The second time I saw Death I was ten years old. My family and I were coming out of the movie theatre when two cars slammed into each other on the street in front of us. It was loud and fast and by the time I opened my eyes again my father, always the good citizen, was running to help while my mother, sister, and I were left to wait on the bench outside the theatre. I had been wondering, ever since my brother died, when I might see Death again. I craned my neck back then, peering at the cars, wondering if Death was going to take someone away today. There was no sight of him at first. Ambulances arrived and police blockades went up. Then, out the corner of my eye, I saw him. He was barefoot again, walking on sure steps, despite the broken glass littering the street. He was wearing the same black pants and grey shirt, and it looked as though he hadn’t aged at all. I find it ironic now, Death being immortal. The one who is King of all the dead cannot die.

He walked to the wreckage and picked up a body, then slowly walked away. I stared at him the entire time, wondering if he will look my way. But he disappears without a glance and I am saddened again. It had been five years and I had not seen Death’s face. I had been beginning to think I had made him up, imagined his sad smile and small nod of the head. But he appeared again that day and I knew I had not imagined it. I looked to my mother and sister, but they showed no signs of noticing Death. I watched the wreck some more, should I hope? Hope that someone dies? I was daring myself to do just that when Death appeared again. He walked in his same smooth fashion, arriving where a woman lay on a stretcher, a paramedic furiously pumping at her heart. Death did not wait for the paramedic to stop and instead reached down and picked up the women into his arms. Then he turned to go. I watched him as he walked away from the wreck. Did Death forget about me? I wondered. Not see me? He was almost to the shadows when he turned around and nodded at me, just once, before disappearing. I stared at his now empty spot for a moment longer. So Death had noticed me, as I noticed him.

“What are you looking at Amarie?” my sister had asked.

“Nothing.” I replied.

The third time I saw Death I was fourteen. I was determined to speak to him. I had had four years to think of things to say, four years to wonder how to get his attention. Four years of wondering to wear down on my brain. I was hiking with my sister when it happened. She slipped and fell off a boulder we were climbing on. A simple thing, most people would be okay. But my sister had always been frail, always been the weaker of the two of us. When I climbed down the boulder and reached her side her eyes were closed. There was a thin line of blood coming from her hairline and her breathing was shallow and irregular. I tapped her shoulder, whispered her name, but she didn’t wake up. So I sat with her, and I waited. The sun sunk lower in the sky as I waited. Waited for Death. My sister gave a start, as if she were awaking, but that was not the case. A second later she was still.

I held my hand up to her mouth, but I did not feel any breath. I looked around for Death, surely he must come. One minute, then three, then five. He appeared out of the trees, barefoot and dressed in the same black pants and grey shirt. He still looked the same age, around twenty or so. He looked at my sister for a long moment, then at me. Then he walked over to the two of us, his feet silent. My eyes followed him the whole way. He knelt down on the other side of my sister and for the first time since I had first seen him in the dark of night, he spoke.

“You could have saved her you know.” He raised his eyes to look at me, waiting for a response.

Did I dare to answer him? This was Death after all, as far as I knew he could not take lives when they were not ready to go. I did dare, I decided.

“I didn’t want to.” I said.

“You did not want to save her?”

“If I saved her I would not see you.”

Death looked at me for a moment more, then scooped my sister into his arms and rose. He turned to walk away, and for a second I panicked. Was this all I would get to see of him? Such a short time. Then he faced me and spoke again.

“Until we meet again,” he said before disappearing into the shadows.

Eight years went by since that day. I was a single child now, both my siblings taken by the person I so desperately wanted to see again. I started looking for death, for death brought Death, and it was Death I was dying to see. I began skirting through the bad parts of town, peering into dark alleys, I even tried the hospital, but I had no luck. There were no silent footsteps to be heard, no invisible man to be seen. Death, in all his wonder, eluded me.
- - -
It was nine years now. I was 23 years old. I was breaking. I had friends, but everyone has friends. They were not enough. They did not walk quietly or speak with selected words. They did not appear in the dark of night, they did not come when tragedy was at its peak.

I suppose that it was those nine years that made me edgy, made me cold. It was on the ninth year that it happened. A knife appeared at my throat one night. The cold air seemed to drop in temperature as a voice whispered to me to leave my bag and run and I would not be hurt. But I would not, I refused. The voice threatened to kill me; I didn’t want to die did I? But death was what I wanted, though not for me. I raised my hand and in a quick motion gripped the handle of the knife, jerking it out of my attacker’s grasp. The blade slid through his hand and he hissed, and then lunged as though to hit me. I thrust the knife forward and it slid into his stomach. He gasped and fell forward. But once was not enough. I pulled the knife out and raised it, I needed him dead.

“Stop,” a voice commanded.

I stopped. I knew that voice. Death’s voice. I turned to face him. His expression was sad as always, his eyes seemed tired.

“You need to stop this.” He said.

I dropped the knife.

“Not just that,” Death explained. “It is not right for a human to be obsessed with me. It is not normal.”

“But I can see you. Isn’t that abnormal as well?”

Death was quiet as he picked the man up. Then he faced me, “The few who see me, it never seems to end well, does it?”

Then he was gone, and I was alone.

It was a week later. A week was all I lasted before I snapped. I had to see Death; I had to talk to him, to be near him. When everyone else had gone, he had been the one to remain, the one to keep coming back. It was dark, the street light was out. A voice came from the ground, asked if I had any change. My fingers wrapped around the cool metal handle of the knife I had started keeping in my bag. I pulled the knife out, the same one I had used to take my first life. And I brought it down into the person’s shoulder, then again into their back when they fell over. I stepped over their body, but another person was there, grabbing at my wrist. I brought my knee up into their stomach, and while they were doubled over I stabbed their back, taking my third life.
There was yelling now, screaming even. I spun around and plunged the knife into my fourth life, a girl; she must have been with the man I killed second before. A fifth. I needed a fifth life. Someone was running towards me, he had a gun. I gave him no chance, I threw the knife. I did not know how to throw the knife, but it was thrown well enough. A slit on the side of his neck appeared. His gun shot but went wide, shattering a window high above my head. My fifth life was taken.

I could hear sirens in the distance; I smiled though, for I could also hear death.

“I warned you Amarie.” He said.

“I heard you.” I said.

He appeared then, from the darkness. I had retrieved the knife and now stood amongst the bodies, blooding dripping from my hands, splattered across my face and chest.

“Then why?” he asked.

I had the feeling Death never asked why, had never truly known why.

“I just wanted you to notice me.” I said.

The police were here now; they were crouched behind their car doors, guns pointed at me.

I just wanted him to notice me.

The police were calling out to me, telling me to drop the knife and approach slowly, with my hands up.

I just wanted him to notice me.

It had begun to rain, and the rain slowly wiped the blood from my hands, cleaning them.

I just wanted him to notice.

I raised the knife. I had one more life to take.

I just wanted him.

I brought the knife against my own chest.

I just wanted.

Then, with a strong grip, I plunged it forward.

I had just.

Death’s hands wrapped around my arms, pulling me up. The rain was gone now; I wondered when it had stopped. Death’s hands were cold but strong, they held me securely as he stood up. I closed my eyes, I was so sleepy.

“I just wanted you to notice me,” I whispered.

“And I have.”