Mortuus was frantically searching for his pen amidst the shattered glass and entangled bindings. Finally, with relief, he found it and inhaled deeply, feeling the addictive substance fill his lungs.
"I see you have not changed, Mortuus, or should I say your real name?" Death's voice rose from the dark and seemed to surround him.
Mortuus wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but he knew better than to ask. Death wasn't much of a talker; when he was, he spoke in cryptic messages and sarcastic replies.
"Peter may have been me, but we are not the same anymore," He remarked with a hint of disdain as a trail of smoke escaped his lips.
Mortuus felt detached from his old self. Peter Morgan didn't feel like the right name for himself.
Death raised his scythe and forcefully struck it against the ground, causing Mortuus to catch a glimpse of himself within the blade.
"I sometimes forget why I wear these," Mortuus said solemnly as he watched his reflection, hanging his head with a sigh as he stared.
As Death watched, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Why do you hide your face, child?" He asked Mortuus, sympathy hanging in his voice.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared ahead with a blank expression—smoke from the weed he had been smoking lingered in the air, dissipating in wispy puffs.
He was torn between revealing his scars and continuing to conceal them as his mind battled with the decision.
No one had seen his face since that night he ended The Stitcher. Only he and Micheal knew what his face was like.
Mortuus reached behind his head with a trembling hand, carefully unwinding the bandages.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to go through with this. Was the world ready to see the horror that was behind the mask?
As each layer peeled away, a sickly green hue was revealed, accompanied by a putrid odor that permeated the room. Below the wraps was a face of trauma and suffering. At the center were eyes that didn't match the horror scene of the rest of the face.
His jawbone was visible through the skin and shredded muscle. It wasn't a face. It was a bloody splotch of skin and muscle. Like old clay thrown into a blender with a juicy rotten steak and served with a pimple juice reduction.
Mortuus's eyes were like two bright emeralds in a sea of blood. They held so much emotion without him saying anything. It was the one thing about Peter Morgan that remains.
"Peter... You poor child..." Death held Mortuus's hand in his bony grip; he was too shocked to speak.
Even after seeing the horrors of World War Two and World War One, Death was stunned by the level of brutality that was displayed on the face of his friend.
Mortuus got off the bed, leaned down, and reached for a box under his bed. He proceeded to blow dust off the top and rub his hand over the metal top.
It was a plain barf green box, probably military. In the middle was a red plus. He opened the box and found fresh white gauze inside.
Although it seemed excessive, he had a valid reason for requiring so many. He did a lot of manual labor and often tore his bandages, so having extras was very important for him.
He moved over to the mirror beside his bed. Its shattered surface still allowed him to see what he was doing.
Its splintered surface reflected his face back at him. It seemed fitting that the mirror was shattered, almost as if it were showing his soul.
He watched himself in the mirror as he rewrapped. He covered his eyes, something most people found weird.
Somehow, whenever Mortuus had the compresses over his face, he could see everything around him as if he were in the third person.
It was an unusual thing, for sure, but it had its moments. For example, when he was working on fixing a house, a townsperson came up behind him.
Most people would have jumped with fear if someone just seemed to appear behind them but Mortuus never had to worry about that since he could see them walking up.
He finished wrapping and tied the gauze in a knot. He tugged it and checked to make sure it wasn't loose.
Mortuus sighed to himself. "Sometimes I just want to feel the sun on my face, Death."
Death nodded, "I've long since forgotten how that feels. I miss it too."
"Guess we're both stuck in a limited world." Mortuus said.
Death shook his head. "I do not regret this, Mortuus." He paused for a second, remembering the beauty he'd seen over the millennia. "I may be unable to feel the sun, but nothing would make me give up being able to see the full spectrum of colors in this world."
Mortuus looked at Death, confused. Could Death really see the spectrum beyond human sight?
"You humans, think that the world is black and white, but you cannot see that it is filled to the brim with colors that only the mentally ill seem to comprehend. " Death explained, his hands moving as he spoke.
"Some live their entire life without knowing what the beauty is..." Death seemed to reminisce on the lives he'd watched "while others spend it trying to show others."
Death crossed his arms, "Do you know what both these lives share in common, Mortuus? "
Mortuus shook his head. He couldn't possibly think of what it was.
"Both wasted their lives in the persute of a meaning without the knowledge that they had a meaning of their own."
Mortuus nodded. It finally made sense why no one could answer the meaning of life. It was an answer that could only be defined by the individual.
"What is my meaning, Death?" Mortuus asked. Death shrugged.
"I do not know. Nor could I begin to understand it. God gave you life, but you give it meaning."63Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqoPIXqnVD6
