A Date With Deathson

• Sarah Dalman, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2018

I hurry out the door, otherwise I would be late for school. I speed off in my little car, only caring about how late I am going to be. I fix my makeup in the rear vision mirror, not looking at the road. A strange feeling of uneasiness hits me. I freeze as I notice that I have drifted into the other lane. Sitting on top of the car quickly moving towards me is a cloaked man. My heart is pounding in my ears and my hands are gripped to the steering wheel. Suddenly a sleeved hand takes over the wheel and the car is now safely at the side of the road. I look over to find a teen-aged boy around my age with a curtain of black hair covering most of his face.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” The hooded teen sighs.
“You - you saved my life,” I say stunned.
“I have to,” he shrugs and then he disappears.
Later that day, when I wake up from a bad dream, the shadowy figure looms over my bed. A smaller figure materializes.
“No, father,” the smaller one whispers. I can faintly make out the familiar hoodie of the boy that saved my life earlier.
“The book says she is to be collected today,” a deeper, raspy voice speaks, “you stopped me before, you can't stop me again.”
“Who are you?” My voice comes out quiet and wobbly, so it doesn't surprise me when they don't acknowledge that I just spoke. There is a blinding glisten of something in the tall ones hand.
The teen grabs the arm of the long one. “Please don't collect her father, please don't. Her father has already lost his wife,” he whispers.
“What has gotten into you, Azrael?” The raspy voice says “whose side are you on?”
I fumble for my light switch and the light fills the room, revealing a tall cloaked man with a contrasting pale face and a shorter, familiar male with a dark hoodie and black hair covering most of his sculpted face. “Now you woke her,” the cloaked man growls. “You realise that I will have to collect her sometime.”
“Leave her alone father, she is too young,” Azrael snaps back.
With a puff of smoke, the cloaked man is gone.
“Who are you?” My voice is still shaky as I shrink under the covers.
“I am Azrael Deathson, and that was my father Death. Not many people see him and live,” Azrael runs his pale hands through his dark hair. So 'collecting' must mean killing.
“Why me? Why did you spare me from getting 'collected'?” I ask.
“I have been watching you, Amber, since your mother died,” he sits crossed legged on my bed, I slide further away from him, he notices this, “you don't have to be afraid, I am on your side.”
"What if he comes back?" I ask.
His black eyes stare into my amber colour ones, "I will be here with you all night."