prompts: Death, cat(s)

Fatality

The first time Harris meets Death, she kidnaps his cat and jumps out the window. Harris, who is five at the time, is understandably distraught. When he tells his parents about what happened, his mother says, "oh, Harris," in a sad, broken voice, and his father shakes his head and mutters something about Television Today, The Dangers Of.

...

Harris' teachers, along with every book Harris has ever read, say that Death is like this:

"Death - or at least, the anthromorphic representation of Death, which is not so much death as it is an idea in the collective subconscious of the general world population - is the skeleton of a tall, thin, bony - hur, hur - man, wearing a black, hooded cape and usually carrying a scythe."

Harris' Death is like this:

"Death's short. And, err. Grumpy. She wears a black shirt and a black skirt and, uh, jeans. If they had goth girls in the eighties, they'd look a bit like her. And she's got a gun. And wings. And she glows in the, yeah, she glows in the dark. 'S a bit ... uh. You don't exactly want to meet her when you're out late one night, you know?"

Of course, that's only half of the story; Harris can go on and on about how she looks, but in the end it doesn't really matter. Death has a vibe. (When Harris tries to explain this part to his friends, they laugh and call him a stoner or a hippie or both.) There's no other word for it. It's dark and electric and slightly sticky, and Harris sort of likes it, even if it does scare the shit out of him.

...

Harris meets Death three times. The first, of course, is when she steals his cat. The second time is when his grandfather dies.

This is the third time:

It's early September, and a Tuesday. Harris (now eighteen) has never particularly minded Tuesdays before, mostly because - until now - they've just been there. It should probably be noted that until now were the keywords in the last sentence.

So far, it has not been a good day. After burning his toast and arriving fifteen minutes late for History, Harris has spent most of the day trying not to fall asleep in his seat. Outside, the sky is muddy brown, promising rain.

Among other things.

Harris is about to buy an ice tea (peach) and a sandwich (chicken curry) when Death arrives. He shudders as her cold, slightly damp fingers clamp around his wrist. Her hand reminds him of a huge albino spider, only less hairy and lacking fangs and the appropriate set of eyes.

"Yo," says Death, and her voice is about as lively as a corpse.

"Hullo," says Harris, pleasantly. Death squints at him, eyebrows thick and angled and covering a quarter of her face.

"You're older," she points out, as if this is something Harris hasn't realised himself.

"Yeah," Harris says, "'s called growing up."

"Stop it, you look ridiculous."

Harris grins, wryly and without much humour. "You look the same. Business treating you well?"

Death narrows her eyes at him in a way that makes it look like she's squinting and in really bad need of a pair of glasses.

"Yes," she grumbles, as if this is somehow horrible.

"Who is it this time?" Harris asks, morbid fascination getting the better of him. Death strokes his elbow with a bony thumb, and grins up at him.

"You," she says, and then the truck crashes through the store window.

...

"You could have warned me," Harris mutters, as they stare at the wreckage. (Jesus, Harris thinks, my body is in there somewhere, oh bloody hell-)

"I did."

"There's no way that's a warning."

"It is more than anyone else would get."

There are five consecutive pauses.

"So ... does this mean that I'm special?"

"Well, you're not fading." Death glares at him, as if this is somehow his fault.

"... So?"

"You will be my assistant, then," Death says, and sighs to illustrate exactly what she thinks of this, "until you do."

"Oh, that's just lovely," Harris exclaims, illustrating exactly what he feels about it, too.

fin

a/n: Um. Hi again?

Comments are love. And, you know, title suggestions, because the one I ended up with is sort of ... not what I was going for.