Death's Special Brew

“It’s alright, child.” I flick the kettle off before the noise can startle the little girl sitting at my counter. Wrinkled hands grip ceramic as I slide two onto the tabletop. The water comes gushing out, poured slowly with a practiced hand.

“What about mama?” the girl asks, her tiny voice echoing through the room. “What about papa, brother, and sister?”

“It’s alright, child,” I repeat. “Now, what would you like? How about a nice cup of peppermint?”

The girl looks up with shining eyes. I look down at the steaming water, opening a bag and dropping a couple of leaves in. They swirl slowly, then rest on the bottom and dissolve. “But I don’t like tea,” the girl protests, folding her arms.

I smile, wrinkles folding on my face. “This cup is special.” I slide it over the counter, careful not to spill a drop. The girl takes it, lifting it to her nose. For my own cup, I add some honey. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“It smells like them,” she says, wonder in her eyes.

“I told you it was special,” I add, sipping from my cup. “Let it cool down a little,” I caution, as the girl’s hand recoils from the hot mug.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asks, glancing around the kitchen. I watch her curiously, out of eyes that should be too old to see from. It should be the same. Picture on the far wall, hanging slightly crooked on its hook. Dishes left sitting out. Chair turned at a sharp angle.

“Before you drink,” I say, stopping her from picking up the mug. “Would you tell me your name?”

The girl gets a faraway look in her eyes as she stares out the window. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t quite—” she pauses, running a hand along the marble countertop. “Wait! I remember. My name is Leah.”

My cup is halfway empty. The honeyed water turns in slow circles. “And could you tell me the last thing you remember?”

Leah clutches her head, ripping at her hair. Her eyes are deep pools filled with electricity. Like butterfly tea. She screams, and my eyes flick up as the picture hanging slightly crooked on the wall rights itself.

“Leah.” I draw out her name. “Let’s start a different way. Think of a smell.”

Leah peeks out at me from behind the curtain of her hair. “A smell?” Her eyes close, and she leans backward off the stool. “Perfume. I can smell it!”

I nod, slightly impressed. “Who has it on?”

I take another sip and bristle. I could really go for a cup of chamomile. Leah’s eyes fly open, and her hands start to wave around. “Leah, the tea! Careful.”

The girl does not calm down, staring at me like she is possessed. “Mama! Mama, mama, mama. I want my mama. Where is she? What did you do with her? Give her back! Give my mama back!”

I close my ears to her wails, inwardly sighing. Behind me, the dishes disappear. “Child, calm your body. I am not the one to blame.”

She hisses and spits at me, eyes steeping to black tea. I do not move, raising the mug once again to my lips. “I understand what you are going through. I do this every day, child. Have to remember names, so many names. I will do all I can to stop your suffering. But if you disrespect me further than you already have, nothing good will come from it.”

Leah still will not meet my eyes. That is fine with me. She says something, and I have to shift closer to her. My hearing is starting to deteriorate. “Speak louder, child,” I command, and she flinches back.

I regret my harsh words, but I only have so much time. My tea has but a couple of inches left. “Leah.” My voice is soft, and I raised a wrinkled hand to pat her arm. She allows me, and I reward her with a bright smile. “What do you remember? Please. This is important.”

“I remember mama,” she starts, in a haunted tone. “I remember her holding my hand, and she was shouting something. She was shouting at me to run. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to leave her. Then the bad people came. I was asking for Mama, but they took her. Then there was something bright. Someone grabbed me, but the brightness took it away. It was very hot, like the tea you gave me. I think it was an angel.”

“Do you know where you are, Leah?” I ask out of curiosity.

The girl’s eyes ping to each corner of the room. “M-My kitchen?”

The corners of my lips curl up. “Very good.”

She relaxes, resting her arms on the counter. Her eyes warm to milk tea.

“Is Mama coming back?” she asks hesitantly. The chair beside her corrects itself from its previous sharp angle.

“Why don’t you have a drink of your tea. I’m sure it's cool enough now.” I set my own mug on the counter. One sip's worth of tea rests within.

Leah picks the mug up in her tiny hands. She brings it slowly to her mouth and takes a tiny sip. Her eyes flutter as she drinks more of the heavenly liquid.

“It turns out that you do like tea, after all,” I chuckle.

“I like this one,” she says between sips.

“Do you know who I am, child?” I ask, again out of curiosity.

Leah pauses, her eyes squinting with confusion. “A friend?”

I shake my head slowly, the girl nothing but a blur in my eyes. Her voice becomes muffled. Only the sharp scent of peppermint cuts through the haze.

She says something and looks at me expectantly. “I’m sorry, peppermint.” I croak out, my voice a hushed whisper. “Our time is up.”

She tilts her head to the side, fear beginning to light up her chamomile eyes. Her mouth opens. But all I can hear is the sound of water gushing, led by a practiced hand.

“Do you know who I am, peppermint?” I ask again, words barely scraping out of my throat.

She shakes her head, dropping the mug to the floor. It shatters upon impact with the ground, wet ceramic flying everywhere.

“It’s alright, child,” I say with the last of my strength. She falls to the floor, eyes wide and dilated. Betrayal shines in her earl grey eyes. The peppermint scent fades away as she collapses. Then, she stares unseeing at the ceiling.

They call me Death. And I’m afraid Death can only live for so long. I try to speak, but my mouth won’t move. Centuries I’ve done this, too many to count.

It’s alright, child.

It’s alright, peppermint.

Peppermint.

Tea.

Mug.

Poisoned leaves.

Peppermint.

I’m sorry, Leah.

Pass on in peace.

Wrinkled hands release cold flesh as Death returns to her realm.

This cup is special, I will tell the next child.

Now, how about a nice mug of peppermint?