Love You To Death[part 1]

"Love You To Death" is a story written in a poetry-like manner.I have been working on for the past 1 month now,still not done with it yet but I hope you all enjoy the part I'm going to write today.

It is going to be a very long story and I hope you guys will enjoy it.

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Part one

Street corners are waiting places.

A throng of faceless people wait for the angry red hand across the street to give way to a luminescent white stick figure, granting them safe passage across a sea of black pavement. The woman in the yellow taxi that sits double parked with it's flashers on wait for a call from her boyfriend. They're fighting. Inside the Corner Bistro, aptly named, the head chef waits for his favourite line cook to come back from her smoke break in the side alley. waiting, waiting... waiting.

I do a lot of waiting myself. My job, like so many things in this world , is all about timing and in about ten seconds, it'll be time for me to do my job.

Ten, I gaze at the sky which, is though so vibrant yesterday, seems to be sick. Like a child come down with the flu, the sky's rosy cheeks have gone ashen and tears may start to fall soon. Nine. I suppose it's be a cold day in hell when my job doesn't involve tears, although I've never been to hell, so what do I know? Eight. Seven. Six. The skyscraper and artsy museums across the street are so very rudely interrupted by an ancient cathedral large enough to swallow half the water in the harbour and still have room for dessert. Five. Bet it's a nice place for a funeral. Four. Minutes dark spot are rapidly appearing on the sidewalk. Here come the tears. Three. Two. One. Go

The little stick figure light up, and the horde of people surges forward. Rush, rush, rush. Simultaneously, the yellow taxi across the street pulls away from the curb without bothering to check that the way is clear. Lazy. The car behind him is both speeding and texting. Stupid. The driver finally glances up from his phone, realizing his mistake far too late. He jerks the wheel, the tires screech, and the car is no longer a car. It's a dark-blue, dented bullet that's going to make someone's children very lonely tonight.

That's where I come in

Most humans have the pleasure of having their whole life pass them by without ever having to hear the revolting crunch of bones not only snapping, but shattering. The people who rush forward do not get that luxury. Those who scattered as the car careened towards them, hell bent on leaving naught but destruction in its wake stare in horror, hearing every shallow breath rattle this stranger's insides, and know that, had they been a second, just a second slower, it would have been them lying in the street, staining the pavement with their blood.

Everyone who was close enough to hear the screech, the thud, the shattering of glass, has dashed close to join the crowd. It is rare to hear a bustling city fall silent, but the city falls silent now. No one dares make a sound. The car engines stop purring, the rain stops falling. It is the kind of silence you only hear when all hope is lost. The man is still breathing, but barely. Each breath could be his last. Everyone knows it, and I know it. I get to choose which one it will be.

Finally, the silence is broken by some brave soul whose 911 call is the catalyst for concerned mutters. I ignore the liking sorrow of the woman's voice a she request an ambulance, and step forward. This man has suffered enough. I walk through-quite step forward literally through the crowd, and crouch beside the man. Once upon a time, I would have been ashamed to admit that watching this kind of agony has gotten easier over time. His face is contorted, scrunched up like it's going to implode into itself. The tears streaming down his face drip onto the road, mixing in with the rain and the blood like some lethal cocktail.

The front end of car is is speckled with red, dented more than one might expect. The driver lies slump into the air bag, mostly unharmed. It's not his time yet.

But it is this other man's time. I am about to reach out to him, end his suffering, bring some degree of mercy to this tragedy, but a movement beside me catches my eye. A woman is knelt beside me, her head turns towards the man so all that I can see is the back of her head, an onyx ponytail half pulled out swinging gently with each motion. She reaches out to the man, caresses his face so tenderly I wonder if she knew him personally. She murmurs to him, whispering comforting words that she must know are useless. I recognize her voice as the same that one that called for help. It doesn't seem to bother her that her hand is now visibly smeared with a stranger's blood. Most people recoil at the sight of their own blood let alone another's. Blood is a sign of death, and most humans know well enough to avoid it when that see it. But not this one.

I shake myself. Enough of this. I reach out and touch the man's face, my hand occupying the same space that her hand has just vacated. At my touch, his heart beat it last beat; his lungs empty, never to be filled again, and the woman turns around and-looks at me. And for what seems like an eternity. I look at her, and the dead man next to us looks at nothing. She must realise that nothing is so very, very wrong here, because I am afforded only the briefest glimpse of her face before she gets up and swiftly navigate out of the crowd, ignoring the wailing sirens of the ambulance shooting down our street.

When I looked at her everything inside if me constricted. No one in this crowd, this city, this world can see me. And yet I just stared into a pair of eyes the same colour that the sky was yesterday. Stared into them long enough to know that they seemed familiar somehow and they stared back.

Well do they say the eyes are the window to the soul. Lucky for me I have no soul.

I straighten up and pass back out of the crowd without looking back. The ambulance is blocking off half the street, here just in time to take the body to the hospital, where the man will be pronounced dead, and someone will be charged with unpleasant task of informing his weeping wife that there was nothing they could do.

I wander away from the crowd just in time to glimpse the woman slide back into the alley and disappeared into a side door. As the door swings shut again, I decided I probably recognised the girl from another job, on another day. Her stare probably wasn't directed at me, just the blank stare if someone who has witnessed a tragedy. I've been doing this nearly a hundred years now, and nothing has ever really changed, it's just another day in the life of Death.

This peotry-like story is solemnly dedicated to my great sponsors @Greatwolfman and @Mictorrani you both have really encourage and Inspired me to never give up. And also my dearest colleagues here @FarmGirl and @ThisisGrace21

The second part coming up next time.

Thanks for reading 🤗
Hope you enjoyed the first part,
Leave a comment below 👇if you do.
Hope to see you next time.🙂