Last Call

Sensitive content warning: implied death.

The bar was unusually crowded for a Tuesday night. Billiard balls clanked against pool tables, darts against boards, glasses against countertops. Occasionally, women and men alike whooped whenever games were won. Laughs and hugs were shared as I sat alone, wallowing in the same spot I had been sitting in for hours.

As I nursed my own glass of scotch, I stared at the bruises peeking out from under my sleeves. I tugged my sleeves down hastily as I felt pressure against my shoulder.

Daring to look at who interrupted my self-pitying session, my breath hitched at the sight to the side of me. The person who had slid into the seat next to me was the man himself, Grim, with an ironically aloof look on his skeletal face. For a man who was terrifyingly good at his job, it looked like it pained him the more he had to do it.

I let out a sigh. I knew my time was coming—it had been once my muscles had gotten weaker, my brain foggier, the bruises purpler. But for once, I felt unsure if I was ready. Not like I had much of a choice based on the look his soulless eyes gave. I already knew pleading with the man wouldn’t work—and if it did? Asking for more time would leave me endlessly on edge, waiting for him to return. I was already sick. I didn’t need to get sicker.

No one else seemed to notice the Reaper by my side. No one glanced at the scythe resting against the bar counter or the black cloak hiding the lack of hair. It was as if time stood still between us. The bartender kept making drinks for others, a tired smile on his face as he did what he loved. Occasionally, he would pause his drinkmaking to wipe down his workspace, but otherwise, no one speculated that anything out of the ordinary was going down.

“Last call, everyone!” the bartender announced. Drinkers around the bar groaned and lined up to order their final round.

I looked back at the man next to me with a hopeful smile. I nodded over to the man on the other side of the counter, asking Grim a silent question. One more, for the hell of it?

After a second of silence between us, a raspy word slipped from the inside of his mouth. “Fine. Just one.”

I offered him a relieved smile. “Thank you,” I mouthed to him, not wanting to draw attention to the man of Death himself. “One more?” I raised a glass toward the bartender. “Make it your most expensive scotch, please.”

The bartender slid smoothly over, an elbow resting on the counter. “Most expensive? Finally tired of the cheap shit, huh?”

I laughed before coughing around my own sickness. It had been eating me from the inside out for months now, no matter how hard I tried to will it out from its very existence. “It’s about time,” I answered honestly.

The man shrugged and began pouring scotch into a glass with ice. “You sure you’re supposed to be drinkin’ so much while getting treatment?”

Everyone around town had heard by now. Did it bother me? No. Did I really have room to care, anyway? No.

“Some rules are meant to be broken, I guess,” I caught the glass as he passed it down the counter. I took what little was left of my previous drink and mixed it. As I swirled the glass in a small circle, I heard the restless tip-tap of bones fidgeting. Grim looked bored as he ran a different finger over the curve of the scythe. On the metal, my name was carved at the top. Every few seconds, writing magically appeared on other sections. Apparently, someone named Cathy Calloway was after me. Which meant if I took increasingly slow sips, she would unknowingly have a few minutes to live what was hopefully a better life than mine.

“Tick tock, dude,” Grim muttered, voice almost dusty. “Can’t postpone it forever.”

I laughed around the scotch in my mouth. I licked my lips sluggishly, catching the bead of scotch at the bottom of my lips. The taste had done little to soothe the impending doom I knew was ahead. I only silently wished it would numb any pain that could come.

“One more request,” I spoke as I swallowed the finishing sips.

“What now?” Grim sighed, a skeletal hand running down what used to be his cheek.

“Don’t do it in here.”

He tilted his head to the side, as if weighing his options.

“There are too many people here. Don’t let them witness this.”

“It’s a natural part of life,” Grim tried to counter.

The scythe in his hand carved a new name after Cathy’s. I was now postponing Percy Ramires’ death, too. The kill count on the scythe remained the same, the numbers burning a hole in the back of my head.

“It wouldn’t be a natural part of someone’s life to watch a random man die at the bar.”

Grim scoffed. “You’re lucky I’m not running out of business any time soon,” he muttered, standing up from the barstool.

I stood up as well and dug my wallet out of my pocket. I threw a handful of bills on the counter, since anything of monetary value was worthless to me now. “Outside? My car? My house?” I offered options.

“I was supposed to do it here.” The scythe screeched as he dragged it against the floor, leaving marks invisible to the undying eye.

I trailed behind him as he opened the door, the wind slapping me in the face. I was dying. Actively dying, in the hands of a man I was never supposed to meet so early. “What, you can’t entertain a dying man?”

The scythe continued to leave marks in the cement as we crossed the parking lot. Four new names popped up.

“I have a job to do.”

“I have a life to live.”

“Had.”