The Daughter of Death
When the car hit me, I wasn’t sure what would happen next. One minute, I was happy, buoyed by the news of a new job offer. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and for the first time in weeks, I left a cloud lifting from my psyche.
Then BAM. It came out of nowhere, and my last moments on earth were a sea of screams, car horns, and the brutal sound of high-speed metal crushing into flesh and bone. There was pain, so much pain, and then blackness.
The fact that I recognised I was surrounded by blackness caused me to wonder if I was still alive, maybe in a coma or extreme shock. Then, across the echoing blackness, a woman approached me, and something about her made me inherently realise that this was no vision or imagination. This was my reality now.
She approached me slowly but surely. Apparently, there was no rush to complete her task. She almost seemed apologetic to be bothering me, like she knew I was probably surprised and confused as to my situation. There was a quiet confidence to her manner. She was experienced at whatever it was she did, and as she approached, that confidence filled me with ease. Whatever was about to happen, at least I was in the hands of a professional.
She was dressed all in black, but a shade of black like no other I had seen before. Most black clothing was really a kind of darker shade of grey. Her clothing was as black as the night sky. Deep, dark, a total lack of light or colour. It was a darkness you lost yourself staring into trying to find its end. The closer she came to me, the more I saw the depths of the black. Were those pinpricks of light in her clothing? Were they stars?
Her skin colour was all tones and none at all. It constantly shifted, or my perception of it shifted, to the degree where I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter anyway. She was here. She was the only thing in my world now.
She carried a staff in one thin hand. It was as black as her clothing, but it had the texture of something like wood. But I have never known wood grain to shift and rearrange. Her other hand was obscured beneath her clothing, which poured onto the floor, covering her feet as she glided towards me.
Her expressionless face drew next to me. She had no scent, no warmth, and aside from her glide, she was effortlessly still.
She looked me up and down, and it was then that I noticed my damaged body, squashed, bloody, and broken.
“My my.” She chimed in with a neutral tone that expressed no emotion or opinion.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure why, but didn’t know what other reaction to offer.
“You have questions?” She said expectantly and without rhetoric.
I nodded again.
“Then follow me.” She said, offering another hand from beneath her clothing. It was cold but comforting, and I followed, my hand in hers.
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