Chapter 7 Daxton
Why do the good die young?
It’s a question that haunts every age, echoing through dusty tomes and midnight vigils alike.
Scholars pore over brittle scrolls and tangled philosophies, desperate for an answer.
They insist that the virtuous are simply too pure for this ragged world—that they’re summoned early to some luminous realm before suffering can steal their light.
As I hum the gentle melody of “Earth Angel” by The Penguins, strolling down my next target’s dormitory corridor, I let the question roll around in my mind.
Since I’m the one with the scythe, you expect me to have all the answers, right?
Well, tough, because I don’t. I could tell you some shit about balance, or give you some vague answer like “that’s just the way life goes.” Would it make you feel any better?
Do you think any of those answers would prepare you for when you meet me? Now, that's a question I can answer—no.
This week has gone rather smoothly, slightly mundane even.
Though I’m sure if you ask my sisters, they’d have a different take.
Look, I had to entertain myself in some way.
My sisters wouldn’t know fine artistry if it came and had a seat with them beneath their precious threads.
But thankfully, the ledger is almost balanced again, so I can leave the mortal realm.
My fingertips trail along the cool surface of the pale brick, brushing aside a poster advertising tonight’s poetry open-mic and a half-torn notice for a lost cat with big yellow eyes.
The walls are scuffed, cinderblock painted a tired cream, plastered with layered flyers that curl at the edges and whisper under my fingertips.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights stutter in time with my steps, casting long, wavering shadows behind me.
Two mortals, lovers drowning in joy, drift through my form as though I were nothing but mist. Holding hands—fingers intertwined—they laugh underneath the soft glow of the hallway lights.
The male lifts the female in a playful spin, her dress fanning out in a pastel bloom, like some Harlequin romance novel.
Uck.
Valentine’s Day is upon us, and love is…regrettably in the air.
‘I’m in love, so in love with you, Melissa,’ the male’s thoughts scream as he smiles up at her.
‘I love you, all of you, and I’ll support you through everything, every day you become the person you’ve always felt like.
I’ll help you to be the best version of yourself, whatever you need from me, just be mine. ’
His soul shimmers with glee as her thoughts squeal. ‘He didn’t run. I told him! And he doesn’t care about my gender, Daniel loves me…the real me.’
They don’t see me; they can’t. I watch until they slip through the exit door, rain pattering on the courtyard below, and see him shrug his jacket off his shoulders to shield her from the drizzle. I can almost taste the joy in their laughter, bright as a lantern flame on a cold night.
They’ll both live a long, happy life, adopt two kids, one girl, one boy. She will meet me at eighty-nine, and he’ll follow three months after, unable to live without the love of his life.
A grin, unstoppable and wide, tugs at my lips as I materialize on the second floor. Ah…love, such a silly game we play. Throwing our hearts recklessly at someone and hoping that they stick…around, that is.
With Eros’s imbibed fantasies swirling through the air, every mortal has been running around goo-goo-eyed in love. And I’m not saying that, in theory, love isn’t worth having; I’m just saying not every story ends favorably, like Melissa and Daniel’s.
Exhibit A, Leah LaRoch—a lovely exchange student from the United Kingdom.
Young, intelligent, and ambitious—she was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer a year ago.
For the most part, she’s been managing it on her own, and love took a backseat to her drive; no time to experience more before her untimely demise.
In Leah’s case, her fate has been shit, rolling craps on this game of life, her essence also emblazoned in my ledger for this little incident.
My knuckles rap lightly on her door, room 201, and I almost feel guilty for being here—if anyone deserved more in this shitty life, it’s Leah.
The door swings open, revealing her familiar face—big blue eyes, framed by auburn waves that catch the light like spun copper. Her smile falters the instant she sees me. Gone is the warm demeanor I remember, like hot chocolate comforting a chilled soul.
“Hi! I’m—” I begin, voice gentle as dusk.
“I know who you are,” she interrupts, thinning her lips into a line that betrays both fear and exasperation. Her room smells of coffee and printer ink, textbooks stacked in precarious towers on the desk beside her laptop. The muted hum of her fan blends with the distant drip of a leaky faucet.
She steps back but does not close the door. So, I step in, letting it click shut behind me. The carpet is threadbare beneath my feet, and I catch the faint tang of laundry detergent in the air. Something in her posture is stiff—shoulders braced, gaze guarded.
Does she remember?
I study the flecks of chocolate in her coffee mug as I speak.
“Have we met before?” I ask, offering my hand. Her touch would feel like warm sunlight on chilled stone, but she brushes it aside.
“If you want to walk around with a human face, that’s fine,” she says with a bitter sort of humor. “But don’t insult my intelligence.” Her blue eyes narrow. “You look different, but you feel the same.”
My grin widens, amused. “So you remember…interesting. And perceptive.” I lean against the desk, fingertips brushing a stack of exam notes, the city’s distant siren song drifting through her cracked window.
Her arm flies up in defeat. “It’s kind of hard to forget the time you almost stole me!” Her voice wobbles, as if the memory still shocks her.
“Point taken.” I nod solemnly, the overhead bulb flickering as if in agreement.
Scooting her chair back, her boots squeaking on the floor as she takes a seat. Her laptop screen glows with a half-finished paragraph, citations riding the margins.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” she says, eyes fixed on the keys. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come.” She peers up at me, pleading. “Can I finish this paper first?” She bites her thumbnail in concentration. “I want my family to have my degree posthumously. A silver lining for them in the aftermath.”
I admire her constant selflessness. “Of course.”
I slip onto her roommate’s bed—a single mattress sagging in the middle—and watch her fingers dance over the keys. Occasionally, she pauses, brow furrowed, and bites her lip before diving back into her argument. The lamplight pools around her, illuminating the determined set of her jaw.
She steals a glance up at me, brow raised. “If you keep looking at me like that, it will take longer,” she huffs.
“Like what?” I tilt my head, curiosity in my tone.
“Like I’m a modern marvel,” she mutters, almost to herself, tapping faster as though racing the clock.
I chuckle softly. “It’s rare for me to meet a mortal who actually remembers our…close encounters.” I watch the final words roll onto her screen, then she snaps the laptop shut with a decisive click.
“Okay,” she says, standing abruptly. Her cheeks flush, excitement and dread mingling in her eyes. She cracks her knuckles, then her neck, as though warding off invisible chills. “How do we…do this?”
I rise, moving to stand close enough that the scent of her shampoo wafts over me. “It’ll be quick. You won’t feel a thing,” I say, my voice a soft promise. “Like falling asleep.” I reach out, fingertip hovering at the edge of her temple.
Her essence flickers, a pale candle flame in a draft, wavering in blues and silvers. “Close your eyes,” I whisper, tasting the sweetest resignation of her soul, calling it to become one with me.
Suddenly, I feel a resistance I didn't feel before, and her hand shoots up, palm braced against the air between us.
“WAIT!” she screams, eyes wide, baby blues clashing with mine. The moment braces on the brink of eternity, breath held between heartbeats and hammering fear.
“What!?” I snap, finally, her essence lingering on my tongue before it fades.
“I just need to know…before I go…” She fumbles with her words, twisting the hem of her shirt, sweat beading on her forehead.
“Speak,” I command, her thoughts crashing into my head like a storm surge.
‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’m going to ask him this. What is wrong with me?’
I keep my distance but seize her hand, my voice a low whisper. “Say whatever is on your mind. I won’t judge.”
‘Here goes nothing,’ she thinks, but her shoulders tremble.
“Before I leave this world, I need to know…just once, what it’s like to be with a man. I want the full experience."
So pure. So innocent.
She’s been a loving daughter, a devoted friend, and a brilliant student.
It may not have been my finest moment, but when I looked through Mackenzie’s mind, among other things, Leah was there.
She showed kindness to ma belle ame when she needed it most—a stranger who could have left her to her misery.
I brush the hair from her flushed cheeks, letting her words settle in the air between us as her life unfolds in my mind, a torrent of memories merging with mine.
I watch the same memory from Leah’s memories now—I hear every thought she has as she sits beside Mackenzie, whose knees are drawn to her chest, tears streaming from her dark eyes.
And still, Leah embraces her without hesitation, until Mackenzie stops crying.
She digs out a pack of tissues and hands them to her.
Before Mackenzie has time to gather herself and thank her, she’s on her way.
No expectations. No strings attached. Even with twenty milligrams of oxy coursing through her veins to dull her pain, she selflessly gives her love.