literature

The Slightest Breath

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It's remarkably easy, extinguishing a life. All it takes is a lick of one's fingers, a pinch. Or otherwise, a simple puff of breath.

It's no vengeful act. Nothing that I take pleasure in. I think this is a common misconception about Death. That there's some vindictiveness to it, or that the duty of maintaining souls is a gratifying one, in any way.

In point of fact, it's more along the lines of... Well, of bookkeeping really. That's another false notion, too, that I'm the one who chooses who lives and who dies. I do not. Even I cannot control fate. Events unravel, the course of a man's days, for whatever reason, comes to a close, and their candle must be extinguished. It is simply the way of things, as it always has been.

Often, of course, the call is mine to make. If an individual has not gotten themselves killed by the time their candle has melted down to nothing but a stump, then the decrepitudes of general old age begin to add up. I'm forced to watch the mounting of sufferings, the accumulation of a lifetime inevitably becoming too much for any man or woman to bear.

After a point, certainly, I'm forced to intervene. But it's a merciful act. A delivery from all the miseries one faces at the end. Cancers and fraielties, weaknesses of the mind, body, and spirit.

All it takes, at this point, is the slightest breath, and there goes a life. Seventy, eighty, ninety... One hundred years or more, spent fighting tooth and nail to keep their fire alight, doing everything in their power simply to maintain their existence. It's astounding to consider. How vicious can be the fight to remain alive. More than most people ever even realize, it's such second nature to them. But yet, well... Suffice it to say, the conclusion, once all is said and done, never varies or falters. The distance between the lighting of a candle and its extinguishing may vary, and the quality of the fire burning inbetween.

But there's always that final, fateful wisp of crisp white smoke, snaking up into the air.

It's rare, exceptionally rare, in fact, that I have the priviledge of watching a candle flicker out of its own volition, without my having to intervene. But in the rare event of its happening, there's something about it that I find moving, poetic almost. It's difficult to consider any individual's death a genuinely beautiful thing, but these sudden flickerings out come the closest to me. The flame simply recedes, the wick burned down to a nub, and then POOF, it's over. No intervention. No suffering. A life lived to completion, the natural course of days fully spanned.

A soul at rest.

But as I said, this is rare...

Almost without variation, the unpleasant task of ending it in these cases falls upon yours truly.

Which isn't to say that my job is fully devoid of joy. As steadily tiring is the the clearing away of souls, the introduction of new life into the world, the kindling of new flames... Bringing two existing candles together, and using their light to kindle a third, entirely distinct fire... Well, whatever nihilistic views you should hold about life (and I, among all individuals, should think myself qualified to speak of nihilism,) it's impossible not to see some iota of tearful beauty in such pure, new flame.

The joy doesn't last for long, however, as exquisite as it may be in the moment.

Once the candle is lighted, my only job is to tend the flame, waiting for the day that my hand is forced to put it out once again.

Sometimes, God help me, the day of lighting and extinguishing are one and the same.

But let's not talk about that...

Words cannot describe the collective, radiant heat of so many souls accumulating around me. It's progressively gotten worse and worse over time, the rate at which the kindling of new fires has been outpacing the rate of extinguishing...

It feels, on some days, like the fires of hell are closing in around me. As though this was some form of divine retribution for my taking of lives over the years, my eternal punishment, in other words. So many lives, fighting back against me, resisting me with the only weapon they have in their arsenal, their exponential reproduction.

They know, of course, that their stories can only ever end one way. That my hands are tied, and that the fact of my curation is just that- a fact. Their flames may live on and on through successive generations, but eventually, the end of the line shall come. And at that point, anyway, the original fire will have been so reduced, so diluted, that the notion of such preservation will have proven vain and arrogant to begin with.

But as I said, they know. Deep down they do, at any rate. Part of the soul, I think, secretly hopes for a miracle, an exception, for them and them alone. I have yet to encounter such an exception, and I'm certain this is known to them as well. But they surely savor the opportunity to make me sweat from their collective heat, to vengefully even the playing field of discomfort; my perspiring in exchange for the constantly looming shadow of death over their lives.

To their credit, some days the heat is unbearable for me...

But of course, I can't relent. Can't withdraw my hand, as much as I may want to at times.

It is not my position to make such decisions.

I carry out death in the manner of a soldier, or at least an ideal soldier. Without emotional attachment, or sentiment.
Simply carrying out that which must be carried out. Making certain that the numbers add up, that when an individual's time has come, I am there to harvest their soul.

Don't ask me what comes next, by the way, had you been inclined to do so. I frankly do not know, if it's anything, nor could I tell you if I did. That energy must go somewhere, I sometimes suppose, and that last wisp of smoke tends to rise quite high before vanishing...

But really, it's all just speculation. Wishful thinking, in most cases.

At any rate, back to matters regarding the accumulation of heat. I fear that things may be rapidly approaching a boiling point, and my hand may be forced in ways that I've so far resisted up to this point.

The flames are beginning to last far longer than they ever did in the past. It takes years, sometimes decades longer for a single candle to burn itself out. And from the perspective of the individual in question, this is certainly a desired effect. A sign, they think, that they're beating me...

It used to be, once upon a time, that mankind knew their fate. It was a matter resisted for as long as a human being could manage, but in the end, it was an accepted fact. There was no pushing back at the moment the reaper came stepping through their door.

But of late, and it's been getting worse with the advancing of years, the individual has begun to delude himself with dreams of immortality. Foolish, childish notions of some long sought Fountain of Youth, achieved either through the science of religion, or the religion of science.

Medical wonders, cheating me when the moment arrives to come collecting. Advancements in wisdom and insight, supposed methods of deterring me indefinitely...

And it is impossible for them, on any honest terms, to see what it is that they're doing to themselves. Some of them perceive its being a problem, but of course no single being contains the selflessness to sacrifice themselves for a solution. Self preservation is simply in their nature, and defying that bit of genetic coding, with rare exception, is close to impossible for them.

This selfishness, accumulated and multiplied by the immensity of their numbers, drives up the heat not only for me, but for themselves, both in a figurative sense, as well as in very literal ways.

There are simply too many of them, as calloused and as unfeeling a thing as that may be to say.

They're swiftly overpopulating the world, choking one another on the very fumes that keep them so steadily burning.

And perhaps what's worst of all, they just keep fooling themselves, thinking that they can defy me forever with the many songs and dances they use to skirt around the truth.

Honestly, I really believe that they'll begin telling themselves that it's their right to live forever... That they'll keep on putting new life into the world, and never have the good sense to step aside and allow a place for that life, as is the natural course of things.

Make no mistake about it, the delusion of immortality is a dangerous one...

Just recently, something drastic took place that shook me terribly, and from which I have not yet recovered.

Some fool... Some reckless, arrogant young man, broke into my chambers, with the goal of stealing back his candle.

I was astonished, wide-eyed, at the sight of him. Never, in all my years, had a human being set foot into this layer, and I was frankly astounded that he'd managed even to get this far.

He hadn't thought things through at all, of course. There's a good reason that I am the one in charge of such affairs as the maintaining of souls, carefully curating when they should live or die. But sooner or later, they must do just that- they must die. There is no way to keep the flame going indefinitely, and any attempt on his part at guarding his own flame would have required his constant, everlasting vigilance. It would have driven him mad, frankly, made him paranoid, unhinged him... He would be scrambling for ways of forever keeping the fire lit, accusing those around him of trying to extinguish him. And what was more, he would be forced to watch the flickering flame around the clock, not allowing himself to rest lest the candle falter, and somehow go out as he slept.

He could extend his life a few years, perhaps, once it was within his power to control.

But whatever additional life he would somehow create for himself would be no life at all under such harrowing, obsessive circumstances.

That, however, was beside the point just here and now.

Whatever his ambitions, his mere presence here posed an immense danger on so many levels, I needed to act quickly for this situation to resolve itself with as little collateral damage as possible.

He, of course, had no means of identifying which among their ranks was his own corresponding candle, and so he snatched up one nearest him as a hostage, holding his hand over the flame to keep it from being extinguished with his movements. My eyes fixed on the flickering fire as it danced and swayed dangerously from side to side on the wick, the light flashing as though at any moment it might die out. I imagined what effect this may be having on the corresponding soul, shaking them up, a near death experience, in essence, which would radically alter how the remainder of their days was perceived.

He demanded, eyes locked on mine, that I point him to his candle, and I realized that the idiot was willing to murder his fellow soul, a complete stranger, in his dangerous, misguided, and ultimately vain quest for immortality.

I begged him, please, to stay calm, not to make any sudden movements, and to please, put the candle in question back where he found it.

My candle first, he demanded, and I slowly, carefully, extended an index finger in the direction of his flame, wishing, in that moment, that I could somehow extinguish it before he had the chance to do something even stupider himself. But his candle was nearer to him than it was to me, and at any rate, his instantaneous snuffing out would have caused the candle he held to fall, and the damage to be done regardless.

That one?, he asked, pointing to the same spot, and I nodded. A sickening smile crept across his face, a sign, I knew, that he'd thought he had me beat. That he'd cheated death. That I was the fool in this scenario, the insane, all-powerful lunatic whose reign of terror had at last come to an end.

He slowly set down the candle he was holding, and I breathed a faint sigh of relief, watching its turbulent flame settle gently back into place.

Then, even more carefully, he lifted up his own burning candle, staring at its flame like a mad man. He seemed astonished, and actually began to tremble slightly at that fact that he'd genuinely done it. A laugh came from within him that was perverse and terrible, the laugh of a man who thinks he's conquered death, twisted and sinister, and rooted in complete fantasy.

I simply couldn't watch this anymore...

Fearing, as I'd never feared before, I made a vital mistake at this point, a deadly mistake. I reached out a hand in his direction, begging him, pleading with him, to hold on a moment, to allow me to explain.

Reflexively, he stepped backwards, terrified of me and what I might be trying to do- I was Death, after all, a trickster, a conniving bastard who loves nothing more than sweet-talking human beings into digging their own graves- or so they have led one another to believe, in stories and myths and in their misguided analyses of human fate.

And as he recoiled with alarm, his flame swept dangerously through the air, extending, whipping from side to side, shuddering violently. It was clear, from the look of him as he suddenly froze, that he'd felt it. The murmur of his soul, shuddering, threatening to burst into smoke from his body.

And it terrified him beyond his wildest belief...

What was more, I could tell, as he'd looked up at me, he thought that I had been the one responsible for this disturbance. That by merely extending a hand, I'd threatened the stability of his flame, atttempting to murder him.

And I knew, from the plain look in his eyes, that whatever happened next, this was not going to end well at all...

Predictably enough, he turned from me, bursting into a run in his fright. I cringed, watching the arcing of every flame in his vicinity, pulled along by his wind, the connection of fire to wick stretched taut to the point of snapping, but settling, with a series of flickers, back into place once he'd passed.

Stop!, I called to him, knowing that it was of no use, You're making a big mistake!

But the mistake had been made. The mistake had been him ever setting foot in that door, thinking that he could cheat me- or rather, that I was the one to be cheated, and not the construct of reality itself.

It seemed to me to happen in slow motion, a horror show, unfolding before my eyes.

I didn't see exactly how it happened, given that his back was turned to me, his candle sheltered from view.

Maybe he tripped, falling forward, and the candle was extinguished upon impact. Or conversely, maybe the candle went out from the simple fact of his running, and that was what led to him tottering forward.

But whatever the case, he was falling. Falling, falling, falling.

A waste of life.

No, not a waste...

A disgusting, horrible abuse of life... An arrogant supposition that his life was of more worth than anyone else's, that immortality was his and his alone, due to some manner of particular merit on his part that everyone but him apparently failed to notice.

And he hadn't gone down alone.

He'd taken quite a number of souls with him...

Many of them were simply disturbed, shaken, their flames dancing madly in all directions, before settling stubbornly, resolutely back into place.

But indeed, the force of his fall brought with it an untold number of souls, more than I wished to count in my terrified astonishment. A series of thin white streams drifting upward toward the ceiling, curling and entwining in the souls' final acts. Forming into a thin, unified cloud, and then dissolving into the atmosphere.

The sight of it was, suffice it to say, a sheer horror to me.

The dead, soulless body, draped across the floor. The extinguished candle resting inches from his hand. The flames still quivering uncertainly around him as an attempt at reestablishing equilibrium was made. The patches of darkness on either side of him where countless lives had just been senselessly extinguished. The abstract haze of lost souls continuing to drift just above his head.

However ominous my role in the everyday maintaining of the universe, it was hard to stomach the reality of what lay before me.

I let his body sit there for several days after that... Not decaying, given his presence in my realm. But I just couldn't find it within myself to dispose of him. I didn't have the energy. Nor the willpower.

I scarcely managed to continue with my duties at all for some time after that, in fact.

But I did manage... I had to manage.

Babies had to be born. Lives had to end. The world of the vain and the temporal had to keep on spinning.

Eventually, I did get rid of the young man's corpse, once I could no longer stand its presence, and once I had at last regained the willpower for such feats.

Its being there for so long, coupled with the events in question, had given me immense reason to pause and reflect on my role, as well as mankind's continued refusal to except that plain and evident reality.

The accident, that petulent boy's little stunt, had manifested itself on Earth in the form of a devastating natural disaster. Untold injuries that would affect the survivors for the rest of their lives, colossal damages, and a death toll so staggering that I don't even care to quantify it for you.

All in the name of one man's quest for immortality...

It was at this point that I realized that I, too, had been attempting to deny a certain reality for some time now.

It was clear to me, abundantly so, that the young man's foolish attempt would, in time, prove itself not to be a mere isolated incident. It may be a few days from now, a few weeks... Months, years, decades, even. But I could be assured of the fact that it would, without question, happen again. And again. And again...

Repeatedly, mankind would strive for this impossible goal. Eternal life, theirs for the taking, they would tell themselves. They would foolishly try to break in, to steal from Death, and always they would fail. They would tell themselves each time that they grew closer and closer to the goal, that almost, almost, it was just out of arm's reach now...

They would never be as close as they thought they were, of course.

And of course, even as they increased their lifespans, even as their continued existence required a greater and greater portion of their world's resources, they would never stop reproducing, either, breeding like rabbits.

A two-pronged resistance against death, they would tell themselves, achieved by simultaneously increasing their time on earth, and inflating the population to untold numbers, the heat of so many candles existing simultaneously causing the heat of my layer to grow more and more intense as time rolled along.

The boiling point, I fear, will have to come before too much longer.

This can't continue forever. I can't continue forever. Nor can they.

I have to accept this now. Accept it as pure, terrible fact.

Steps will have to be taken, drastic steps. Steps which I dread to even consider.

Yet I must consider it...

That day, be it far off down the road or just around the corner, when my hand is forced. An action, wholly against my will, but a consequence of their own insanity, their unwillingness to accept my reality.

I shudder just to think of that moment, when all the Earth will have to be cleared away.

When all life will require extinguishing, blown to smoke en masse as it had on the day of that young man's intrusion, only on a much larger scale.

Mankind will eventually be responsible for its own universal genocide, one way or another, barring the possibility that some other arbitrary force doesn't have its way first.

And Lord, how the vision of that day acts as a burden upon my thoughts...

Having to baptize this entire room, washing everything away in a mighty, all-consuming flood.

Or else forcing myself, one by one, to go around to every candle, pressing my lips into a pucker, and blowing, until individually, every last source of heat and life to be found is extinguished, and the ultimate purpose of my horrible, nightmarish existence achieved.

The thought of the ensuing darkness makes my bones ache with cold...
Copyright 2016, Aaron Dunbar
_____

I've been very encouraged by a lot of the kind feedback I've been getting on my stories, and now that I feel a little more confident about my writing I've decided to announce my plans to eventually publish a novel I wrote last year :) (Smile) 
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Thanks again to everyone for your kind support! I have a lot more planned in a lot of different styles and media, and I can't wait to start sharing it! :) (Smile)

© 2016 - 2024 Aart-ish
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ScribalWriter's avatar
I love the length of your pieces - there's always such a draw to reach the end and discover those final words. I love the characters you create.