|
The Stranger that Beckoned
"Fourth Place 14-17 Category"
By: Emily Garlough | Published: 2011 Mathew was seventy six when he met the man he would spend eternity with. The man he will learn to respect, for many things. Of course, the poor old man could not have known this. Waking up to the sound of early morning birds calling wistfully back and forth and the scent of spring flowers drifting lazily in through the open window, you could almost say Mathew is happy. He stretches his aching joints and considers spending the day in bed. Ignoring that thought before it becomes too alluring Mathew rolls onto his side to gaze at the picture on his nightstand. Smiling painfully his hand brushes over the cool surface of glass, so lifeless compared to the smiling face captured within. The glass is an insult. Mathew stands and waits as a wave of light-headedness passes through him. He steps down into the misty morning air and pulls his thick, wool sweater closer around his thin shoulders. He notices that he is alone on the street but Mathew does not think much of this. Young people do sleep as if they have nothing to do. He rubs his dull green eyes. But wait, his mind thinks slowly, that’s not true. Just up the street, between the generic houses of his neighbourhood, a young man stands; his long legs shoulder width apart and his arms at his sides. He stands casually, like he’s waiting for a friend. Mathew swears at himself. He could have sworn the young man was not there only a moment before. The young man waves and gestures to Mathew. Confused and more curious than he will admit, Mathew slowly approaches. “Hello.” The man says, his voice soft and quiet. “Hello, pleasant morning.” “I suppose.” The man answers, staring right into Mathew’s eyes. A soft gust of wind brushes past the pair. In worn jeans and a grey t-shirt the man is ordinarily dressed, but, in Mathew’s opinion, too thinly covered for the crisp air. “Can I help you?” Mathew asks, catching the cold, faded scent of the man’s cologne. “What is it that you miss the most?” the man’s eyes are hard, almost glaring. “I don’t understand.” “What do you miss?” Mathew considers walking away but the man looks so … searching. “My wife.” He finally says. “Would you be happy to see her again?” “Of course.” Appearing discomforted, the man lowers his eyes and inspects the cement as if it has become very interesting. “What is that like? To love- to miss- someone?” Mathew bites his bottom lip, considering this man’s mental state. Feeling obliged to answer with the truth, Mathew says, “When she passed it was like I did as well. She was my life’s purpose. I’ve forgotten what it means to want to live.” The man frowns, his chapped lips cracking, “It couldn’t be prevented.” Indignant, Mathew says, “Of course it could have! If that woman had been paying attention her car would not have slammed into ours!” “Maybe. The woman died as well.” It’s more of a statement than a question. Trembling, Mathew glares at the man and moves to walk around him. The man’s arm swings out to block his way. “I need to show you something.” “What makes you think I-“ “You must.” The man takes Mathew’s hand and gently pulls him along. Something makes Mathew reluctant to put up a fight. The man’s hand is soft and smooth against his own. The pair enter a small park that consists of a grass field and a small playground. Mathew’s eyes grow hot and his vision becomes blurry. “Do you remember this place? You met your wife here. She was sixteen and you were eighteen.” Mathew remembers, a proud boy he was, puffed up, strutting around a girl that could have easily ignored him. The man tilts his head curiously and studies Mathew. “I remember exactly what she was wearing that day…” Mathew says, his mind travelling back to that day and the many days that followed. “Why?” the man asks. “Love remembers everything.” “Everything.” The man echoes, “I do not understand.” Mathew does not stop to think how odd this conversation with a stranger is, for his mind is so desperate for ears to listen. “I left her. Now she is alone.” Mathew mutters, kicking the ground and exposing the wet soil beneath. “She left you.” The man corrects. Mathew’s hands clench into fists, “You know nothing if that’s what you think.” The man studies Mathew’s hostility with interest. “You would lash out at the one responsible?” He asks. “She was my life!” Mathew spits at the man’s feet, “I would kill.” The man pulls at his shirt uncomfortably, “Mathew, do you know who I am?” “No.” he says, and stops, his anger dripping out of him like sweat. He does know who this strange young man is. He has faced him once before. When his wife died. “You are Death.” “Mathew, it is your time.” “May I ask you something?” “Yes.” “Why did you make me remember?” “I am Death, I do not know love. Emotions are nothing to me, but I want to know. I want to know what I am missing.” “Strange thing you are, Death,” Mathew says, “wanting love.” “What you call strange I call emptiness.” Mathew watches Death as he walks over to the swing set and places a hand on one of the metal poles, studying the cold surface. “Will I see my wife?” Mathew asks. Death does not take his eyes off the metal, “I cannot know.” Death finally turns away from the playground and extends one of his perfect, pale hands towards Mathew. “Walk with me, I still have many questions.” Mathew smiles at the man he will spend eternity with, the man who had so effortlessly brought down his entire world and now led him to a new one. The birds no longer sing but Mathew’s voice sings out the story of his life, the story of his love.
"Thank you so much! I am very proud of this story and I am glad someone else enjoyed it!" - Emily Garlough
|
