Searching Wounded Valentine: Steven.
"Sometimes it's the menial things which define a person. The way we
turn corners, or the way we toss a lighted match."
Steven stood with his right hand on the edge of the open door
of a refrigerator. He moved his hand back and forth, the cooled air
rushing out and the warm air rushing in. Equalising. Condensation formed.
The droplets gathered together and were pulled downwards by gravity.
The refrigerator contained one item: a mango on a plate. Two items,
more correctly, but only one was eatable.
"What does it take to live a fantasy?" murmured Steven. He closed
the refrigerator door. "To live a life with unfocused eyes," he
concluded.
Steven was dressed in a long, blue, English dressing gown, fastened
with a red belt. He was barefoot.
Going into a room, he re-emerged dressed in a long, black coat, black
pants, black shoes, white socks, black hat, and sunglasses. He was
slipping a wristwatch over his right wrist as he walked through the
doorway. It was a quartz crystal, analogue watch. The time was 11:38.
Walking over to a table, Steven picked up a pen and wrote something
on a piece of paper, the pen in his right hand. He clicked the pen,
causing the tip to slide into body of the pen. He gazed at the pen, then
placed it down on the table.
Steven walked over to a door which, when he opened it, led to a long
hallway which was angled steeply upwards. He went off down the hallway,
his black coat trailing on the smooth floor. The lights of the hallway
were dim, and the doors on either side of the hallway were without
numbers, and were red.
Time passed in an instant, and now Steven stood on a stood hillside
overlooking a deep, black valley. The wristwatch on his wrist read
12:03. It was night, and the moon overhead cast a white light on the
hillside, yet it did not touch into the depths of the darkness.
"Someone once said something about...if you stare into the darkness,
the darkness stares back. They were wrong. It's not the darkness staring
at oneself, but that which dwells within it."
Strange sounds drifted up the hillside from the dark depths. Whispers,
creaks, and rumblings.
A shadowed from approached from Steven's left, moving swiftly, in
rapid spurts. Whatever it was, it was slender and determined in its
actions.
As it moved out of shadow and into the moon's light, it was revealed
that it was fox, red even in the moonlight. It approached Steven, coming
to within 3 meters of him, then it stopped and sat down in the manner
which foxes do.
Seconds passed. The fox did not move, but breathed softly, its gaze
fixed on Steven. Steven turned from his gazing into the darkness and
gazed at the fox.
The the fox spoke in an eloquent, calm voice. "Blood is on your hands.
I can smell it."
Steven didn't reply, instead continuing to gaze at the fox. So the
fox continued, "This is where you have come. Tell me, why have you come?"
Steven's lips parted. He spoke. "I don't know."
"Was it to lose your being in the darkness which you gaze so
longingly into?" inquired the fox.
Steven broke his gaze with the fox, turning to look again into the
darkness of the valley. "The darkness?" he murmured.
The fox said unto him, "A dark void. The moment of life at the instant
where the dream fades, yet is not yet gone, and the life which is real
is yet to fully begin. Where all that is is not yet seen, but is not
obscured by your eyes. The moment all seek to cling to, but all wise find
that it is just a vapour, just as is your mortal existence."
"I had a dream like this," said Steven. "When I was young."
"And how did this dream conclude?"
"I awakened," replied Steven.
"How are you certain that what you think is life is not merely a dream
within a dream?"
"I counted up the dreams," said Steven.
"You have great faith in your memory. Are you absolutely certain that
which you speak as certainty is not merely desperate and wishful hope?"
Steven turned his gaze back to the fox. "What are you?"
"What answer are you expecting? A name? A description? A thesis?"
"You're a talking fox," said Steven.
"Don't be ridiculous," said the fox, speaking these words without
humour. "Foxes cannot speak."
"What are you then?"
"I am what you say that I am."
"That's an inconclusive and ambiguous statement," said Steven. "Its
context defines its meaning."
"Just like so many other things," said the fox. It then asked, "Where
do you intend to go from here?"
"I don't have to move from this spot," replied Steven.
"This is true, but by standing here, you become a prisoner of your
will."
"So. Why am I here?" asked Steven of the fox.
"Because it has been made natural that you should be here."
"How so?"
The fox evaded the question, saying, "Free will is greatly controlled
by lust and base desire. The circumstances, carefully arranged, could be
made conducive to your coming to a certain place and performing certain
actions. You chose these things with your free will, yet you were not
fully free because the options available were restricted. A photograph
shows a scene, yet it shows one dimension. Conclusions formed from a
picture can be far more easily controlled than those formed from
observation by ones' own eyes."
"I have a feeling that you're more than a forest animal."
"Because that is the impression desired to achieve," replied the fox.
"And what do you want of me?"
The fox stood and turned its face away, towards the darkness of the
valley. "Follow me if you wish to witness the conclusion to your dream."
As the fox stood watching, Steven lifted his left hand and took the
hat from his head. He brought his hand, hat in its grip, to his chest.
"The dream has a conclusion?" he asked softly.
"All dreams end," replied the fox. "All except the final dream."
"And what is the final dream?"
The fox did not answer.
"Lead the way," said Steven quietly.
The fox bounded down the steep hillside, Steven following closely
behind. Together they descended into the darkness.
And in an instant, the blackness was no more: they were running
through a field, which was the bottom of the valley. And in the
piercing moonlight, it could be seen that the field was filled with
beautiful flowers and perfect, green grass.
The fox came to a stop and sat on its hindquarters, as it had
before, whilst Steven slowed more and more until he was standing still,
his lips parted. The fox's gaze was on him.
Falling to his knees, Steven ran his hands through the grass. It
was perfect. The flowers moved in rippling motions as his fingers
touched them. And within seconds, tears fell amongst the blades of
grass - for Steven was crying.
"This is the conclusion of your dream," said the fox in a strange
voice. "The moments you glimpsed, yet were unable to see in true
understanding."
Steven was curled up, lying on his side. A rain began falling from
the sky. Yet there were no clouds. Raindrops splashed on Steven's coat,
his hair, dripping down his face in rivulets, mixing with his tears.
"Why do I feel this way?" whispered Steven.
"Are you really sure you wish to know?" asked the fox in that same,
strange voice.
"Yes," murmured Steven, closing his eyes as the rain continued to
fall.
"I said that you had blood on your hands," said the fox.
"We are all guilty," said Steven. "No-one is innocent."
The fox cocked its head slightly, the the rain running down its
neck. "The blood is fresh."
There was a pause of six seconds, then the fox spoke again.
"The blood on your hands is not another's. It is your own."
And that was where the dream came to an end.
Searching Wounded Valentine: Manake.
"If there is one thing I hate, it is cruelty."
Manake looked up, her face splattered with mud, her
school uniform splashed with dirt and water. The woman
who had spoken regarded her with an abstracted,
emotionless expression.
"Thank you for noticing." Manake smiled weakly. "People
just don't like me."
"And why is that?" The woman's face remained
expressionless.
"Because I'm different."
"Like a thorn." The woman crouched across from her and
touched her index finger to the puddle of water. Ripples
spread where her finger touched.
"It's not too bad." Manake sighed. "Those girls were
just having their fun. At my last school, the girls would
hit me and...hurt me."
"And these girls didn't hurt you?"
"Not really. They just made me dirty, but they wouldn't
ever try to hurt anyone. I think they're just bored - but
they're not...bad."
"Not everyone would see things that way."
"It doesn't matter. It's between them and the person
who does the thing to them. Anyone else couldn't really
understand."
"How old are you, girl? What's your name?"
"I am Manake, sixteen years old."
"You look younger. Is that why they delight in harassing
you? Because you are like a delicate flower? A young flower
is more damaged when it is trodden upon, because an older
flower has already faded."
Manake gazed at the woman's face. "Who are you?"
"Do you want a name?"
"It makes it easier to talk."
"Some people spend more time speaking another's name
than speaking true and honest words to that person."
Manake shifted position and gazed at the woman's
reflection in the puddle, which was slowly clarifying.
"A lot of people are like that," she said softly.
"The people now, or the people you are going to meet?"
"I think it's both," replied Manake.
"It is time you were going to your home, is it not?"
asked the woman.
"No-one will notice," said Manake. "No-one cares."
"Someone does care. You just have to find out whom.
That is the enigma of human existence: to find the one
who cares."
Manake's mouth smiled wryly. "Do you care?"
"I only care if you care."
Manake smiled and rocked back and forth on her haunches.
She closed her eyes, and then opened them again.
The woman was gone. Manake turned round, looking in every
direction. She slipped, splashing herself with the puddle.
"That was...strange," she murmured.
She walked home, her footsteps slow and thoughtful.
She passed other groups of people. Cars passed by, either
travelling in the direction she had come, or going in the
same direction as she was going.
And as she placed her hand upon the handle of the door
to the apartment in which she lived, a shadow was cast down
the hallway in which she stood: cast by occlusion of the
light of a destitute, dirty halogen bulb mounted on the far
wall, one which had never been lit before, so far as she had
ever been able to remember. But when she turned her face and
eyes to see the source of the shadow, the source of the
occlusion: she saw nothing. The halogen bulb slowly swung in
its housing - three screws lay scattered on the floor. Only
one screw remained holding the bulb casing in place. That
was the reason it was able to sway freely. But it was why
it was swaying which was the uncertain thing.
Manake's hand fell from the door handle. She drew the
key from the lock and slipped it again into her pocket.
"Why are my parents not home?"
The thought echoed. Opening the door with its key had
seemed automatic. She had not considered its implication.
And still, that bulb swayed back and forth. And still
the shadow was cast: it was a complex shadow, shifting and
morphing as the bulb changed position.
Manake walked down the hallway towards it, her hand
held cautiously in the air, as if she were feeling the
wind. There was no breeze, but the illustration is valid.
There seemed nothing unusual about the bulb. But the
three screws laying on the floor were unsettling. Why,
Manake could not determine. She looked down again, and to
her surprise found that the shadow had vanished: the light
from the bulb was cast unobstructed except for her own
shadow. She stepped aside and regarded this. Nothing was
happening. Even the bulb had ceased to sway.
Then the light went out. All the lights went out.
Leaving Manake standing in a deep, sinister darkness. She
fumbled for her portable music player in her pocket, found
it, then pressed a button on its side. It initialised and
its backlight cast a faint, blue illumination.
And Manake saw in that faint illumination that she was
standing on a smooth, modern road in the midst of a great
forest. She saw this as she turned the player's display in
various directions. The road was actually bitumen, but
very smooth bitumen.
"What am I doing here?" gasped Manake. She saw lights
approaching in the distance: a car was approaching. She
glanced around. Should she hide? She decided not to,
standing off to the side slightly and waiting for the
lights to draw closer.
And that they did. The car cruised alongside her, its
headlights illuminating the forest much better than her
music player's backlight. The tinted driver's window rolled
down: it was the left side window. The car was a yellow
sports car, with a small logo on the front grille: 'Cuz-Tek'.
And there was no-one sitting in the driver's seat. The
car was empty. And as Manake gaped at it, the engine cut
and the lights slowly began to dim. The forest was a living
thing, encroaching on her. The darkness and the forest were
one. And as Manake turned her eyes, she knew at that moment
that as soon the light was gone, she would be at the mercy
of the darkness.
She grasped for the driver's side handle and found it.
The door swung open easily, making the comforting click of a
releasing catch. She swung the door closed and flicked the
switches attached to the steering wheel. One of them was the
headlights switch. The lights shone brightly, and Manake
could see the shadowy forms fleeing from the light. And she
trembled. Her shaking fingers found the key in the ignition.
She turned the key and the engine started.
"I've never used a car before!" she thought. But she had
to get away from this place. She pushed the accelerator pedal
down and the car started moving. She turned the steering
wheel side-to-side in a random manner, managing to stay
vaguely in the centre of the road, which lacked guide lines.
She kept that pedal pressed down. The clock on the
console wasn't working. It was four 8's which Manake
believed indicated its circuit board must be malfunctioning.
Manake could only keep this up for so long. She began to
falter. But every time she turned her face to look out the
side windows, she could see the sinister shadows lingering
outside, moving easily as quickly as the car was. If she
stopped, they would simply wait. If she kept going, they would
follow and wait. The stress and terror was getting to her inner
emotions. She blinked away tears. And tried to stay awake. The
road continued forever, always a straight line.
But after an unknown time, she could do it no longer. She
literally collapsed onto the dashboard, exhausted. The car
swerved off the road and into the forest. But Manake was not
awake to witness anything.
"Police are still investigating the source of the fire.
A representative said that they believe a faulty electrical
system may have caused the blaze. The bodies of two people,
Anno Hiro and Anno Nadia were found in their apartment. Their
deaths has been attributed to a gas leak which combined with
the fire to create a lethal explosion. The daughter of the
couple, Anno Manake, was found unconscious in a locked car in
the street outside the now-destroyed apartment block. Police
are investigating."
A police officer listened to these words on a radio
broadcast as he sat alongside the bed in which Manake lay.
He took the earphones from his ears and placed the music
player in his pocket. It was almost identical to the one
Manake had used, but it was white - hers had been black.
He looked out the open doorway into the corridor outside
the hospital room. In the distance lingered the woman who had
spoken with Manake. And something about her interested the
police officer. He glanced between Manake's unconscious form
and the woman in the distance.
Leaving the room, he closed the door behind himself and
hurried down the corridor after her, as she was walking away.
Catching up to her, he got her attention by calling. She turned
to look at him.
"Is there something you need?" she asked.
"Who are you?" asked the police officer.
"What is your interest?"
"You look familiar."
"How is she, officer?" asked the woman.
"The patient?" the officer asked in surprise. "She's doing
well. But what are you here for? Are you a relation?"
"I am Manake."
"What? You're Manake? What do you mean?"
"Look behind you," said the woman. The officer did so. He
gazed down the corridor and wondered what she was on about.
He was in the motion of turning his face back towards the woman
when an explosion ripped the hospital corridor apart. The lights
flickered and the police officer fell to the floor, bleeding
from a cut on his face. He turned every way he could. The woman
was gone. He staggered down the corridor, burning debris falling
all around him. He could hear screams of dying people. But
despite what his police officer training told him he should
do, his headed straight for Manake's room.
The door was jammed. Stepping back, he shoved it with his
full body's weight. It resisted. He tried again, and this time
the door gave way. And he saw. Where his chair and Manake's
hospital bed had been was now a twisted mass of burning wreckage.
Manake was buried under it. And if he had been there,
so would he be.
With a gasp he awoke. He was sitting in the chair beside
Manake. All was quiet. And as he gathered his thoughts after
such a bizarre dream, he turned his gaze down out the door.
There was nothing there.
There was a stirring. The officer turned to see Manake
slowly opening her eyes. She turned her head to look at him.
"What are you doing?" she asked in a weary voice.
"Nothing...I just had a dream. I dreamt you died."
"Oh? But I was just dreaming. And in my dream...you died."
The police officer gazed into her eyes with a flickering
panic. "Oh, shit. We both die."
He grasped her hand and dragged her roughly from her bed.
He could hear a faint whirring. They got through the doorway
and he led her down the corridor. She was stumbling.
Together they got outside and stood watching the
hospital building. They stood for five minutes, Manake leaning
on his shoulder.
Nothing was happening. The police officer shrugged.
"I'm supposing it was just a dream," he said quietly.
Searching Wounded Valentine: Margaret.
The rain had ceased. This might seem just an
ordinary literary device to draw the reader's
interest to what eventually proves to be either
an offensive or just boring story. But it was in
actuality a great deal more. The fate of the
world was affected by it.
With a hissing of wet tires, the car of
a woman named Margaret Velestroni travelled
along a water-slicked road. It was 7:23 p.m.
It is when the danger seems to have passed that
people become most vulnerable.
Margaret never anticipated that, as she changed
lanes, her tires would hydrofoil on the water,
sending her car up onto the pavement. Nor had she
anticipated that she would hit a pedestrian who
stood waiting to cross the road, earphones in
their ears. Nor had she anticipated hurtling
at 78 kilometers an hour towards an electrical
power pole.
She knew nothing. For her, all was a moment
of numbness as she realised the impending
consequence of her error, then, as though she had
been dreaming, she awoke.
And she awoke in a place which was unlike that
which she would have expected.
She was seated in a dining chair at a dining
table in the centre of a restaurant. The furnishings
exuded luxury and taste. The table was lit by candles.
The chair was comfortable, and before her was a small,
white plate, on which was a slender slice of pie.
Beside the plate stood a glass of wine, and a neatly
folded, floral-print napkin.
Margaret gazed upon these things, and her gaze
ran until it was caught by the slender hand which
picked up another wineglass across from her and
brought it to a pair of thin, rich, red lips.
It was a strange personage which was seated
across from her. A woman, it seemed. She wore a
hooded cloak, but the light from the candles
illuminated her face well, showing her dark green
eyes and perfect skin. Her jaw was somewhat long,
and she had an elegant nose.
Touching the glass to her lips, she drank from
it in a fashion which gave an impression of great
training in the etiquette of dining. Then she placed
it down on the table, taking up the napkin and
touching it to her lips, then placing it back down
again.
She sat there and gazed at Margaret, folding her
hands upon the table. A faint trace of a smile spread
across her mouth.
Margaret spoke first. "Who are you?"
The woman closed her eyes for a moment, then
opened them again. It gave the impression of a
deliberate blinking of her eyes, one which was
not mistakable to be merely a natural action.
Her lips parted, in an act of seeming deliberation,
then she answered unto her, "I am Death."
Margaret snorted. "Yea, right. Since when was
*Death* a woman?"
Death gazed upon Margaret, her eyes glancing from
her hair to her forehead, then to the rest of her upper
body. She opened her mouth, making a slight clicking
sound as her tongue released the vacuum of her closed
mouth. She replied unto Margaret, "Wisdom is a woman.
If you were not so ignorant and arrogant, you would
have known that."
"Ugh," spat Margaret. "I don't have to take this
shit from you! Who are you?"
Death motioned towards the Margaret's wineglass.
"Take a drink, and perhaps it will cleanse your lips
of the profanity which pours fourth from your wicked
heart."
Margaret took the glass in her hand and sneered.
"Is this kind of stupid game?"
"The question is more foolish than any
satisfactory answer," replied Death. "You know
perfectly well why you are here, hence you do not
inquire as to the circumstances."
"Where am I, then?" Margaret looked around.
"This is a restaurant...spooky," she mocked.
"It is when you cannot leave."
"What?" asked Margaret, screwing up her face.
She let out a sigh of exasperation. "I deal with
idiots like you all the time."
"You won't be dealing with this matter."
"What matter?"
"You are near death," replied Death.
"What are you talking about?"
Death snapped her fingers. Immediately, a darkened
figure came running in from a door which was situated
at one end of the room. It carried two covered trays in
its hands. Placing them down upon the table, it turned
and ran back to whence it had come, taking the plate
with the uneaten cake which had been sitting before
Margaret.
"I think you would be hungry. Eat something,"
said Death. She removed the lids from both their
trays.
Revealed was a delicate assortment of foods,
each about two small bites in size. There was
small balls of rice with toothpicks, and small
slabs of a dark, rich cake of some kind. There
was also a few other items, but they will not
be mentioned.
Margaret looked at her tray with suspicion.
"How do I know you aren't trying to poison me?"
"You don't," replied Death casually, taking
a rice ball and biting into it. She chewed and
then swallowed.
Margaret gazed at her and frowned. She
placed the wineglass down, crossed her arms,
and waited.
Death took no notice of her rudeness,
instead quietly and elegantly eating each
item on her plate. When she had finished,
she wiped her mouth with a napkin. Then
she spoke.
"Death is almost perfect in its statistical
predictability. Life is a statistical anomaly."
Margaret narrowed her eyes. "No. Everyone dies."
"Not everyone. There is at least one
certifiable exception."
"Whom?"
"If I told you, it would not change you in the
slightest. It matters little, though it matters more
than anything else. That is relativity."
Snapping her fingers again, Death waited as the
darkened, indistinct figure again came. It took
Margaret's untouched tray and Death's tray. It had
brought something with it: a newspaper, and two cups
of milk-tea, along with two cubes of brown sugar.
After making this exchange of items upon the table,
it vanished back the way it had come.
Sipping from her unsweetened tea, Death took her
left hand and placed in upon the newspaper, pushing
it towards Margaret.
Margaret stared at the front page, then picked
up the paper and brought it closer to her face,
squinting.
"You cannot see," said Death. "Although...
perhaps that is not accurate. You see, but do not
comprehend; you hear, but you do not understand; you
feel, and then you refuse to acknowledge what you
have felt."
Margaret opened the newspaper.
"It's on page six," commented Death. "Most events
of tragedy are. It is written in point seven and a
half Times New Roman font, and it is on paragraph
three: that which is of most interest to you."
Margaret found page six. She blinked with surprise
as she found that she could read the text.
And these are the words which she read:
A nineteen year old male and a 23 year
old woman were killed in motor-vehicle accident on
June 14th. The driver of the car was Margaret
Velestroni, Los Angeles lawyer and gay rights
activist. The car struck and killed the nineteen
year old male, who is yet to be identified. The car
then ran into a power pole, killing Margaret
Velestroni. Police say the accident was possibly
triggered by water on the road caused by recent
flooding. Her family are coming in from San
Francisco.
Margaret looked up at Death. "What?"
"You killed a person."
"I'm not dead!"
"Then how did you leave your car, Velestroni?"
Margaret gazed blankly at the table. "I...I
don't remember."
"Because you never did. But you aren't dead."
Death sipped her tea. "Not yet, anyway."
"What in the hell do you want with me?" Margaret
slapped the newspaper down on the table.
"You are going to die, in real time, in
approximately seven-hundred milliseconds. Your
death will be mourned. There will be an album
of music dedicated to you."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I pity you. In seven-hundred
milliseconds, your soul will awaken in Hell.
All in keeping with the statistics. Salvation
is a statistical anomaly, also."
"So are you some kind of last minute
'turn or burn' evangelist?"
"I am the representative of death. You could
call me a ghoul. Death is my profession. And
statistically, you are dead. In flesh, you
still live."
"What?" asked Margaret, exasperated. "Stop
talking shit."
Death took up a sugar cube between her fingers.
"Life is a vapour. It dissolves into the waters of
death in an instant." She dropped the sugar cube
into her tea, and it was gone. "Although...the water
in this cup is very hot."
"I'm not dead!" repeated Margaret.
"The you whom you understand yourself to be is
going to die, regardless of anything you say or do.
I am offering you life, Margaret Velestroni."
"Really? What's the lovely catch?"
"Margaret Velestroni dies. You live."
"That's bullshit."
"Alan Stone was destined to accomplish certain
things. You were destined to die a boring death in
a motor-vehicle accident. He was killed, which is
an unanticipated and undesirable effect. But once
someone has crossed to the other side of the chasm,
even I am powerless to save them. I cannot bring
Alan Stone, the man you killed, back. But if you
are willing to take his place, and achieve the things
which were intended that he should achieve, then I
can offer you a life...of sorts."
"So, what? I become a man?"
"His body has been separated into three
portions...does the word 'dead' mean anything to
you?" inquired Death.
"Yes."
"You remain the same, but from that instant
forth, you believe what he believed, you say what
he was to say, and you do what he was destined to
do."
"And what was he destined to do?"
"Many things. He becomes a researcher on the
subject of climate change. He was to attend sit ins
at hospitals, trying to convince mothers not to
kill their unborn children. He was to suffer verbal
abuse, have his house vandalised on seven occasions,
become an employee of I.B.M, and is lose his
position because he was to publicly call
homosexuality a sin. And he was also destined to
become the President of the United States of
America."
"So I'm supposed to become some..bigot?"
demanded Margaret.
"It's a clear choice, Margaret. Burn in Hell
now or live for a time, then possibly burn in Hell
later. You choose. But perhaps your heart has chosen
for you. For the wicked are shown the ancient path,
but they say, 'No, we will not walk this path."
"This is fucking sick," Margaret stood, knocking
over her wineglass. "Who gave you the right to molest
people like this?"
"Are you really that blind? You are standing
at the crossroads of death, Margaret. The
choices are: life or death. I advise you to choose
life." Death snapped her fingers. The figure rushed
in, bearing two new covered trays; it then removed
their teacups, placed new glasses full of wine
in their places, and then disappeared. Margaret
stared after it, a bitter expression on her face.
"I'll make my own choices." she said "And I
choose my own way. The way I live my life. I've
fought for years so I can live my life the way
I want to."
"The road to destruction is wide, Margaret.
That is the logic behind the vindication of
the minority."
"You're the kind of narrow minded bigot I've
spent my life fighting. Then, apparently, the
afterlife is full of them!" Margaret sat down and
downed her entire glass of wine.
"This is so...natural," she said sarcastically.
"A bigot, by definition, is one who dies
after saying, 'By God, no!' When the Christians
were burnt alive, they would often be asked to
recant their beliefs. They would refuse, reciting
that statement. To be a bigot is quite an honourable
thing, so long as the meaning is not corrupted. But
you, Margaret Velestroni: you would know much about
the deliberate corruption of the meanings of words,
would you not?"
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing. Everything I say is clear."
"Well I've made my choice. You and your offer
can--"
Death raised her hand. "Very well. But you still
have time to change your answer. This is your last
meal, Margaret. You aren't arguing because you know
it is true. When this meal is over, your decision
will become reality. And whatever choice you make,
make it wisely."
Margaret did not reply.
Death removed the lids of the dishes. On
the trays was finely sliced, tender lamb, along
with an assortment of herbs. And on each tray
was a small loaf of bread.
Taking the loaf from her tray, Death broke
it, then placed the second half on the table
before Margaret, whilst she held the first piece
in her hand.
"As we eat, Margaret. I will tell you a story.
And I advise you to listen with care."
"What sort of story?"
"It's about someone I ate this same meal with
a long time ago."
Margaret sighed, taking the half of the small
loaf and holding it in her hand. "Go ahead, I'm
listening."
The answer and the choice are not
written here. It is elsewhere, in other
forms. And perhaps some are bitter, even
angry. But Death is a respecter of no-one,
and comes often to people deep in their
dreams.
But this was not a dream.