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Dying, as it turned out, was quicker than preferable and slower than comfortable. One last shallow breath after the thousands of strained ones before. One last beat pumping blood that would never return to the heart. The gradual fading of awareness before tripping over the precipitous cliff of unconsciousness. There was a reason the merciful killing of a beloved pet was called being put to sleep.
All this, Grant mused on well beyond his final moments. It was dark, but he wandered in a way that had been impossible to him for months and painful to him for years. Until, blindingly if he had had physical eyes to see, a light, and at its center a cloaked figure. No face was visible beneath its hood, and it carried a scythe that towered over them both. Its cloak billowed in the wind of light.
“Come,” it spoke.
“A reaper? Well, I’ll be damned,” Grant said.
“You won’t be,” the hooded figure responded, though it showed no sign of speaking. “No one is.”
“Pardon, it’s an expression. I just expected Death to be dressed better than a Halloween prop.”
“You expected me.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Don’t we all?”
“Something of a philosopher, are you?”
“That’s a bit generous.”
It sighed, which came out as less a sound and more a drop in temperature of the void. “Here, walk with me.”
The figure turned and began to glide away. Grant half-jogged to catch up for a moment, pausing when he noticed that, despite the new light which cast bizarre shadows into the darkness, he could not see his limbs before him.
“Where is my body?” he asked.
“I thought that was clear. You’ve already left it behind. Or, well, I suppose it’s left you behind. You’ll get used to it. Now, are you coming or not?”
Death stopped moving, allowing Grant to catch up, before wordlessly continuing its effortless jaunt. They walked side-by-side for a few moments, before Death finally spoke.
“You said you expected me to look different?”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Excuse me?” he said, incredulous.
“I appear differently to everyone, according to their expectations - even the ones they don’t know. Many cultures’ people see me as a reunion with family long gone. Others a return to the Earth, or some all encompassing Truth. Your culture instead invented a cartoonish ghoul.”
Its voice was flat, but he asked anyway.
“Are you… offended… by that?”
“I am incapable of being offended. I simply Am. Though, all things considered, it is a bit strange.”
Grant was silent, so Death continued.
“So, tell me, what did you believe you expected?”
“Nothing. I thought I would just… stop.”
“An atheist, are you?”
“A realist.”
“A fool.”
“You mean to tell me God is real?”
“I’ve been Him.”
“That’s not really God though. You’re just giving people what they want.”
“From your perspective, that may be true. Besides, I’m not concerned with wants. No one wants to burn in Hell, but I’ve been the Devil as well.”
“Some expect to go to Hell?”
“Those who believe they deserve it. The wealthy, hoarding millions while the poor scrape for pennies. The devout, obsessed with overcoming their natural lust. The abused, convinced they must be the one in the wrong.”
Grant felt rage building in his nonexistent chest. “That’s awful.”
“It simply Is.”
“How can you do that!? The greedy, fine, but innocent people? They don’t deserve that!”
“I simply Am. I have no choice in the matter. I did not build the world.”
“Who did? If you are God, who built the world?”
“Didn't you?”
They were silent, then, walking side-by-side into the endless black.
Death spoke first.
“Why do you run from me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The world you’ve created is full of such suffering and cruelty. Am I not preferable?”
Grant laughed. “I just died, and I can’t say I recommend it.”
“Alright, take yourself for example, then.” Death swept its scythe in a wide arc, tearing away the black to reveal a frozen scene of Grant’s sickly body laying in a hospital bed. His skin was wrinkled and pale, a tube in his nose gave him air, and an IV in his arm injected medicine to prevent the worst of the pain. His hair was patchy and gray, worn away by radiation and poison more than by age. To see himself from this perspective felt like a transgression.
“You’ve just died, and this is how it happened. You extended the process beyond its proper time, and so you suffered more. In exchange for your life, your family will be burdened with crushing debt from the institution which failed to save you and the one that will put your corpse in the ground. My work is typically much faster than this. The pain you’ve allowed is unnecessary.”
“I could have lived.”
“Do you know that?”
“Do you?”
This time, Death was silent for a moment. “I do not.”
The image before them faded.
“I didn’t want to die. I wanted to be there for my family.”
“You care for them?”
“Of course! Does that surprise you?”
“Of course not. But not all do.”
“Why are you trying to convince me of your worth?”
“I don’t care to convince you of anything. I simply take the form you expect. So, perhaps it is better asked, what kept you from me for so long? You have struggled much against a cruel world.”
“We can make it better.”
“There is so much evil to undo. As much as you have suffered, I witness poverty and war and hatred you cannot imagine.”
“We’re trying. A lot of us, anyways. We’re trying, and so we must.”
“You believe in the inherent goodness of humanity?”
“I do.”
“Well,” Death spoke carefully, “perhaps you are not so much an atheist after all.”
With that, it faded from view, leaving Grant in the pitch black.
“Wait!” he shouted after it. “Tell me one more thing! Did I make the world any better?”
The voice of Death came from everywhere now. “You did what you could. It was enough.”
And everything was dark. And everything was warm.