The Drunkard Without A Scythe

“I am Death, and it is I who reap –”
Before he could finish, the poor rickety table under his feet finally give in and collapsed onto the rough wooden floor with a loud crash. Swiftly stuffing the rag into my belt, I hurried to the pile of planks at the centre of the bar. Although disoriented, the man seemed to be alright. I gave him a hand and heaved him up with some effort. The lamps flickered again as another wave of laughter burst out from the handful of customers scattered around. The man, still appearing confused, muttered something that sounded like “thanks”.
“Come on, let’s take a break,” I suggested. He seemed uncertain. “I’ll give you a shot for free.” He nodded and fumbled his way to an empty table nearby; I went back and returned with a glass of whisky, and sat across from him.
“I never carry my scythe around,” he slurred.
“Of course,” I said.
“...Or my cloak,” he continued, apparently not heeding me at all. Or, perhaps, he simply ignored what I said. “I hate those things. But they’ll believe once they see them.”
“Probably,” I replied carelessly as I studied this curious figure in front of me. Under a shaggy head of knotted red hair was a face both young and old; crawling all over his gaunt face where the deep, distinct wrinkles and blurred were the youth and vigour in his pair of half-open eyes… perhaps it was merely the alcohol – or was it something else?
“You know how much it hurts… to be me?” Suddenly looking up from the table and directly at me (or, at least, in my direction), he clumsily pounded on his chest where his heart roughly was; the deep, muffled thumps echoed around the bar. All the other customers have left now, as it was already midnight. The lamps were still flickering.
“Being Death, you mean?” I chuckled. “Yeah, you bet!” Hearing this, the man gave something like a feeble smile. I smiled back.
“You bet,” he repeated. Silence ensued.
“It’s getting late.”
He nodded and heaved himself up after a few tries.
“I’m just gonna check on my old pal,” I said.
“I’ll wait,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Got something to show you.”
I went upstairs and took one last look at the silver-haired bartender, lying peacefully in his bed. My old friend’s soul was already in a world far, far beyond my reach. And there I stood, in silence, for a long, long time.

“So, what is it?” I asked, gently flipping the sign over to “closed”.
“Proof,” he said, ending with a belch. Bemused, I turned around; yet the moment I did, he had already vanished, right beside me, into the midnight mist without a trace.
I froze, before bursting into a dry laugh – for I knew not what to think anymore. Gathering my old cloak and scythe I’d hidden in the firewoods, I, too, like my drunken colleague, departed into the night.

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