Mermaid Pirate Dispatch

“I’m not officially dead?” I tilt my head and stare out at Death from under a furrowed brow.

The cloaked figure flips through a collection of papers and folders. He sits at an old, dusty desk covered in stacks of worn books, singed papers, and wordy contracts. He sets down his current collection of files and begins opening and closing drawers, searching desperately for something.

“Well do I at least get to go back to my body?” I ask, feeling impatient and more than a little annoyed.

Death doesn’t look up from his search. He’s crawling under the desk now, bumping his bony, hooded skull against the underside of the ancient wood. His muffled voice rises up from underneath the furniture. “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he says.

“Impossible? How? If I’m not supposed to be dead and I’m not even officially dead, why can’t you just send me back?”

The perplexed reaper pops up and stares at me, his hollow eyes sucking me in like black holes. “You’re not dead. Your spirit never separated from your body. I simply don’t have the power to send you back. You’re here, and it wasn’t my doing. I’m at a complete loss here.” He groans as he struggles back into his leather chair.

I catch a glimpse of the chair’s upholstery and my skin crawls. Something about that leather isn’t right. I shiver and take a deep breath. “Well what am I supposed to do?” I ask, my heart sinking like a rock.

“You?” He retorts. “What am I supposed to do? I have a soul and body on my hands that I didn’t reap. At best, this is going to be a mountain of paperwork. At worst…” his sandy voice trails off and his countenance falls.

I’m tempted to ask him to finish the sentence. I’m curious about what kinds of consequences Death could be facing for such an incident, but my curiosity does not outweigh my horror. A wave of dread crashes into me and I feel a cold sweat forming all over my body. I try to focus on taking deep breaths, but they are too quick and I start to feel lightheaded.

Death looks up at me, his face empty and cast in deep shadows. “Do you remember what happened before you got here?”

I think back. I remember my arrival. It was like waking up with a jolt from a horrible nightmare with an empty head. “A few impressions of feelings I had might be lingering,” I say. “But honestly I can’t remember anything clearly.”

“Maybe if you can work out how you got here we can figure out how to send you back,” he says.

I’m impressed to hear something helpful come out of his mouth. I think as hard as I can, but any memories I may have been harboring are clearly slipping further and further from me the longer I think about them. “It’s useless,” I complain. “I’ll never remember how I got here.”

Even without flesh, Death’s face seems to smile weakly at me. “Why don’t you go for a walk. That always helps me remember.” He motions to a nearby door. It’s at least three times as tall as I am and covered in intricately carved depictions of suffering, death, and destruction. “Maybe something will come to you.”

I stare up at the door for a moment, then glance back at Death. He nods me onward and I shrug. “Sure, I’ll come back if I remember anything.”

As I approach the door it groans open, slowly parting from its frame to reveal a black, misty void. I tremble, suddenly concerned about my ability to find my way back. I look over my shoulder again and see Death staring blankly at me, watching me go. I take another couple of steps, and just as I enter the doorway a rush of remembrance washes over me. I stand in the doorway in stunned silence, a clear recollection of the moments leading up to my arrival here flashing in my eyes.

“I,” the thought overwhelms me and I can’t finish the sentence.

“What’s the matter?” Death asks. “Go on. Come back if you remember anything.”

“I remember,” I whisper, slowly turning to face the reaper of souls, sitting at his desk. “I remember everything.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” he says flatly. “How did you get here?”

“I was sent,” I say. My heart begins racing wildly. I really do remember everything. I remember the sickening feeling of eternal responsibility that was thrust on me. I remember the overwhelming challenge I accepted. I remember the dreadful consequences of failure.

“Oh?” Death asks, unamused. “Who sent you? Can they call you back?”

“I can’t go back,” I say, slowly stepping back into the room and leaning against the heavy door until it thwonks closed. I stare at Death, my mind racing. “I can never go back.”

Death’s head cocks to the side. “So… are you supposed to be dead? Was this all just a big misunderstanding?”

I take a few slow steps toward the desk, feeling around my pockets. Eventually I find what I was looking for. I reach into my right pants pocket and pull out a tightly wound scroll. I unfurl it and scan the inky black words, their dark meaning burning onto my eyeballs. I glance from the parchment to the reaper’s scythe, which is leaning casually against a bookshelf behind the desk.

Death follows my gaze and does a double-take, his empty eye sockets growing wide with terror.

I mouth the words on the parchment, feeling my eyes turn darker than coals, feeling the heat leaving my lips. I extend my hand toward Death’s eternal weapon and begin pronouncing the words louder, more confidently.

“No!” Death cries, scrambling to his feet. He falls out of the chair covered in forbidden leather, launching it back against the wall where it topples the scythe to the floor. Death stumbles and reaches for the soul harvesting tool, but just as his knobby fingers try to close around its handle, the scythe lifts itself off the floor and flies into my grip.

I smile and pocket the paper. “It’s your turn to be harvested,” I say.

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