Love and Hate: Part 2 - Death

Steve slumped propped in the corner of a strange mystics domicile. The Gypsy in front of him glared at him as if she knew him. She had a premonition; a plan. “Are you sure you’ve had enough of this world boy,” she questioned? “I owe you no explanation, if the photo is enough than send me away forever,” he replied. “This photo represents more than you know boy. To place you in the aether restored, there must be an exchange of souls. Are you willing to erase the existence of the souls of the people in this photo to make the transformation?” she said as she glared at him with an intensity he seemed to just notice. It was starting to sink in. There was a price to pay for her services. There was a price beyond material things. Was he willing to exchange the souls of his parents for revenge? For Steve, revenge was his purpose, his singularity; revenge against God. “Eradicate them and make me whole on the other side you witch,” he loathed in despair and hate of his circumstances. “So be it,” the Gypsy grinned.

She tore the last possession that Steve cared about in two. Steve felt nothing at this. Nothing else mattered to him anymore, nothing but killing God. Everything was red. Flames burst into the empty space above the witches table. An incantation was muttered through her thin lips, head held up and eyes rolled back. She twitched and moaned. Rocking side to side she started to foam at the mouth. Steve was not afraid. He felt excited. Finally, something was going to change for him. And, it did. Red became black and silent.

He was aware but nowhere. Steve felt something bellow him but he could not see it. What was holding him up? As if a fog was lifting he could begin to se an outline. The outline beneath him became solid. It was ground and he was held above it by his own legs. Euphoria and glee burst out of him but where was he really? What was he now, a ghost? No, he felt something at his feet. He looked down and saw fingers then hands coming from the firmament and grasping at his ankles. He looked closer and found he could see through the ground as if it were solid mist. The hands belonged to bodies. Bodies he recognized. “Mom, Dad,” he shouted! They sank grasping. Shriveling as they sank deeper into the invisible solid, their eyes were confused as they disappeared forever.

He was alone on the plane, flatness from horizon to horizon. The only difference in any direction was a gradient in the sky. Was it sky? Dark in one direction light in the other. With arms and legs he strode through the aether toward the light. Onward he walked for what seemed an eternity yet he never tired.

Steve noticed a speck of black in the ever brighter atmosphere. Closer it got, and bigger. A slight breeze became a wind. Gray streaks of mist streamed by in sweeping arcs. The black speck became a form. A rider cloaked in black upon a massive steed. The wisps interfered with his vision but he could make out a staff, topped perpendicularly with an arcing blade. The figure hung the weapon low, at head height, from his mount upon the horse. The cloaked rider approached and slowed then stopped just a few meters from Steve’s position. “There are no beings of form but Gods here,” called the rider, “What God be you?” “I’m Steve” he answered. “What is Steve,” asked the voice from the cloaked rider? “I’ve come to put an end to my torment,” stated Steve. “Good,” replied the rider, “I am Death and that is my job.”