One Good Thing

I felt a weight near my feet, at the end of my bed. At first, I thought it was a dream and slowly opened my eyes. The room was dark - it was the middle of the night. The remnants of the dream still clung to me, and despite the darkness, I could make out a shadowy figure sitting on the edge of the bed, right beside my feet.

“Who are you?” I cried, pulling my legs toward me and scrambling backward on the bed. Is it a dream? I wondered, trying to figure out whether I was awake. The figure didn’t move. I turned my head this way and that, trying to see it from a different angle. It had happened before - I’d mistaken a basketball or clothes rack for some looming creature. Usually, it was easy to realize my mistake. But this time, there was no mistake. It wasn’t a clothes rack. There was a figure there.

Horror paralyzed me. My mouth went dry.

“Who are you?” I cried again, my voice unsteady. I slowly extended my hand toward the small cabinet beside the bed. Inside, I kept a small metal rod - a relic of a more paranoid time, when I feared someone might break into my house and slaughter me. I couldn’t fall asleep back then, so a friend suggested I keep something for self-defense nearby. “If someone comes, you’re one swing away from cracking his skull”, he said. As silly as it sounded, it put my mind at ease, and let me rest. From then on, I slept soundly. Of course, I never actually used the rod.

I felt the cold metal, and it steadied me. One swift swing – a fierce blow aimed where the figure’s head should be – and that would be it. He’d be done.

“Don’t,” the figure said in a deep male voice, “Don’t do it.”

In the same instant, I grabbed the rod and swung it with all my strength. The blow should have crashed its head – but the rod passed straight through as if it was made of shadow. It struck the bed. I thought I had missed, it was dark after all. I raised the rod again and struck once more. Again, it went through. Again, it hit the bed. I swung again. And again. I gasped for breath, my arms burning with the effort. I dropped the rod. It slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a sharp metal clatter.

“What...” I choked out. “Who… who the hell are you? What is this?”

“Sit for a moment. Calm down,” he said. He glanced around, then added, “Shall we turn on the light?”

I didn’t answer. Who was he? What did he want?

He didn’t wait for my response. He made a swift motion with his hand, and the light in the room flicked on.

I blinked frantically in the dazzling light. In front of me, on the edge of my bed, sat someone who looked like a man. He was dressed in black, a hood pulled over his head. I couldn’t see his face. The mere fact that a stranger was sitting on my bed in the middle of the night sent chills down my spine. And then there were all the other impossibilities – the rod that passed through him, the light that had turned on by itself. For a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming – if I was trapped in some especially deep dream, unable to wake up.

“That’s better,” he said. “Darkness has its charm, but I think it’s better if you can see me. You may find it less frightening.”

It wasn’t less frightening. I was on edge. I didn’t know who this lunatic was who had burst into my home in the middle of the night, but I was sure nothing good would come of it. I had to run. I had to get out of there. I shot a quick glance at the door, tried to assess how long it would take to get there, unlock it, and run.

He noticed my glance and said, “You wouldn’t make it. And you have no reason to. There’s nothing out there for you.” He sighed. “I think it’s about time I explain, who I am and why I’m here.”

I thought I was losing my mind. I sat as far from him as I could, hugging my legs, trying to make myself smaller - trying to disappear. I couldn’t hit him. I couldn’t run. There was not much left for me to do, except pray. But I had never believed in prayer, so I just folded into myself and waited.

He pulled the hood back from his head. I saw man - not young – his face twitched in an attempt at a smile. He extended a bony hand and said:

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’m the angel of death.”

I let out a harsh, broken laugh, then fell silent. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I don’t have any money. I don’t own anything worth taking. Take whatever you want - just leave me alone.”

“I don’t need money,” he sighed, “That’s not why I’m here. I told you – I’m the angel of death.”

He paused. “You do know what that means, don’t you?”

I was sure he was messing with me - some kind of insane killer toying with me bfor he finished the job.

“Wait, I have proof,” he said, drawing a large scythe from beneath his cloak. The blade gleamed before my eyes.

I recoiled in panic.

“Oh, don’t be afraid. It’s for show. I don’t use it. Not anymore, at least.” He studied the blade with quiet fondness.

“Who… who are you? What do you want from me?” I asked trembling.

“I told you. I’m the angel of death. The reaper. The collector of souls. The final visitor. That’s me.”

“That’s why I couldn’t hit you? That’s why you turned on the light without even touching the switch?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded.

“So… I guess you’re here to take me.”

He nodded again.

I swallowed hard. I tried to take it in. The angel of death. Who would have believed it was real.

“So, I’m going to die.”

“Actually, you’re already dead,” he said. “The state you’re in now is – how shall I put it – a kind of passage between life and death. But you’re no longer alive. It’s over. And contrary to what some believe, there’s no going back. It’s final.”

“I’m dead,” I echoed, trying to take it in. “What did I die of?”

“Um… just a moment, I don’t remember,” he said, pulling something from his sleeve that looked like a tablet. He scrolled for a moment, then said “Ah, here you are. It’s written: ‘Aneurysm in the carotid artery’. Quick death - clean, painless. You were asleep. You were fortunate, in a way,” the twitch returned – his version for a smile.

I relaxed, just a little. Despite everything, I began to believe. What choice did I have? It’s not as if I could do anything about it. I looked around the room, trying, in a childish way, to say goodbye to everything I knew.

“Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “So what happens now? Aren’t you supposed to take me somewhere?”

He sighed again. “Look, it’s a rather rare situation. Usually, the angel of death - which is me - doesn’t come to each and every person personally. You can imagine how much work that would be. And despite my powers, it’s still impossible. Most of the time, people just die and vanish, and that’s all. No ceremonies, no procedures.” He glanced briefly at his tablet and went on. “But there are some exceptions. You can call it ‘regulation’, you can call it ‘quality assurance’ - whatever you like. One in a million is chosen to receive a personal visit from me.”

“Once in a million? A visit from you?” I repeated dumbly.

“Yes, they choose someone at random, and I have to take them personally. And you were chosen. Congratulations.” The same twisted smile again.

“Thanks for the honor,” I said dryly. “I’m truly touched. You said I’m not alive anymore. But I’m not among the dead either. What am I, then?”

“You’re in between,” he said. “Soon you’ll be transferred to the world of the dead. And there, you’ll begin the rest of your life – if one can still call it that. But there’s something else. The one in a million we chose – receives a bonus.”

“Ah-ah”, I said, with a hint of irony. “Another gift, besides a visit from the angel of death!”

He didn’t look like he had much of a sense of humor.

“Yes. Under these regulations, you’re given a chance to fix one thing in your life. You can choose a single moment you regret and change it. I’ll take you to any point in your past that you choose. You’ll tell me what to do - I’ll fix it, and then we get the hell out of here.”

It kept getting weirder by the moment, I thought. As if it wasn’t weird enough already.

“Excuse me for asking, Mr… um, Death, but why would I care about things I’ve done in the past? Why should I correct anything? I’m dead, am I not? And you said it yourself – it’s irreversible. Whatever I do won’t change that.”

“That’s correct,” he said. “And if you’re asking me, it may seem useless. But what can I tell you, there are those who argue that it makes the process easier. It becomes more bearable when you know you’ve corrected something wrong you did.”

“And what if I don’t want to fix anything?” I asked.

“Don’t you have anything to correct?” he said, “I doubt that.”

“No, no,” I said. “On the contrary – I have far too many things to correct. But I’m asking – purely theoretically – what if I don’t want to? What if I exercise my right to remain silent and refuse to cooperate?”

“In this case, I’ll be forced to classify you as a hostile dead. It has certain… unpleasant consequences. You really don’t want that. Try to trust me on this.”

I didn’t trust him. On the other hand, I didn’t think I was in a position to argue with - or resist - the angel of death.

“I’m waiting - try to hurry,” he urged. “We have some time, but not much. Eventually we’ll have to go.”

“Okay, okay, let me think for a moment,” I said. I tried to run through all the wrong things I’d done in my life. All the people I’d hurt, all the times I’d disappointed someone, all the sorrow I’d caused.

“Here - I think I’ve found something,” I said. “There was Sivan.”

“Who was Sivan?"

“She was a girl I met through letters. Back then we used to write letters. We wrote to each other all the time. And she fell in love with me. I could tell from the things she wrote. But I didn’t feel the same.”

I was suddenly immersed in the memory, reliving it.

“Once, she suggested we meet. She lived far away, and I knew what she was expecting. I knew I wouldn’t give it to her. But still, I told her to come. She came. I just dragged her around for hours, until she finally confessed her love. And I just reacted with something vague and noncommittal. I said I had to go - I left her there, far from home. That was really bad.”

“Well then, we shall go,” he said and started to rise from his seat.

“Wait! Just a minute - I remembered something else.”

He sat back down.

“There was this drill in the army – a three-day navigation exercise alone in the field. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, in the desert, I ran into Johnny. He was exhausted, like me, and asked if I had any water to spare. His had spilled.”

The heat and silence of the desert rose in my mind.

“There was a strict rule in the unit – you were not allowed to engage with other soldiers during the drill. If you saw someone, you were both supposed to ignore each other and move on. On top of that, it was competitive: whoever finished the exercise first, won a special vacation. I wanted it. And I didn’t want to give Johnny a chance. So I ignored him and kept walking.” I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered the scene.

“At some point, he became dehydrated, and they had to evacuate him by helicopter to the hospital. He never returned to the unit.” I sighed. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t win the vacation.”

“Okay, the desert it is,” he said, starting to rise again - but I stopped him.

“Moment!” I said. “There’s something else.”

He sighed loudly. “But hurry – it’s getting late.”

“College,” I said. “I remember plenty of things there. How am I supposed to choose? There was this one time I refused to share my notes in a course. And I never helped anyone study. I always tried to get ahead - to come out on top - and pushed aside anyone who stood in my way.”

“So, we’re heading back to college?” he said, almost hopefully.

I fell silent. As they say, my whole life flashed before my eyes, and all I could see was a selfish, calculating, predatory person. I had done so much wrong in my life. I looked around my room again, and suddenly saw it in a harsher light – I was alone. There was no one beside me. All my life, I had raced forward, chasing one success after another - leaving scorched earth behind me, never looking back. I never cared about anyone. Now I have to fix something. But what, out of all these endless things, can I fix? And even if I chose something – it would be just a drop in the ocean. I had done too much wrong in my life.

The angel of death stood in front of me and stared at me with a piercing look. “Come on,” he said. “You have to decide – now. If you don’t, time will run out.”

I was puzzled. And mostly sad – more than I had ever been in my life. Not because I was dead. But because, in the end, my legacy was nothing but bad things. No one would remember me for anything good.

I saw the angel of death raise his hand, and I began to float off the bed.

“What… what are you doing?” I exclaimed.

He said quietly, “Time to go.”

“Hold on!” I yelled. “Wait! I know! Take us to 41 Maple Street, Pine Hollow, Wisconsin - 1976”.

“Right there,” he said, and in the blink of an eye, we were somewhere else, looking down at a modest family living room. Two couches, a few pictures - trendy, perhaps, fifty years ago. A TV and a dresser.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking past my shoulder.

“Welcome,” I answered. “This is the house where I was born.”

A young man and woman sat in the living room. They were chatting, drinking wine. Then they began to kiss.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Death, meet my parents,” I said, as if they could hear me. “Parents, meet Death.”

“Ah, your parents,” he said. “Fine. What do you want to fix here?”

Down below, things were heating up between my parents. They began to undress, and it was clear where this was heading.

“This is the night I was conceived. As you can see… they’ve already begun. Let’s get this over with quickly, I really don’t want to watch.”

He watched with interest, then turned to me. “What is there to fix?”

“Everything,” I answered. “All of it. Get my father out of there. Make up some urgent call from work. Have my mother remember she needs something from the store and send him out, I don’t know. Anything to stop this.”

“But how does that fix anything?”

“They’ll stop what they’re doing.”

“So they’ll just pick up where they left off. What difference does that make?”

“Biology – that’s what matters,” I said. “They may continue, but you know how it works – millions of sperm, and only one makes it. The odds that the exact same one – the one that became me - would win the race again, two hours from now, are close to zero. They’ll continue. My mother will get pregnant - but it will be someone else. Not me. I won’t be born at all.”

“Wait, I’m not sure this follows the procedural rules…” he said, confused. But I had already made up my mind.

“You said I could fix one thing, didn’t you?” I said abruptly. “Well, here it is - fix this. Not a single moment. Everything. I won’t be born. All the bad things I’ve done will disappear. One big, goddamn universal fix!”

“It’s… I don’t… I have to consult…”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” I cut him off. I don’t know how I dared to argue with the angel of death. But he seemed convinced. I guess he just wanted to get it over with and be done.

“Well, here it comes,” he said, and waved his hands toward the living room. Down below, my parents stopped doing what they were doing. The phone rang. My father picked up, said a few words, then hung up. He turned back to my mother, murmured something, and left the house.

“It’s done,” said the angel of death. “We can go now.”

“Yes, let’s go,” I said.

In an instant I saw everything vanish – my parents, the living room, the street, the sky. The whole world I had known. I felt myself melting from the inside, and a second before I was switched off, I managed to think one last thought:

At least I did one good thing.