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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man is overdue and Death takes it into his own hands.

Submitted: July 21, 2012

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Submitted: July 21, 2012



It wasn't as if he found anything to go by when he noted the scrap metal, no. But it was something; something that could help. The man shambled forwards with a nervous twitch of his body, his eyes sunken and hollow against his taunt skin as his limbs jerkily brought him closer to his destination. Blood encrused the heap of twisted metal infront of him. Infact, there was a lot of blood everwhere; it splatted down the cobblestone floor and even found it's way onto the man himself, sodden against his clothing. There was a small whining sound from the said man, his hand checking up on an almost hidden wound on his side. There was evidence of what seemed to be a violent stabbing, tears in his clothes and strands of flesh hanging between his crooked fingers.
A heavy thud sounded as he dropped to his knees. His bones ached. Everything ached. However instead of collapsing and surrending to death the man reached forward and delicately prised slivers of the metal from the entanglement of scrap. The pieces would do well in making some sort of defence, perhaps if he found some rope to attach it to a pole. Another whine escaped his tar-stained teeth, the sound bordering on inhuman. The delicate line between death and survival was one he was teetering on. Carefully, he attempted to stand. Bones creaked dangerously and his face pulled into a thick grimace, but he managed to get back up. A small relieved laugh wheezed from him, blood specking his lips as he did so. He was a dead man, yes, but a dead man walking. And so far, doing a damn good job of it.
"You are long overdue."
There he was again. The man let out a long huff before stumbling forward at a faster speed, his feet almost tangling with eachother and sending him to the damp ground. He prevailed against gravity but did not manage to outwalk the figure that was trailing behind him.
"Sir, you are injured. You're a goner. You're overdue." In a split second the figure lurched ahead, suddenly head on to the man with his hand outstretched to touch the others shoulder. "Come with me."
"Screw you, deathman." It hurt to so much as speak, his vocal chords haggard and flaring up in agony when he attempted to put them to use, letting out a croaking sound before he was bent over in a coughing fit; it felt like his ribs were being ripped up out through his throat. He must've barely sounded human.
Death watched in silence until the other manages to straighten up. Or rather, until the ragged figure had the ability to breathe normally. The man must be no older than twenty-five, however grey streaked his hair and light wrinkles adorned his face, specks of crimson showing amidst crooked and yellowing teeth. His back was crooked, stooped as if he had been snapped forwards and was unable to get back up, one arm slung around himself as more blood seeped from the wound that had brought Death here. "I can end this pain for you."
"And what? Take my soul? Deathman, I ain't got one."
"Take your everything. It is my job."
"It's yo' lucky day then, righ'? You got all this death coming in left, right and centre."
Death put out an arm as the man almost tumbled forwards, allowing the other to cling onto his arms with desperation. Death was a sickly looking figure, his skin drained of colour and the same with his hair; it was an empty white, his eyes a dull red against the grey robes that hung from his frame. His thin lips upturned into a small half-smile. "I don't like my job very much. I'm not considered a greatest of omens."
"Well. You're taking me to a 'better place' though, righ'?"
"No." Deaths' smile dropped slightly. He took a small pause, before looking around and allowing himself a more natural smile at the carnage around him. "But it's better than this shithole."
"Bring it." Was the gruff reply.
Death smiled for the last time. The dead man walking walked no more.

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