I hate Mondays. I see little kids begging to their parents not to go to school on Mondays. Their parents dread going to work on Mondays, but fortunately all they have to do is sit behind a desk for a couple of hours and then they go home. People think they have it tough, they should hear about my Mondays.
I feel cold, I always feel cold but this temperature I felt was something different. There was a sinister presence on how frigid the air it was. There were puddles all across the floor but it wasn’t raining, must’ve been raining the night before. I always take solace hearing the hearing raindrops trouncing on pavements as the alabaster moon brings light into my somber world. I look up at what I like to call my second home, the hospital. As I gaze up on the brick red sign I noticed the redness of the “H” began to fade to a pale crimson. All of a sudden an ambulance flashed behind me. I simply sighed, I didn’t pray and I didn’t hope for the best all I did was acknowledge that someone was in there and walked to the front door of the hospital.
They were in the CCU I truly didn’t know what to expect it’s always different. As I walked down the corridors I turn my head at visitors waiting, praying and crying, possibly for their loved ones hoping they walk out this building breathing. In most cases, they don’t. I never dampen to people nor do I liberate them of what will happen to the people they love. I kept things to myself it was my job, no one else’s. I read their names Anne and Carla Graham a mother and her daughter. Families those were the worst ones, always were. The mother was in room 4F and it was my next destination.
As I made way to my next location two things entered my mind. One, what could have happened to this woman and two why did it happen. I could have guessed what had happened but as I entered the room I saw the CSI and the police outside the door, questioning witnesses and probably loved ones of the deceased woman. I saw her on the bed a middle aged woman hooked up on wires trying to keep her alive, eventually it will be all to no avail, they were too late. I heard the all too familiar sound of a flatline next to her bed. I left the room and let the doctors and nurses tend to her, as predicted the doctors were unsuccessful.
When I examined the body, I noticed some bruises on her arms and face, this suggests a violent assault. I noticed something else too, her ring finger it was mostly tanned except a ring around the bottom was pale as snow she must have been married. Next to her lifeless body there was a clipboard at the end of her bed with a piece of paper on it stating that the woman was named Anne Graham a mother of one daughter, Carla and as predicted her husband, Trevor Graham. Poor guy lost his wife in a blink of an eye. It’s not right, it’s never right but as always it’s my job. I can stay here and dwell on this one as long as I want, but there is another next door. Mondays are always busy.
Carla Graham. She looked about 13 or 14 years old. She was 5 foot 7 inches tall. She had chocolate brown hair with ocean blue eyes. I bet she had a happy life, well before I found her. She was lying on her bed she looked so calm but didn’t look peaceful, I can’t quite understand it myself but what I do understand is that this girl was killed in a manner that I don’t want to begin to imagine. She had two Smith and Wesson wounds found on her chest. You can see the bloody wounds past her gown. The polka-dotted garb was stained by her blood like a fine baby blue carpet with red wine spilled over.
There was so much potential in that husk of a body. She had so many wonders to experience so many challenges to face. She’ll never get married start her own family and die surrounded by her loved ones as she dies as an old woman who lived her whole life as a human being. However that’s not how this world works, and this is the world they live in now. When will this accursed day end?
The next name on my list surprised me. It had not been there moments before. Written next to the name was an address. It wasn’t far from the hospital, so I walked, as in a dream, until I reached the rundown apartment.
The door of apartment 21B was ajar, so I pushed my way in, as silent as a ghost, and paused to observe the scene in front of me. On the floor, covered in thick, brown, congealing blood lay a Smith and Wesson gun, a common sight to my weary eyes. Beside it, lying in the puddle of sticky brown that seemed to cover everything, were two bulging suitcases.
From my left came a muffled wail. I crept towards the source of the noise, silent and unobserved as always. In what once must have been a grand sitting room, stands an alone stranger, staring into his hands. I hear the murmured words from the Bible, as I have a thousand times, just as the hunched figure steps off the table.
The sloppily tied noose tightens around his thick neck, and as his face turns from purple to blue he sees me, as they always do. Then his eyes glaze over, lost in a memory, and his limbs go slack. As I begin to turn away, the ring which he clenched so tightly clatters to the ground.
Suicides always unnerve me. I, unlike so many people, do not think of a suicide as being committed. I, from my many years of observation, know that it, like all other deaths, simply happens. It cannot be controlled.
I wander the streets for the rest of the day, as I do every day. Alone. However as I wander, I wonder. I wonder about the two women, one of them really just a girl, and why they had to go so soon. I wonder about the two bags in the dreary apartment. I wonder why the first two victims shared a name with the third. And I wonder about the slight, gold band that fell as the man did with a message inscribed reading, “To my one and always my love ‘til death do us part, -Anne” Mondays are the worst.
Today wasn’t one of my better days. But then again it’s difficult to have a good one when you’re in my line of work. I went to the morgue to look at a few more deaths, there had only been a couple of more after the three I dealt with. Nothing major just old mortals reaching their inevitable ends. Inevitable, I wonder when I reach my end.
You get a bad reputation when you do what I do. I’m used to it now though, relatives screaming and praying and pleading on their knees praying that their loved ones were still alive. There’s really nothing anyone can do once I arrive unfortunately.
As I lurk around the shadows of the night my mind kept wandering back to the man who had killed his family and then himself. He had left no sign as to why he had shot them. Their home looked perfectly normal and pleasant, which I know has nothing to do with it but still. Their souls weighed heavily on my conscience, but how else am I supposed to survive? Being Death isn’t easy you see, to survive I have to sit around and wait for people to die. This is no way to live, relying on the deaths of others. Although I do provide a bit of a service.
If I didn’t do what I do there wouldn’t be loss, without loss people can never truly love. You see if mortals lose someone they love only then their true love is shown, when they realise how much mortals miss the ones they love.
If absence makes the heart grow fonder. Then death makes the heart shrink for a while and sprout to the heavens for eternity. I hate Mondays.
The End.
DEAD657Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt2ihmMD2mb
