My name is Alice Deveraux and I am going to die today.
Just like I did yesterday, and the day before, and many days before that.
Now I know what you might be thinking and let me put your worries at ease: no, this is not like that movie where a person keeps dying ‘till they figure out how to break the loop or who’s killing them or whatever.
First of all, I’ve been dying since August 2023. I’ve lived that exact day and every one of them that followed. They just.. end in endless trauma.
Secondly, I know who’s responsible. Kind of. And I need your help, so I hope you’ll bear with me as I try to explain to you this absolutely surreal – yet very real – situation.
For I’m afraid tomorrow I won’t be dying.
Today they were a woman.
She took a seat in front me, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and sporting red lipstick that was applied with care and precision. Somehow this time she looked most like what I imagined her to be when I was a mere child, learning of the inevitability – what a joke – of life ending and whoever would be guiding us through that.
Her smile brightened & she greeted me like we were old friends.
I mustered up a small “Hi” in response.
“You seem tired,” she said with a hint of kindness.
‘Till now I haven’t been sure about the sincerity of her emotions – whether or not she had any empathy within her at all.
With some careful reluctance, I nodded. “You took your time yesterday,” I replied.
The corners of her mouth crooked up, as she took my hand. “Oh, I know, love. And I do apologise… But please, indulge me. How was it?”
“It was fine…”
Her emerald green eyes found mine - they’ve never been that colour before, I realised – and without even a word from her, I knew this was not the answer she was waiting for.
So I started telling her – in great detail – of the events of the day before. How I was driving and – at the exact right second – my brakes malfunctioned, causing me to end up in a lonesome, freezing pond.
How, though I knew my death was inevitable, my fight-or-flight instinct still kicked in and I managed to free myself from my beat-up volvo as it was sinking into darkness.
How the adrenaline of escape faded when I realised my jeans had gotten caught on something. So I stayed there for hours, trying to keep my head afloat, until the cold and exhaustion stopped my limbs from functioning.
And then I woke up in my own bed, as always, and another day had started.
It had been the worst one yet.
Her eyes sparkled as I spoke, yet her usual giddiness towards my words had disappeared a few weeks ago.
She thanked me - as she always did - and I was getting ready to leave. Never would I feel completely comfortable in her presence, yet this was simply how our routine had been since the beginning. I’d go about my day and at some point she’d show up, asking for my side of dying.
This time she surprised me, though.
“Today will be the last one.”
You’d think I’d have been utterly excited – and for a bit, I was - but several realisations followed those six little words.
You see, Death has gotten bored. Fatigued with the same manners of dying, tired of the ungratefulness of us humans.
It didn’t take me long to realise that that was exactly why she found a new plaything in silly ol’ me, in a desperate attempt to keep herself entertained. And I guess, now she’s gotten bored of me as well.
I promise you I tried to keep her interested as long as I possibly could.
If someone is next… I truly wish I had some good advice to give you. Try to be detailed, dress up the story if you have to, try to keep her drawn in for as long as you have even a drip of energy left – and even then push it some more. Never go down easy, try to fight as if you don’t have the certainty the days that follow.
If no one is, if Death finds no more pleasure in her duties, we can only hope humanity can find a way to function without her.
I wish to be so lucky I won’t wake up tomorrow.
Good luck.