When Death arrives at my door, I will open it before He can even raise His hand to knock. And I’ll sweep Him into the living room, where hundreds of unsent letters clutter my coffee table, each one bearing His name on top, written in a loving cursive. He might be bewildered at first. He might be expecting this. No matter His reaction, I will sit on my sofa, waiting for Him to get comfortable so we can begin our long overdue talk.

I don’t know how I’ll start the conversation. Perhaps I’ll offer Death a cup of tea and some cookies I baked earlier in the day. I’ll try to greet Him as one does an old friend. But I know it will only be a matter of minutes before my tears burst from my eyes, with my gulping breaths like those of a dying man being pulled to the bottom of the ocean. I imagine Death as a stoic figure, unfazed by emotion. But still, He will bear a gentleness and understanding of the intricacies of human feeling. He will wait patiently for me to collect myself. And when I finally get ahold of my sobbing, apologising shakily while I dab at my face with a handkerchief, Death will simply nod and then stare at the letters I had written over the years to him.

“The great poets of your kind understand that human suffering is inevitable— that I am not the worst thing there is,” He will say. His hand will move as if to pick up one of the letters, but He will only let His fingers graze over the paper, as though He could know what they read without actually seeing the words. “They — you — understand that I can offer a reprieve from the cruelty of this world,” Death will continue.

I will nod, my eyes automatically straying back to the unsent letters, each one bearing a scar after the other. Death will look around the tiny living room. He will see the paintings I have done over the years — some in watercolour, some in oil, most in charcoal and pencil. He will walk over to one of them, and lifting a hand, He will let a finger graze over the fine details of one, sighing quietly as He retracts his digit to find a smear of charcoal on the tip. Death will give one last appraising look at my charcoal self-portrait, as though the image will bear the thoughts still swirling in my head that I have not yet spoken out loud to Him.

“Let me ask you this,” He will begin. “Why do you think that I can offer you something better than what you know on earth? Surely, despite everything, you know how beautiful Life is. She is beauty in the golden rays of the afternoon sun. She is beauty in the melodies of a violin and the innocence of a child’s laughter. She has plenty to offer, and yet you long for me more than you do Her. Why? How do you even know I can give you something?”

I will not know how to answer, not at first, at least. Death will continue his casual inspection of the living room, tidying up some fallen leaves from a rose plant that has long since withered. He will adjust a photo frame on the wall that is crooked slightly to the left. He will pull open one of the curtains to let in the afternoon light. When I finally open my mouth to answer, He will be back in his seat opposite me, waiting patiently.

“I think,” I will say, sounding incredibly unsure of myself. I know I am limited, unaware of matters of divine. Ignorant of the ways of the universe and why it functions the way it did. I see Life and Death as part of a dysfunctional family, simply doing their roles in accordance to the Great Creator’s will. They do their jobs, and when humanity must come to an end, they will put the chairs on the tables and lock the proverbial door behind them. Everything I think I know is mere speculation, or metaphors and similes and analogies. Even in the presence of the Divine, in front of Death himself, I reduce them to my humanness. It is the only way I can understand.

“I think that it is not a matter of what you can give,” I will continue. “It is a matter of what you cannot give.”

Death will raise an eyebrow, silently urging me to continue.

“Life offers many things, you are right. She lets you drink a cup that offers both happiness and tears. She lets you admire a rose while getting pricked on your finger. But you, Dear Death…All throughout time, humans understand you offer nothing. Instead, you simply take. And that is what I want.”

“Funny how you say you want that, dear human,” Death will reply. “For isn’t that the same reason you despise Life? She giveth, and She taketh away. She lets you soar the heavens only to let you fall into the abyss.”

“Not quite,” I will answer. “Yes, She giveth. Yes, She taketh away. But that is the thing. She giveth. I have never asked for anything from her, at first. I did not ask to be given Life — to be placed in this world. That was Her first gift. And then She gives me something so wonderful, something I did not even realise I was missing, something I could never even fathom, only to let it turn to ashes at the very tips of my fingers. She is far crueller that way, while You are not. And make no mistake, Death, I have done my fair share of giving too. All in hopes of appeasing Her. I have never taken anything from Life —not that I could anyway. She is far too powerful to steal from, and those who dare to take what is Hers suffer more than all of us already do.”

“Ah yes, you’re right,” Death will chuckle. “Cain was the first to learn that hard lesson, and yet you humans did not learn from him, did you? Some, at least.”

We will chuckle quietly, like sharing some inside joke that is only privy to us, no one else. But the slight laughter will dissolve as fast as it came. We will be reminded that this visit is not one between old friends, but something more serious and grim in nature. All business, no pleasure. Death will stare out the window, watching a couple of leaves fall from a tree and onto the pavement.

“You take,” I will continue. “And we humans know that when You take, we will be separated from Life and will forget everything that is to do with Her. Death will take our souls and return them to what they were made of, leaving behind the human experiences of both joy and pain in the River of Forgetfulness. We will not know anything, and we will not get anything. You will simply have claimed us. You will herd us to whatever You have in store. Perhaps You will stuff our souls in a cosmic storage room somewhere, or You will let our souls wander the universe, like dust being blown by the wind. Aimless, thoughtless, weightless… You can’t starve us, for how can someone starve if they have no need and no knowledge of food? You cannot make us sad, for how can one cry if one does not know happiness? That is what I wish. I wish to simply be and let be, without any pesky experiences or emotions. They do say that ignorance is bliss, don’t they?”

Death will sigh. Then He will pick up a cookie from the tray and lean back on His seat. The cookie will stay in his hand. He will not eat it. I suppose He only took it out of courtesy. Still, I will appreciate the gesture.

“You would rather know nothing, than know something beautiful, only to have it taken from you?” He will ask.

I will nod slowly. The truth is, even as I will have finished that little speech, I will wonder if I really, truly, communicated what I mean. I am hardly one of the great poets that have ever lived. I am still very much human, very much limited in what I know. Perhaps Death will think me silly, asking for things I do not fully understand. I already know that my friends and my family think me weak, unable to weather the storms Life throws my way without sinking into a bout of depression. What’s one more judge and jury to pronounce me certifiably insane?

Death will set the cookie back onto the tray. He will lean back on His seat with an infinite grace. Every gesture He does is patient and gentle, so different from the incessant bouncing of my right leg, the shaking of my fingers. When He speaks, His words are unrushed, meaningful. It makes me more conscious of how I rush mine, stammering in a mess of stringed and jumbled words. It is as though I am scared that if I don’t speak fast enough, I will not be worth listening to. Or people will turn from me or speak over me before I can even finish what I’m saying. Who taught me to be so afraid of falling behind? Who taught me to fear that I will never be heard, or I will never be worth listening to?

“Well?” Death will ask, noticing that I still want to say something.

“I think I have said it all wrong,” I will say, letting my chin fall to my chest in defeat. I will be so incredibly tired at this point in my life. I will have spent decades of trying to convey this deep wretched feeling, finding myself more and more frustrated at my lack of eloquence and clarity. “I think I am not mad at Life, more so mad at myself.”

Death will not react to this admission, even as I gasp at my own words. How is it that all throughout my life, I have never come to this realisation until the very moment Death has arrived at my door? This sudden realisation will have my head spinning in a daze, leaving me gasping and heaving for breaths that I know I will not need soon.

“There is something in me so wrong and rotten, that makes me undeserving of all the beauty Life offers!” I will wail, clawing at my heart, leaving my ironed blouse wrinkled. The force of my actions, the clenching of my fists and the stomping of my foot will shake the coffee table, leaving some of the unsent letters to fall on the floor.

“I understand, Death! I understand all too well that there must be balance. That there must be pain and strife so that there will be joy and celebration! I am not stupid, I am not unwise, I am not weak! But I have more than my fair share of pain and suffering. Surely the only reason for this is because I deserve it! After all, a few bad things here and there are normal, run-of-the-mill, and expected! But too much, on top of each other? Then it must not be coincidence! There is only one common factor in all the horribleness I’ve been through. That is me! So perhaps Life hates me, but if She doesn’t hate anyone else, then surely I’m the problem! I am the outlier! I never asked to be born, but I have tried to earn my keep. I never asked to be born, but I have tried being gracious and generous and kind and grateful. But it is all for nought. So why do I hate myself so much? If I hate myself this much, then it makes sense that everyone will hate me too. After all, I am poison.”

“You are not the first person to think that, dear human,” Death will reply, His tone growing soft, almost tender.

It is the gentleness of His tone that will leave me even more irked than I already am. He will sound patronising to my ears. All the rage I feel towards myself will be directed at Him.

“I am not stupid, Death! I know! I know! God fucking knows that I know! But that changes nothing, do you hear? That does not remove all the hatred, all the pain! It does not bring me comfort to know I am not alone in my struggle. In fact, if anything else, it enrages me even more! If there are others who are as wretched as I am, then I beg the question to our Almighty Creator who knows everything: if the Creator knows that we will live our lives in pain and suffering despite some little bits of joy here and there, then why create us in the first place? Are we but little experiments, some horrid twisted creatures made for Their entertainment? Perhaps the Creator thought one day, ‘Let Us create some miserable humans, as miserable as no one has seen before, and let Us see how they shall live!’”

“I have asked Them to fix me, you know? I said, ‘God, please fix me, if not for my own good, but for those who I love. I cannot keep being a burden and a thorn in their sides.’ And yet nothing. I try to do good by them. But I am poison to them and hurt everyone I touch. So tell me, Death, what other option is there for me other than to die by my own hand? It is such a sacrifice, if you ask me, and yet God sees it as a sin! So I am stuck, Death. When You take me, I will forget my human experience. You will bring my soul back to where it belongs. Perhaps I will end up in a cosmic storage room, forgotten. Or perhaps I will end up in Hell, if it is real, and will be doomed to more suffering. But at least, even if I end up in Hell, I will have forgotten the beauty and joy and goodness that Life offered very briefly and fleetingly to me. In Hell, I will be in darkness and pain, but what power will that hold over me if I do not know light and joy? So, Dear Death, I am done.”

It will be at this point that Death will stare intently at my arms. All my clawing and raging and sobbing will have disrupted my previously kempt appearance. My ironed blouse will be wrinkled, with some of the top buttons popped open. My neat hair will be sticking in all directions. My previously groomed face will be red and sticky with hot tears and sweat. My sleeves will have rolled up at this point, and my bloodied and carved up arms will be on display, leaking the red life-giving fluid all over the armrests of my sofa. The glint of a shiny metal somewhere under the coffee table will catch the afternoon light. Death will pick up the razor and wipe it clean before setting it on the table next to the cookies.

The sudden quiet after my explosion will feel like lifetimes. Death and I will stare at each other, as though locked in a stalemate. And yet there will be no anger or pity in His eyes. Just a quiet acceptance.

Just then, my phone will ring, startling me from my staring contest with Death. He will watch me as I take my phone from its charger and stare at the incoming call with fatigue and sadness.

“Hello?” I will answer. It will be my sister who’s calling me.

“Hey, you,” she will say through the speaker. Her warm voice is a nice contrast to the seeping cold in my limbs and the heavy ice in my lungs as I struggle to breathe. “I heard your painting won in the community auction yesterday,” my sister will say. I know she is referring to the most recent oil painting I made.

My head will be spinning, but I will still have enough presence to answer her. “Yeah, figures. Of course it’s that painting that will win. Nevermind the fact I have submitted multiple better paintings before.”

“Why do you sound so disappointed?” my sister will ask worriedly. I think I might make out the tiniest hint of irritation in her tone. My sister has always been like that; she will be quick to moody irritation one moment, only to be sweet as a balm of honey the next.

“I made that painting with no intent of it being beautiful,” I will say bitterly. “That painting is ugly, and painful, and gruesome. Yet people treat it as a masterpiece. Of course people will consider my pain beautiful, only if it something to be admired from afar. But no one wants to see the up-close grittiness and teeth-clenching. They will call me in their congratulatory speech ‘the bravest’ person they’ve ever seen. They will applaud as I bleed out at their feet.”

My sister will call out my name in a concerned tone. I will detect fear in her voice. I will be slurring my words at this point, swaying on my feet as my head clouds over from the blood loss. Death will help me to the sofa. He will take the throw blanket and place it over me as I struggle to keep awake on my phone call.

“What did you do? Are you okay?” my sister will ask me, practically shouting and demanding. I will sniffle, a few tears running down my cheeks quietly, thoroughly and undeniably tired.

“I’m just…I’m sorry for every pain I may have caused you, and will cause you,” I will say to my sister on the phone. “I love you.”

“I’m on my way. You fucking better still be there when I get there. I’m calling emergency. Don’t hang up the phone.”

Death will then say, “I can’t tell you that your pain is part of some bigger plan, that one day, you will have your happy ending. But I can tell you this: this is not your end. Not yet. I simply decided I needed to make a visit.”

“You’re not going to take me?” I will ask.

He will smile gently, shaking His head no. “Not yet. But keep writing to me, will you? Even if all these are unsent, unfinished — know that I am listening.”

“Even if you are to live a life of tragedy, even if you will never get your happy ending, keep living anyway. Keep hoping that if you keep living, things might turn out, even if they may never will. You are not the first to think and feel this way. You will not be the last. But keep living anyway. I’m in no rush.”

Death then will make His way to the front door and pull it open at the very same time my sister will arrive and make her way in. He will give one last glance before disappearing, leaving me and my sister in the living room.

“Hey, you,” I will say to her, my sister.

“You idiot,” she will say with angry tears. My head will be floating and my limbs cold, so much that I will not notice the blare of the sirens outside. The medics will come in and start working on me, while my sister will hold my hand, squeezing it tight.

“I love you,” I will say. “I’m sorry for making you cry.”

“I love you too. Next time, before doing something like this, call me first, will you? We can’t have Death knocking on your door before you’re ready.”

I will chuckle at that, and I will let myself drift into unconsciousness as the medics work on me and my sister holds my hand. The letters on the coffee table remain unbothered. The cookies I baked earlier in the day are growing cold and stale. The leaves will keep falling outside. My photos on the wall will remain straightened and even, perfect on their spots. My paintings will surround us, all attempts in giving beauty to Life. They will remain unappreciated, unlike the dark painting displayed in the community hall after winning the auction. My tears and blood will have dried. I will be carried into the waiting ambulance outside. The ticking of the clock will keep on, and my emails will keep receiving messages, most of them congratulating me on my most recent triumph.

The pain will go on. But so will Life. I will just have to wait.