Death is a Girl

Chapter 11: Don’t be a Pusher

“Morrigan, I suspect I’ve come to understand how you think quite well in these two days.”

“Hm?” she turned her gaze from the bus window to where he sat beside her.

“You will feel a compulsion to prevent the accident. Yet, you must resist the urge to do so.”

“I figured as much.”

“Morrigan.” His tail flicked. “Doing so will cause more harm than good. You must understand this.”

She was quiet as she returned her gaze out the window. He wasn’t wrong. The idea had crossed her as they boarded the bus. She remembered what Death had said when he found her in the tomb, that her own death was not planned by the fates. If the all-knowing fates could be wrong about how long someone would live, maybe they could also be wrong about when someone would die? Maybe she couldn’t dive in front of the truck and save him that way, but maybe, just maybe, if she spots him down the street, gets him to stop and talk to her… Would that be enough to change the course of fate?

Noir seemed to catch on to her line of thought. “It is not as simple as you may be thinking. If you intervene and prevent the accident, it won’t necessarily save him. Fate has its way. He might be safe today but meet the same end tomorrow, or the day after.”

She frowned. “So, you’re saying there’s no escaping fate?”

“In a way, yes. Think of it as a river. You can redirect it momentarily, but the water will always find its way back to its original path.”

She leaned back in her seat, pondering his words. “But there must be a way. What if I just delay him for a few seconds?”

He sighed. “In all the eons I’ve existed, I’ve seen countless attempts to cheat death. They often lead to unintended consequences. The universe has its order, and those who attempt to disrupt it often find themselves paying a hefty price.”

Morrigan’s grip tightened on the list. “But we’re talking about a child’s life here. What is balanced about a kid dying at nine years old anyway?”

“That is not for us to unravel. Please, swear to me you will not intervene.”

The bus neared its stop. Morrigan took a deep breath, steeling herself for the events to come.

“Morrigan!”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said under her breath, “I get it.”

On her way off the bus, she asked the driver, “Excuse me, would you happen to have the time?”

He gave her an odd look, something she was getting used to, thanks to her new appearance. “12:28,” he answered.

“Thank you.”

She stepped off the bus and checked her list again.

Tim Sawyer, age nine, location: 3765 5th avenue west, struck by truck. 12:35pm.

Seven minutes, and she was currently on 7th avenue, two blocks down from 5th.

She quickly walked along a connector street, Noir’s steps were in sync with hers. “Remember, do not intervene,” he said again, but this time his voice carried a weight of urgency.

On the corner of sixth avenue she jaywalked when there was a significant break in traffic, then soon found herself on the corner of 5th avenue. She looked around for a building number and found she was standing next to 3620. An even number, that meant she was on the wrong side, and the accident would occur a few more blocks down.

The walk light turned green and she hurried across, quickening her pace even more.

“There is a window of time,” Noir mentioned. “Reaping as soon after the moment of death as possible is ideal, as it leads to less suffering for the departing soul. But, the reaping does not have to be at the exact moment or minute of death.”

“Well, as you said, it’ll be better for him if I do it as soon as possible, right?” she said, ignoring the faintness in her heart and breath as her quick pace was beginning to wind her.

“At your current pace, you are likely to arrive early,” Noir pointed out.

Morrigan did not respond.

“Please take what I said seriously. You are not to interfere with the course of fate. Do you understand?”

“I already said I get it!” she spat. Noir was right, though. In the back of her mind, she at least wanted to leave the possibility open.

Near a shop window, a clock displayed the time—12:32 pm. Just a few minutes now. Taking note of the address, she counted the buildings ahead, and realized the accident would be occurring at the next four-way intersection. The boy would either get hit while jaywalking, or perhaps by someone running a red light. There was little enough traffic to leave open roads for someone who was in a hurry to make a critical mistake.

She tilted left and right, trying to look past some of the other pedestrians walking along the sidewalk.

Then, she spotted him. A young boy with a backpack on, walking down the street by himself. His head lowered as he focused on something in his hands. A phone? She wondered if the accident would be caused by him mindlessly wandering into traffic. What was a kid his age doing out by himself in the first place?

Morrigan continued to move quickly, saying, “Excuse me,” as she passed someone, trying to get closer.

“Remember what we talked about,” Noir urged. “And I wonder if you would be better off standing back until it is done.”

“Why?”

“Considering your sentimentality. Such a traffic accident could be gruesome. It may be upsetting to witness, especially with your guilt of knowing it is soon to occur.”

“I won’t interfere,” Morrigan spoke flatly. Resolved. “But I will reap his soul as soon as possible. I won’t let him suffer.”

She again wondered why the boy was alone. There was a man in a black trenchcoat walking near the boy, but he did not seem to be with him. Something about the man grabbed Morrigan’s attention now that she noticed him, but just for a moment. The coat… it seemed heavy considering the time of year, and the dark color would be drawing heat even more. Not that she was one to talk, but she did not exactly have any choice herself.

She felt her heart thump as the boy approached the intersection. His head was still down, playing with the phone, or maybe it was a video game. Was he going to walk into traffic? Morrigan’s pace quickened, just a hundred feet away from him now. It was about to happen. She reached to the side and felt for her scythe.

At the corner, the boy stopped walking. He did not wander into the street as she thought he would. In fact, he put his phone back into his pocket, and his head was now up. He was alert, paying attention.

When the walk light turns green, then, she thought. Someone will run the red light and that’s when he will get hit.

She was fifty feet from him now. Her hand clenched at her side, gripping around the scythe’s ethereal form as she prepared to summon it.

The blinking red hand showed ten seconds left. She could have a change of heart. She could grab him by his backpack, stop him from walking.

The man in the trenchcoat leaned down slightly, the boy looked up at him. The man had his collar folded up, hiding his face even as he turned towards the boy. The boy then turned the other way, pointing. Did the man ask for directions? Was the boy explaining where he lived, and why he was alone?

Morrigan was 20 feet away now. The red hand showed 4 seconds.

“Don’t interfere,” Noir said one last time, noticing Morrigan’s increased pace.

Screw this! Morrigan thought, her heart thumping, resolve wavering. Seriously, screw this! I’m supposed to just watch him die?!

The man in the black trench coat put his hand on the boy's back.

Everything felt as though it were in slow motion as Morrigan suddenly burst into motion.

She saw the truck, barreling towards the intersection, trying to catch the yellow light.

What is he doing? What the hell is this!?

Morrigan screamed, “LOOK OUT!” just as…

…Just as the man pushed.

The world blurred, and time slowed to an agonizing crawl.

The boy, propelled forward by the unexpected shove, lost his footing. The shock was evident on his face, his eyes widening in sheer terror. He tumbled outwards, on a direct path for the charging red truck.

Morrigan’s heart pounded once, deafeningly loud in her ears, drowning out the blaring horn of the truck, the shouts of pedestrians, the screeching tires. She was a mere 10 feet away from the boy when the man in the trench coat acted. Each of her steps felt impossibly slow. Meanwhile, the man in black turned and began to run.

Morrigan’s hand snatched air, just short of the boy’s backpack.

The brakes screamed, the truck tried to pivot, but the heavy vehicle had its momentum, and the boy was directly in its path.

...Fate had its way.

Morrigan saw the spray of blood, a gruesome ejection from below the truck’s tires. The boy disappeared in the blink of an eye.

It was murder. Not an accident.

A murder!