Death Becomes You

He weaved between the dense crowd of people gathering, watching, praying. Nothing about this man seemed real; his short, dark, curly hair; beautiful storm cloud eyes; slumped shoulders; and his novel like lanky form. Da Vinci must've painted him once, though no one knew it because his face wasn't easily recognizable, never noticed, never seen. Today, he wore chiseled features with a high forehead and thick brows. Tomorrow would change his features, but today he liked the way he looked.

The long black trench coat whipped in the wind his agile movements created; that same wind caused the on lookers' skin to prickle. They pulled their coats tighter around their shoulders and shivered lightly, but no one ventured a glance toward the stranger. All eyes focused on the cruel, unexplainable scene on the ground before the crowd. He moved in a whisper to the front of the crowd where he found what he had come for. A woman in her late fifties with graying hair and sagging diamond eyes lay crumpled in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. Her body writhed with the shock of its blood loss while retched gurgling moans poured from her mouth.

Another woman, with the same face as the one on the ground paced back and forth about three feet from the horrific sight of the body fighting for its life, but there was no use fighting anymore. The pacing woman’s opaque body slowly grew translucent in the heat of the penetrating sun. No one noticed the panic in her fading eyes or the way she chewed her fingernail beds. The crowd busied itself with the writhing, gurgling woman on the ground with the bloody hole in her stomach and ignored the panicking lady.

He made his way to her side, blocking the pacing woman’s view of her writhing body. She looked into his eyes reluctantly before the world faded around her. Bright lights engulfed her. His dark clothes against the brightness made it hard to focus while the tears blurred her vision. "You have to help me!” She screamed, “I was shot.” Her voice was high and strained. Panic must've set into her bones as the gurgling stopped and a slow stream of blood trickled down the side of her mouth because she paced faster. The tremors racking her body ceased as her muscles gave up the war and her floating figure stopped.

He took both her hands between his and rubbed calming circles on the back of them. Those stormy eyes locked onto the woman's dark chocolate eyes, and without moving his lips he whispered, "shush, the pain is gone now.” His voice was low, deep, and smooth like a swift flowing river. The woman's eyes went wide with realization; she disappeared from the crowd and stood in a blinding white room. He squeezed her hand to regain her attention before he continued speaking. "You saved a child last month from a gang initiation, but you shunned Mary-Ellen when you were 18 years old because you thought she was prettier than you.” His voice didn't rise or falter and his eyes remained calm and ferocious at the same time.

"I was young and stupid! She died because I didn't see that she needed a friend.” The woman cried while clutching his hands. This moment had come too soon in her mind. There wasn’t enough time to ask for the forgiveness she needed. Mary-Ellen Summers committed suicide two weeks before the school graduation because the seniors chose to pick on her that year, and Mary wasn’t strong enough to handle it. "Please, please forgive me!” She begged; her voice cracked and tears stained her cheeks. A shimmering golden door appeared on her right and a violent crimson door appeared on her left.

"Your prayer has been accepted. Please choose a door, now.” The man's voice was precise. His eyes unwavering as he stood before her. The choice was hers alone, and he would not help her. "Choose your fate, Evelyn Harris."