Death

"Most of the time," the woman said, "we don't come this early. Sometimes we give people a day if they're lucky, an hour for about half of people though they don't believe us. But a week is practically unheard of; you're lucky."

"Then why are you here?" I said, *knowing* they were wrong, *knowing* they had to be kidnappers and as soon as the door was locked I would call the police. "Why would you tell me a week in advance."

They looked at each other, the man and the woman, both about the same age wearing the same blue shoes, the same blue jeans, and the same blue shirt. "We were saving a trip. Your grandpa dies in a day. If you'll just step aside, we can tell him too. Or you can tell him; we aren't picky,"

I pulled the door tighter against my body, fumbling for the phone in my pocket. Maybe I could get a picture of them to give to the cops. "Why come at all though? We die either way, right; why bring us the bad news to begin with?"

"Closure, mainly," the woman said with a smile. "You can say your goodbye's, pay the little debts you've pulled your families into, fix the relationships that need it before you pass on."

"Ah, and you, benevolent travelers, visit us out of the goodness of your hearts?"

"We feel guilty sometimes," The man said quickly, smiling too, a smile too warm for somebody conning you. "Giving you this, letting you know in advance, helps with that."

"You feel guilty? Even though this is your job? Carrying souls to the next world, tearing them from the ones they love. Guilty? Now that's sweet."

The blue woman and man just smiled, blinking in unison, unsure what to say.

"Well, thanks for the warning," I said, smiling as widely as them. Then I whipped my phone camera in front of their face and snapped the picture. "And thanks for the incriminating photos."

With all the force I could, I slammed the door. Right in their faces, preparing to dial my parents numbers and command them home from work.

"Just wait a day to see," the woman shouts through the door, as if I was still exchanging pleasantries with them. "Wait to see about your grandpa before you tell anybody."

I snorted.

Yet for some reason I didn't hit the call button. When my parents came home, I didn't tell them about the 'visitors' either, in fact I didn't even check the doors that night to make sure they were locked. It was odd, but I just couldn't be afraid of that, awkward, smiling couple no matter how much I should have been; they were just so―harmless.

Grandpa died the next day at lunch time. With his eyesight and everything, it wasn't surprising that he mistook his blood pressure pills for vitamins and swallowed several too many. Sure I screamed and cried when I came from school to find him sprawled across the kitchen floor, but on the inside, I remembered what they'd said.

I'd just known the couple dressed in blue weren't lying.

"Is he happy?" was the first thing I asked when they'd come the next day.

"Happy?" the man asked, tilting his head.

"Does he like it over there, where you took him, in the afterlife, or heaven or wherever? Is he like, at peace?"

"We're keeping him safe," the woman said nodding her head kindly. "He's getting ready for the feast actually, the one everybody attends when they first come over. It's wonderful."

"They usually eat right away, but we decided, with you and him being so close together and everything, that he would wait. We didn't ask him, with all the adjusting he's going, but we're sure he'd want to. Family is family, after all."

"Don't make him wait to eat!" I said, opening the door wider, waving them to come in, sit down, talk about what was coming.

The woman laughed. "Don't you worry. Your grandpa doesn't need to eat another thing for all of eternity. The feast isn't like feasts you'd have here. It's much more―delightful."

I nodded and waved them in again.

The man shook his head. "Oh no, we've got other's we must attend to. But thank you. We'll see you in five days, alright?"

I nodded.

Yes, I should have been terrified that they had been telling the truth, that I only had five days left of my life, but I was alright. Just knowing there was somewhere after the horror of this world was comfort enough to let me push through. And they were right: having time to say goodbye was nice.

Though I'm not the most dramatic girl at school, I do have my share of gossip-worthy slanderings: times I've insulted the high-and-mighty beauty queens, times I've even fought with my friends. I was able to apologize for everything, to leave this world as the person I wanted others to remember me as.

I gave my friends presents all week, up until the point they refused to take anything else. I left kind notes. I hugged those I loved as much as possible.

As much as I fixed things with friends, I helped family. With the funeral of mom's dad coming up, she was pretty distraught. I helped her through the planning and emotions of it, the least I could do when I would add to her woes in only a few days. When she was inconsolable, I even read from the bible with her.

Maybe if my parents knew I wouldn't be completely gone, like scriptures said, they could find some comfort when I left.

Basically, I did everything I needed to, and on the last day, when I was walking to work with arms full of flowers for my coworkers, I was at peace when the car ran a red.

If you're wondering whether or not dying hurts, it does. At least the way I died. Blood, screeching, crying: you get the whole deal. It was quick though. Just a few minutes of lying on the ground, hardly breathing, watching ambulance lights flash overhead, and it was over. A snap of the finger, a turn of the lightswitch.

Everybody was gone.

The man and woman in blue were right though: everything was basically the same. I was just in another neighborhood, surrounded by people peeping from windows and smiling wide down at me.

Several of them even opened their doors and approached me, probably to help me understand this new world. All so nice.

"The feast is starting soon," said a cheery, familiar voice behind me.

I brushed the gravel and dirt off my clothes and hopped up.

There they stood, aside a running van, beckoning me to join them on their ride. They'd been waiting for me for a whole week, and finally, we could all be together. Happy. Peaceful. Off to wherever Grandpa was.

"Thanks for telling me," I said quietly, waving to the small crowd that had gathered around. "I think I was really ready when I left. No more goodbyes, no more missed opportunities."

"We're glad."

"Yes. We are very glad. We have been excited for you to join us."

Accepting the hand of the blue man as he helped me climb into the car, I glanced back. Everybody here seemed so nice. All their waving. And all the smiles. Everybody smiling. Always smiling. Smiling, smiling, smil―

"I am famished!" The woman in the blue said as she wheeled the car around the corner. "I don't think I've eaten for days."

"I thought we didn't have to eat here."

"You and your kind get it easy darling," she laughed. "*You* don't have to eat.'

"I thought you two were like me… You aren't dead?"

The man turned in his seat and patted my leg. "Of course we aren't like you. Your kind can't go back once they've come over. But don't you worry, we still love you very much. Don't we?"

"Oh yes. We all love you. It's wonderful here."

Our car sped up as we veered around the corner. No cars seemed to be in our way, nothing to stop me between me and seeing Grampa once more.

"Almost there," the woman in blue hummed. "Almost there. I'm terrible with directions, but I think this is the last turn―ah yes, here we are. You can see everybody up there."

It was true. Though at least half a mile in the distance, the largest circular table I'd ever seen rounded an open field, hollow in the middle, encircled by dozens, maybe even hundreds of people. I imagined them smiling too, just as widely as the nice couple that had warned me a week ago. And I imagined Grandpa, waiting with an open seat at his right.

The car drew nearer, and the table came more into focus. Everybody at it was already eating, though what they raised into their mouth it was impossible to tell―the nice blue man and blue woman must have waited for me even though they were hungry. This really would be a great world if it was filled with people like this.

"So what is there to eat?" I asked to fill the lull in conversation.

Both the man and the woman turned their heads, but neither answered. Just smiled.

"Is food better here? I always imagined great food in heaven."

"Yes. Great food."

We were much nearer to the table now, heads even turning our way. Where was Grandpa…?

"Honestly, I just hope they have oatmeal," I said. "When I was a little girl, I'd eat oatmeal for every breakfast―I think there was one week I literally didn't eat anything but―"

"No oatmeal," the man said, patting my leg.

"Oh."

I craned my neck. The couple in blue leaned too close together for me to get a good view. I could just barely see through a crack between their arms.

Suddenly, the car was stopped, right on the side of the road. Wordlessly, we climbed out. The woman held out her hand, and I squeezed it. This was it. Holding her tight, we began across the grassy field. Maybe Grandma would be here too. Maybe even her parents. Maybe even *their* parents.

Dying hadn't been so bad after―

I could see the table clearer now. More specifically the food. This was the first clear view I'd had, but―But it couldn't be…

I stumbled back as cold pulsed through my body. Natiousness, sickness, a sudden throbbing headache.

The food on the table…

It wasn't food. Sure there were trays, sure the sparkling dishes glinted and shimmered, but what was on them, what was on the one I could see clearest, was most definitely not food.

Grandpa was on the tray, pinned down with knives.

Not even all of Grandpa. Just the parts they hadn't stripped off already―his head, most of his torso and some of his left arm. His bloody face rocked in its dish to stare at me. The eyes blinked.

Everybody on the silver platters was alive.

"We aren't the ones invited to the feast," I whispered. "We are the feast."

Just as the smiling woman glanced back with her eyes much to wide, I tore my hand from hers. No. I would not be joining the feast. Not now.

"Come back," cried the woman. "We love you."

"Please," pined the man. "You are beautiful."

Why they didn't chase me, I didn't understand at the time. Why they just stood there, smiling, then turned and joined the feeding, was beyond me.

Now, I understand.

They knew what I now do: I might've been faster than them, but there was no escape.

This really is the afterlife for the seven billion people on earth―I wasn't tricked into coming here, coerced, or kidnapped. This is just the place we all end up. This is where we fulfill the only purpose we ever really had.

Welcome to the pig farm.

The first few days I ran. Hiding in alleys, sleeping in abandoned warehouses, anything to avoid coming in contact with the things that pursued me everywhere.

Eventually, I tried blending in. They looked the same, right?

Wrong. I have no idea how they told me apart but they knew, *always* knew, whether it was the smell or the smile.

In the end, I got desperate and tried killing myself―problem is, I'm already dead. No building is tall enough, no lake deep enough, to drown, crush, mutilate, or cut me enough to kill me. The *pain* is always there―the ache of a hundred foot fall―but I never get even close to death.

In the end they'll get me―even if it takes a hundred years, a thousand years, a million years, they *will* find me. In the end they find all who run.

From what I can tell they never use the bathroom―there aren't even ones in their homes. I don't know exactly what happens to us when their teeth strip our bodies, but I will never forget the last look on my grandfather's horrified face.

The picture rings through my head as often as the offhanded words of the blue dressed man the week before I got here.

'You benevolent travelers visit us through the goodness of your heart?' I asked.

'We feel guilty sometimes,' The man had told me.

*We feel guilty sometimes.*

*We feel guilty sometimes…*

The man's words remind me of something I still find difficult to comprehend, the reason there is guilt to a thing like him: This is the afterlife. Even if you are torn apart, even if your brain is ripped morsel by morsel and ground through dozens of greedy teeth, we do not die.

Grandpa is alive.

Shredded into a billion pieces, stuck in the confines of wet, bloody stomachs, but he, his consciousness, every pain receptor, is still alive. Forever.

Do not fear death. Fear [living.](https://www.wattpad.com/910628339-the-gardener%27s-book-chapter-1)