Part 1: Denial
The officer was trying to tell me something, but his words were seemingly muffled. I looked at him quizzically, as if squinting my eyes would help me to hear better. Still no improvement, but there was something in those words that were battering me, hitting me in my core. Shaking my head, I tried to collect my thoughts, but they lay scattered at my feet. Nothing was making sense and to add insult to injury, my knees decided to give out on me, to join my thoughts on the floor. Hot tears ran down my cheeks, though I couldn’t understand why. Probably just wanted to be with all the other parts of me on the floor.
“Hey now, I know I’m no looker like you’re used to, but c’mon man. No need to just give up on life like that!” There was someone else now in my house, his feet stepping all over my thoughts. I gave up on trying to collect them and looked up at him. I couldn’t see his face beneath the large black hood he wore, and he had a grey duffle bag stuffed to the brim over his shoulder. A scythe lay over the other shoulder, it’s edge honed to a razors point. Stepping over me, he turned and closed the door in the officer’s face, rather harshly, chuckling at the indignant look on the officer as he stared at a now closed door.
Tossing his bag onto my couch, he assessed the living room from beneath his cowl. “I’ve seen worse, but this will do nicely for now. Do you have any hard boiled eggs?”
My knees gave up their love affair with the floor and I staggered upright. “What? Hard boiled eggs?” He threw himself down beside his bag and put his feet up on the coffee table, letting out a little belch. His shoes were the only part of him really visible, and he was wearing classic blue high top converse.
“Yeah, essence of life, meets the reality of death and yadda yadda yadda. Irony in a delicious little shell!” He moved his hand in a so-on and so-on sort of manner as he talked, orchestrating his scattered demeanor into some semblance of actual communication. Pulled from my catatonic state I went to the kitchen, grabbed a pot and began to make the hard boiled eggs.
“I’m sorry, who are you exactly?” I peered over the divide from the kitchen to the living room at him, as he brought out a phone and began scrolling through it, nodding along to whatever he was reading. Every once in awhile he would type something, nod his head a few more times, then go back to scrolling.
“Huh? Oh, do I really need to say it?” He gestured to the black robe covering his entire body from my view, and the scythe, which was still on his back. It had cut into my couch, and I could see some stuffing starting to spill out, a strong contrast of white against the black leather.
“I guess not, but why are you here? I mean, I have so many questions.” The water had neared its boiling point, tiny bubbles running to the top of the water, looking for respite from the heat. He wagged his finger at me without looking up from his phone, making a condescending clucking noise with his tongue.
“Really? You’re going start off with denial? I really wanted something better this time.” With an audible sigh, he dropped his feet to the floor with a loud thump and picked up his bag. “Where’s my room?”
“Down the hall and on your right. Just past the bathroom.” With a groan, he stretched his shoulders and carried his bag to the room. I pulled the boiling water and eggs off the burner and put it to cool. My mind and heart were racing, hands shaking uncontrollably. It had to be a lie. No one I knew had died. I felt like I had been handed a puzzle and told that a surprise for me would be spelt out with its completion. However, the surprise was apparently death, so I didn’t want to finish the puzzle whatsoever.
“Here.” With a bony tap on the shoulder, he was back and he handed me a bottle of scotch. The label read ‘Lagavulin 16 Year’, one I was not familiar with at all. “Trust me,” he continued, “it helps to numb the pain once it sets in. There’s a reason you see this all the time in the movies.” He went and drained the eggs, doused them in cold water and began to peel them. I went, grabbing two glasses and pouring large amounts of the scotch into each. I handed the first to him and gulped down the second. It went down smoothly and I poured another immediately, as large as the first.
“So what do I call you? Death?” I leaned back against the counter top in the kitchen as I watched hardboiled eggs disappear beneath his hood in a single bite. As he processed my question, his back straightened in a hostile way and directed the empty gaze of his hood towards me.
“Death? That’s appropriation of immortal culture you fucking jackass. Do you know how obscene that is? It’s like me calling you cracker. Jesus!” He put down his bowl of eggs angrily and crossed his arms.
“Fuck, I’m sorry man. I had no idea. What do you prefer to be called?” My response incited a snort and a shake of the head.
“I’m just screwing with you, just call me Omega. I’m the last thing most people see.” He took a swig of the scotch and gave it an appraising look. At least, that’s what I assumed he did. There was a great deal of difficulty of telling what exactly his reactions were with the cowl constantly over his face.
The next few hours passed in a blur of alcohol and silence. The monotony was broken with amber liquid quietly gurgling into glasses, then being gulped by us. I was hungry for answers, but was too nervous to ask and made do with getting drunk rapidly, for seemingly little purpose. Then, like a ton of bricks, it thundered into perfect clarity.
“She’s gone isn’t she?” Sullen eyed, I turned to Omega, though I didn’t need any response from him. His solemn presence was enough. Tears formed and rolled down my cheeks silently and I lowered my head too fast to the table and they met with a loud thump. It should’ve hurt, but the pain was completely overpowered by the cacophony of my life breaking apart into a million little pieces. I began to be swept away as the remains of my life became flotsam on the flood that was my emotions. The night blurred into darkness and I swam into the maw of intoxication.