren't dying he wouldn't keep coming. I do not know how I have made it this long. I keep saying 'one more chapter and it will be over', but that chapter is never long enough. Joanna is crying as I write this, she does not understand that I must finish this. I will die regardless of whether or not someone with a medical degree gives me medicine. I hope I finish soon. I am not sure how much more I can take.
May 8
Joanna has stopped visiting. I can finally work in peace. I went to the trader again today. I don't know how long it took me to get there and back. The pain is terrible; every breath is like trying to breath in a brick underwater. An elephant has planted its leathery gray ass on my chest. I rage against this sickness, the anger makes my fingers fly faster over the keys. I should be finished soon. He has not come yet. I must work faster.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
Any beauty she may have possessed once is gone. She is gaunt, like a skeleton dipped in wax. Her eyes are black holes, they look like the eyes of a corpse. He think that perhaps he has left her alive too long, that perhaps her soul has started to rot.
"I…am…almost…done…"
She has to pause for breath after each word. Anything that was once melodious in her voice has died, leaving her with only a dry husk of a voice. He no longer enjoys it.
"Please…"
He doesn't know what she is asking for. Is she asking for him to finally take her? Is she asking for more time? He knows that she doesn't have the breath to continue. He has delayed too long for the sake of his curiosity. The Creator was right.
"It is time to go."
His voice is always soft, black velvet over blacker satin.
Her dull, dead eyes widen, and she shakes her head furiously. Her skeletal fingers grip the computer. Her mouth moves like she is talking, but that ability has been stolen like her breath. Her last words were used to beg him.
"This is the last time."
Pity moves him, he realizes. He hasn't felt pity since Lot's wife turned to salt. He took her before she went insane. He doesn't know if the Creator has forgiven him for that yet. Probably not, it wouldn't surprise him if the Creator still held grudges for a lot of things he did. He just didn't care overly much.
The skeletal woman tries to smile, but her strength fails her at the penultimate moment. Her fingers still fly across the keys.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
"So I hear that you've angered our dear cousin. Again."
Where the Creator's voice is a roar, the Lightbringer's voice is a whisper that creeps among your thoughts.
"Yes. It' s almost over though."
"Now that is a pity… You know you could always keep it up. Hurry up the Apocalypse and all that jazz. I could even get you a nice white horse; give all those noisy Bible-thumpers something to scream about."
A hissing laugh.
"I don't think so. This is a one-of. And I'm far too lazy to want the Apocalypse. So many people dying, I'd have to much work. That plague in Europe was hard enough. And that flu pandemic last century? What a pain in the ass that was."
"Ah, well. It was worth a try. I'm not overly fond of the idea myself. Too much work. I'd just like to be able to get out once in a while. Get some sun. It gets boring down here these days."
"I can imagine."
"Goddamn it! I've just spilled my coffee. Fucking minions can't do a goddamn thing unless I'm right there watching them!"
He chuckles at that.
"Have fun."
"Yeah, yeah."
He watched a snowflake fall.
It was time.
`~x~`~x~`~x~`
The first thing he notices is that the computer is closed. It is, in fact, nowhere in sight. The only source of illumination is now coming from a small lamp on a bedside table. The room is clean and smells faintly of lemongrass and lavender. They make an oddly complimentary smell. The floor is clear, he can see the carpeting now. The books are shelved, and the clothes have been washed and folded away somewhere. He looks at where she lies on the bed, propped up by pillows reading a book. He notices that she is too weak to hold the book up, instead peering at it as it lies in her lap. Her hand shakes uncontrollably when she turns a page.
Her rattling breath is still loud in the quiet room; so shallow he wonders how she isn't suffocating. Her hair is no longer greasy, but slightly damp from a recent shower. Her skin still looks like wax stretched over a skeleton. She is still gaunt. She is still dying, but her eyes no longer have that frenzied, glazed look to them. They look calmer now; still sad, but less lost.
"Have you finished?" He asks her.
She nods.
"Then take my hand."
She does.