“You will come with me.” Death spoke in stentorian tones, standing stiff-shouldered and proud next to my bed.
I was the opposite of proud, lying in a pool of sweat, some spittle too watery to properly be considered vomit drying on the pillow next to my head. I’d been dying for a while, but I wasn’t ready for the end. And I was too weak to go with anyone, especially now. “Can’t. Can’t move.”
Disdain covered Death’s face. “You humans always think that it matters how ruined your body is. I am not here for that rotting sack of meat and bones. You will come with me, not your body.”
I turned my head to look more closely at the being that had come for me. There was no pity there, no excitement. It was just doing a job, after all, and I was the next item on It’s to-do list. I needed more than that, though, here at the end. “Could you ask me, instead of telling me?”
“Why does it matter? You are dead, and you will come with me.”
“I will. I know. But so much has been taken from me the last few months. My hope. My strength. I had no choice but whether to die quickly or linger. All of my life was about my death. I’d like to feel, here at the end, that I still matter. Somehow.”
Death paused. Considering. Then It nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Will you come with me?”