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Children of the Universe
By Mahin Khan
Copyright 2014 by Mahin Khan
“What will we do,” Edith whispered into her hands, “what will we do.”
She sat on a woven chair next to Lester's bed, a few feet away from her brother’s sickly body. She would come into his room after returning from work, not bothering to change from her postwoman’s uniform, and stare at the ground in worry. The same routine had followed for the past two weeks: sitting by his immobile body and praying and thinking, with only the occasional hopeless glance in his direction.
She had turned the lamp on in wake of the greyness outside, but it barely illuminated the small room where there was only the bed, the chair and a dresser on top of the dull marble floor. She had opened the small window by a few inches to let in some of the fresh, cold wind of the rainy afternoon. The sound of thunder also crept in and loomed in the background, and each crack seemed to warn Lester of the inevitable arrival of his death.
He could still speak, and had thought of some special words to utter before his final moments. It wasn’t a consolation; he was unable to do what was necessary, the illness having taken from him the strength to escape the confines of the bed, and though his body lay still, his mind raced with anxiety and fear.
Edith ran a hand on the bed sheet, straightening the rising creases. Lester noticed the harrowing creases on her face and wished he could remedy them as well. He did not like that his last emotion was guilt, and his inability to help her only added to the mental turmoil that had arisen with the approaching end of his life.
Lester found whatever solace he could in the dark and empty peace his mind and soul would soon encounter, though he dreaded that God wouldn't forgive his negligence. The fear rose in him, but as some men do in moments before death, Lester decided to rid himself of every emotion and thought and prepare himself for emptiness.
He moved his eyes away from the tear-stained face of his sister and looked out the window, gazing at the grey clouds that had engulfed the sky. With his empty mind, he imagined his ascension toward them, his passage into the cold mist of nothingness. He became aware of his will to live, and felt it dissolve into the air, and he sensed the cold start to envelop his skin. With the faintest of breaths, Lester closed his eyes.
A rousing panic struck his heart, jolting his eyes open. In front of him, in the little space between the bed and the dresser at the opposite wall, stood a man dressed in black. Lester could barely see his figure; a hazy blackness covered him and a hood draped over his face, so that no skin was visible. A terrible stench made its way to Lester's nose, the stench of filth and disease and the end of days, and Lester felt a sharpness begin to scrape at his heart. Though there was neither scythe nor skeletal hands protruding from the creature in black, Lester was sure: it was the Reaper standing in the room.
The Reaper inched his way toward the bed, spreading an iciness through the room. Lester turned to his sister, but she sat in the same way she had all afternoon, with her knees together, her hands placed over her cheeks, her eyes staring at the floor, despair mixing with worry on her face. When she had dismissed his previous fears as irrational, he forgave her, but this lack of notice baffled him. Unless, of course, he realized what was happening: the Reaper was there only for him. The harbinger of Death had arrived at his deathbed, ready to take his soul away from the world.
Lester felt his spirit awakening from the brink of lifelessness, and for the first time in weeks, he heard the beating of his heart. It thumped against his chest and fright overtook him. Wordless air flew out of his mouth in sharp bursts while the Reaper inched his way closer, drifting over the floor until he reached the side of the bed.
All the while, Lester noticed the last morsels of his will to live gather, anything he had left amalgamating to form a final barrier intended to save him. He thought this must be how all men felt right before they died: helpless and terrified as they stared into the face of the faceless Reaper, who was ready to take from them the only thing they truly owned: their life.
The Reaper reached over to Lester’s limp body; thin skeletal arms protruded from his cloak, coming to rest upon the dying man’s shoulders. Lester sensed the bitter cold of their grip and felt the last heat left in him vanish. The Reaper brought his head forward, leaning in next to Lester's neck, readying himself to clutch and haul Lester’s soul from his soon to be useless body. Lester could only hear the violent pounding of his heart, raging through the otherwise silent room, and he was surprised that it did not trouble the Reaper.
The hands tightened their hold of him and the Reaper's head came close enough to whisper in Lester's ear — it was then, right before Lester knew his soul would no longer be his own, that the resolve that had been building up inside him burst outward.
“No!” Lester leaped sideways, withdrawing from the grasp of the Reaper. His head tilted up, staring at his nemesis with indignation.
“No,” Lester cried, “you can't take me away.” The Reaper stood straight up, seeming impatient with Lester's desperation. The fear in Lester had evaporated, and a sole longing occupied his entire body.
“Please,” Lester said. “Please give me some time. I have to take care of my sister and her child.” He looked over to Edith, who was sitting in the same manner, unaware of the dreadful bargain of life and death happening in her vicinity. “If I go now, they will live a terrible life full of worry. Please, please, give me a day more to live.”
“Do you know how many men ask for more time?” the Reaper spoke. His deep voice seemed to crawl through the air, and when it reached Lester, it echoed painfully in his ears.
“Come tomorrow,” Lester said, “and I will do whatever you ask, only for a day's worth of time.”
The Reaper turned to Edith, eyed her for a moment and then faced Lester again, observing the devotion and worry strewn over their faces.
“I will come tomorrow,” the Reaper said, “and you will make it easy for me. You will lead the way toward death.”
“I will,” Lester panted and nodded, “I will.”
He watched the Reaper turn his back and drift away, his image fading back into the oblivion he had come from.
He was gone! Lester's heart gave a long, relieved thump and felt almost weightless. The paralyzing fear was gone, and Lester felt a rejuvenation flowing through his skin, invigorating his resolve and giving him strength that was most unusual for his condition. The sickness of his stomach disappeared, as did the chill of his skin. Lester pushed upward and surprised himself when his body rose without discomfort. He sat up, supported by his arms, and looked over to his sister who stared back in shock.
“Lester,” she reached over to support him. “Are you feeling better?”
“I do feel better,” he spoke in a strong voice that was unhampered by the fragility of sickness. “I feel much better,” he clutched her hands to put them away.
He swayed his legs to the side of the bed and put his feet on the cold floor. It was miraculous, perhaps unbelievable, but he understood that the opportunity had thrust a new vigor into him, recharging and refreshing him, turning him into a young and able man. With an unreal ease, he pushed himself up and in a flash, he was standing on his feet.
“Lester!” his sister cried. “What are you doing? You must rest. You have so little strength left.”
“I am feeling quite alright,” he said with disregard. “I need to t
ake care of things. I will be back soon.”
She looked at him in disbelief, and when he glanced at her he saw shock, but also a glimmer of respite.
“Are you sure? The doctor insisted you rest.”
“Yes,” Lester said. “But this is important. Don't worry; I will come back if anything troubles me.”
Lester walked to the end of his bed, slipped on his shoes and put on his coat. He gave Edith a smile and left out the creaking wooden door. He hurried his way to the nearby bank, unsure how long this magical spell of vitality would last.
It was drizzling outside, and he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. But he was glad, rather enjoying the light sprinkling of cold on his skin. The air was fresh and smelled of wet dirt — how he loved that smell! He walked on the paved path, taking in deep breaths of the final day of his life, and he thought it was no less than perfect.
At the bank, Lester met with the manager, and his friend, Edgar, with whom he discussed his plans. He was surprised to hear Edgar’s quick agreement on the matter. There were none of the doubts that had plagued his dealings in the past. Perhaps it was his confidence and demeanor, he thought, his acting of sound mind and body, his display of none of the attributes of a person who was less than a day from his death. They talked to the teller, and after half an hour of work, the