He found me alone, on my bed in the home. As soon as the lights flickered, and the mirror darkened, I knew he had come to take me, whisk me away into the void, where all we know is undone, all consciousness and sentience nullified. To claim my life.
To describe him is an impossible task, but I will try. He comes in a dark suit, black blazer, pants, tie, shirt. His eyeglasses are tinted; if the eyes are the windows to the soul it's obvious why he wears them. His mouth never forms a smile, only a grimace at best. He doesn't love his job, he doesn't enjoy it, it's just work to him.
He sat down in a plastic lawn chair in the corner, displacing the dust that had formed there so many months ago. He unbuttoned his blazer, and opened his mouth.
"How are you, kind sir?"
His voice oozed like molasses, lulling you to quiet repose and complacency. He didn't need to relax me though, I was prepared.
"I'm ready to leave," I said, "this life hasn't done me many favors. It's time for me to be freed."
He chuckled at this, amused by my arrogance. To think I was special enough to be freed, to no longer be aware? I was foolish.
"You have a bit longer to wait then," he said, and procured a pen and note pad from his jacket. On it was a list of names, accompanied by dates. The pad was ridiculously thick, yet fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. It went all the way back to zero, signed with indecipherable, cryptic strokes, ended with... "present." The last name, Carlos Garcia, jumped off the page.
"Is this... is this you?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Not anymore. I'm nothing now." he took off his blazer, and laid it on the bed next to me. As he continued stripping down, he spoke.
"I've chosen you, friend. You're a suitable candidate."
Off came the tie, set onto the bed.
"Why me?"
"Look at you. Rotting away in this room, no one visiting you, not even the people paid to care about you give a damn."
His words silenced me. The polished dark shoes and dress socks were next. His face, paler than before, seemed almost translucent.
"You don't care about anyone, why should you? They don't care about you. I picked you out from a mile away, no competition."
He must have seen my face, so he continued.
"It's not a bad gig. It's a bit lonely, but that's nothing new, right?" he wheezed. His black dress shirt and pants were on the bed, along with the glasses, and all I could see now was a dark cloud where my reckoning once stood.
"Chin up. It's only a thousand years. You'll have fun. And when you're done..." the voice began to fade, "we can meet up on the other side."
The already darkening cloud vanished entirely, leaving me alone, as I had always been, in my assigned tomb.
I struggled into sitting position, and looked at the clothes. He's right, I thought, I really don't give a damn, do I?
I pulled off my gown, and began to button up the shirt. It was cool to the touch, but comforting in a strange way. The pants were next, they were hemmed perfectly to my size. I hadn't tied a tie in years, but my hands made the familiar motions, and my strength returned. I stood up from my bed. The socks and shoes were next, those came easily. I put the blazer on, my costume nearly complete. When I looked in the mirror, however, I saw my eyes, or what were my eyes. Souless. Dead. Empty. No different, I chuckled to myself. I put the eyeglasses on, and I felt... strong. Capable. In control. Then, a sharp pain in my head, to the left. Calling. Beckoning. I put the pad and pen in my pocket and walked out the door. To my left was a door, slightly ajar. I could hear their breath from outside, their ever slowing heartbeat filling my head. I walked to the door. I opened it. I entered, and shut it behind me. Perhaps an uneventful first, but Death must come for us all.
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