She sat cross-legged on the bed. It was a simple room, really, not much to it; a plain four poster bed, white walls, a radio, a few pictures randomly tacked to the wall, a few piles of dirty clothes. From the radio, Everclear preached the goodness of AM radio. Outside the window it was dark and raining lightly. The storm was building, and -- as proved the distant rumbles of thunder -- it would explode quite soon. And in this room, there she sat: a girl of no more than 17 with a head full of flaming red hair, blazing blue eyes, and a bottle of sleeping pills clutched in one hand.

She had been contemplating this for a long time. Brushing aside a few errant strands of fiery hair, the girl stuck her lower lip out in thought. If she were to do this now, it would all be over with and everyone could get on with their lives. She would be out of the way
(out of sight, out of mind)
and out of pain. The girl squinched her eyes shut, staring at the bottle. She read the words silently. Do not use while pregnant.
(Well, no problem there.)
Use of this product in excessive amounts may become addictive
(I'm only going to need it once.)
or even deadly.
(Ha, ha. Great joke. Moving on.)
Swallow with plenty of liquid.
(Oh, I've got your liquid.) The girl smirked drily as she shot a look to the bottle of Jack Daniels beside the bed.
(I've got your liquid right here.)
Looking over the label again, she didn't find anything more of interest and sat back. It seemed as if everything were ready. She had written the note -- it was right there on the table by the door -- and she had even scribbled up a will -- that was beneath the bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh, well. They'd find it eventually. A little sigh slipping from her mouth, the girl reached over and began to turn off the radio. A song from Lifehouse, however, had suddenly begun to drift from the little black box, so she pulled her hand back. She liked Lifehouse. Another long silence went by while the band crooned that they were hanging by a moment there with her.
(Not bloody likely.)
Then she shrugged and started struggling with the bottle of pills -- damn child-proof caps. Oh, well. Time go, Joe. It's been fun, now I'm blowin' this joint. Ta ta, all.

There was a shadow in her corner.

The girl paused uncertainly, blue eyes drifting over to the darkness that had begun to gather in the far-off nook of her room. That was quite odd; even though the lighting in her room was poor, there shouldn't be such shadows lurking around. And the only logical explanation was that if it wasn't an ordinary shadow, then it had to be something making a shadow.
(Hm. Quite odd.)
She released the bottle of pills to let it lie against the blankets, craning her neck to get a better look at the Thing that had suddenly appeared in the corner of her room.
"Hello?" Legs uncrossed, bare feet were swung over the side of the bed to graze the ground. "Who's there?" The rain had gotten heavier; thunder rumbled, low and threatening. Chewing her lower lip nervously, the girl swung her legs back and forth to simply feel like she was doing something. Her eyes drifted down to a small, messily cut hole in the nice white carpet. Her father had made that to put in another phone line, and she didn't like the idea of an open hole that connected her room to the basement.
(What got up through there and into my room, hm? Snake, mouse, rat, small alligator?)
Shaking her head, she tried again.
"Hello?" That time, she wasn't entirely sure that the greeting was for the darkness. It made her feel good to hear her own voice in this suddenly tense moment.
(Funny. One moment I'm ready to toss the pills down the ole hatch, the next I'm scared stiff of some 'monster' in my room.)
"Hello?"
(It doesn't matter how the job gets done as long as it gets done, right?)
"Anyone there?"
(There's more than one way to skin a cat. As long as the cat gets skinned--)
She twisted a curl of red hair around her finger apprehensively.
"If you're hiding--"
(olly olly oxen free)
"--come out right now or--" Her hand closed around the bottle of Jack Daniels. She lifted it like a weapon.
(tag, you're it)
"--I'll--"

"Elizabeth Holland."

The sudden words frightened her. The girl faltered in her approach of the shadow, nearly dropping the bottle in the process. Her name. How did this Thing know her--
"16 years, four months, twenty days, 3 hours and 5 minutes old." The words were calm and cool as the Thing in the corner pulled out a pocketwatch lazily from its pocket. It glanced at the hands, paused, then nodded. "Precisely." The Thing looked up and grinned, but the face was distorted by shadows. The girl swallowed thickly, hefting the bottle of liquor again.
"How do you know--"
"You had business you were getting to, did you not?" When it spoke again, she was quite sure that it was a man's voice. And -- now that she looked at it -- it did have a human shape. Shoulders, arms, legs, head. Certainly seemed like a person.
(But there are people who are murderers. Theives. Psychos--)
"What do you know about that?" she murmured, allowing a mere 6 feet to lie between her and the Man-Thing.
(--rapists, hitmen, drunks, men out for a good time--)
"Eh, I know." The Man-Thing cracked another shadow riddled grin at her and groped in his pockets. There was a cigarette poised in one hand, she now realized. He looked up and now his smile was apologetic. "Do you have a light?" She shook her head, a silent no, but he found what he was looking for anyway. Producing a small lighter, the Man-Thing clicked it impatiently and a flame sprang to life. For a few moments she was able to see his face -- sharp, cold, mysterious -- then the light was brought to the cigarette, a puff was taken, and out went the fire.
"Who are you?" she murmured, backing away slightly. "And why won't you let me see your face?" The Man-Thing paused to inhale deeply from his cigarette.
"There are those who are meant to see me. Others who are not." He took another puff, then exhaled it into the air. The smoke curled away into the darkness. "Elizabeth Marie Holland, 145 Westminster Lane, 555-7356--"
"Stop that!" Her own voice frightened her; it was high and shrill and utterly panicked . "What do you want?" The Man-Thing took yet another drag from his cigarette, then calmly tapped ashes down onto the nice clean carpet of her room. The light at the end of his smoke glowed faintly; a single red monster eye floating eerily before him.
"I want you, Elizabeth." Her breath caught in her throat. This, this Thing-- this Thing that had crept into her room at night-- it wanted-- it wanted--

It was at that moment she realized the utter stupidity of it all.

Her hand fumbled along the wall, found the lightswitch, and easily flipped on the lights. The Man-Thing shielded his eyes at first, not hurt but surprised. The girl scowled up at him, lowering the bottle of Jack Daniels.
"Libby," she snarled. The Man-Thing blinked.
"Hm?"
"No one calls me Elizabeth. Everyone calls me Libby." His head was tilted slightly as he looked at her. Then he made a little sound of indifference.
"Mm. Libby, then." She could see his face now; it was rather pale, sharply featured. He could've been anywhere between 20 and 30, but certainly no older. Dark hair with a bit of a curl, eyes that were so shadowed Libby couldn't tell their real color. Handsome, her mind decided. Quite.
"Now -- O All-Knowing One -- I want you out of my room." Libby jabbed a finger at the closed door. Her mother had always said she had two things: a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She put them to use whenever possible. The Man-Thing smirked and took a deep breath of his cigarette.
"Mm. Do you?" Libby jerked her head back in irritation.
"Yes," she said through clenched teeth. The Man-Thing grinned at her obvious annoyance and tapped more ashes on the carpet.
"Well. I'll leave after you get done what you had set out to do."
"You don't know anything about what I was going to do."
(Idiot. Stupid idiot. Why else would you have a whole arsenal of sleeping pills and a bottle of Jack Daniels, hm? Stupid, stupid.)
The Man-Thing inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
"Suicide. The killing of one's self. Intent to do great harm to one's own body. Self-inflicted homicide." Libby blinked at him, blue eyes locked with shadowy ones.
"Well--" She chewed her lower lip. "--yes. But that's not the point," she added hurriedly. The Man-Thing smiled calmly at her.
"Go on. I'm waiting." Libby opened her mouth to speak, but he waved his hand impatiently at her. "That's not what I meant. Get along to your business so we can go." A fiery red eyebrow was cocked at that.
"We?"
"Yes!" the Man-Thing cried in frustration, popping the cigarette into his mouth with one hand and pulling out his pocketwatch with the other. "You're already 4 minutes and 23 seconds off schedule!" Then he seemed to visibly calm; the Man-Thing smiled again and tucked away the watch. "But I can wait. Take your time."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Libby spat, slamming the Jack Daniels onto the nightstand harshly. He didn't lose his cool, however -- it seemed that he had promised himself he would be the one in control.
"Funny you should mention Hell," he murmured calmly. When the girl arched a brow, the Man-Thing took a puff of his cigarette. "It's a mortal sin to commit suicide. Hm. But don't let that stop you. Go right on ahead."
"I really wish you'd stop playing games." Libby crossed her arms angrily over her chest. The Man-Thing grinned and tilted his head at her.
"Are you saying you'd like to know who I am?" She nodded pertly. He tapped a fresh bout of ashes onto the carpet. Then the Man-Thing produced, out of thin air, a playing card. The ace of spades.
"Stop with your riddles!" the girl snapped at him. As fast as it had appeared the card was gone, leaving a quite somber-looking shadow.
"Death," he murmured, and took a deep drag from his cigarette. He waited for the shriek, waited for the girl to claw at her face or go white as a ghost. Nothing happened.
"That's it?" she said incredulously. The Man-Thing blinked.
"That doesn't strike fear into your heart?"
"No!" Libby crossed back over to her bed and sat, hand falling on the bottle of sleeping pills. "I've heard of this before. Death shows up and you make a bargain, but it never turns out right so you end up dying anyway." She leaned back on the pillows, looking bored with it all. "It's been done zillions of times in movies, books, the like." Death blinked at her, then puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully.
"Mm. I see." Libby noted this and made a face.
"Don't you know those things give you cancer?" He paused, then his lips crinkled into a sneer.
"Oh, you're funny. That's rich." Death took another breath of his smoke -- quite deliberately -- and blew it out slowly. "Would you get on with it, please? I do have other appointments." The girl, turning the bottle of pills over in her hands, pursed her lips in thought.
"It's a bit insulting," she said calmly, "that you would show up so early. I haven't even done it yet, and I rather feel like you're rushing me into this decision." The cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth.
"Wha--" Libby went on, undaunted.
"Because, you know, I might change my mind at the last second and decide not to do it, and then I've got Death hanging around in my room for no apparent reason." She tsked sadly. "It's just rush rush rush nowadays." Death scowled now, resituating the cigarette between his pale lips.
"I have no time for games, child--"
"Oh, but you have time for games when you're the one playing?" Libby stuck her lower lip out in a mocking pout. "Poor baby. Someone stole your toy and you weren't done playing yet." His dark brows twisted into a glare.
"Elizabeth Marie Holland, you are set to die at exactly 8:37 p.m. and 4 seconds." He leered at her after checking his pocketwatch yet again. "And you're getting closer and closer to liftoff, sweetheart. Countdown is beginning." Libby rocked back and forth on the bed, chirping cheerfully,
"Ready the spacesuits! Rocketboosters fire! One small step for man--" Death took a deep, calming breath. It didn't help.
"Houston, we have a problem," he muttered.

He approached the bed coolly, sitting on its edge in one graceful motion.
"Libby, dear. Your death is set for--"
"8:37, I know." She shook the bottle of pills with a grin. "You just told me." Death's lips thinned.
"Right. Now, listen--"
"But there's not a complete and utter sureness that I am going to kill myself," Libby interjected, pointing at some imaginary logic in the air. "I could go back on my decision at the last moment-- say, 8:37 and 3 seconds -- and then you'd feel quite foolish, wouldn't you?" He stared at her, then produced the pocketwatch for a fourth time.
"But--" He tapped the face of it for emphasis. "--it says--"
"I don't give a damn what the watch says," Libby snapped, dropping the pills and letting them roll across the bedspread towards him. "I'm a woman and I have the right to change my mind." Death's mouth flapped.
"You're not serious." Libby smirked at him.
"I take it that this has never happened before?"
"No!" Death threw his arms up into the air, then crossed them nervously. "Fine, then. I'm giving you one minute to make your decision."
"Oh, and now I've got a time limit on my life-or-death decision?" Libby sneered at him. "How generous of you." This last comment hit him a little harshly. Death jumped to his feet, dislodging the small bottle of sleeping pills.
"That's it! Elizabeth Marie Holland, your death is determined for exactly 8:37 and 4 seconds p.m.! And then -- my dear --" He gave her a cold, unpleasant grin as he removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it. "--you will be coming with me. We'll make a pit stop, and then I'll be on my merry way for the next passenger." He crushed the still smoldering cigarette with his foot, grinding an ugly black mark into the carpet. "So let's get this wagon train rolling, hm?" Libby blinked innocently up at him.
"Well, jeepers, Death, I'd sure like to-- but I don't think I can." Death resisted the urge to snarl at her.
"Why not?" he asked through clenched teeth. "It's 8:36 and 47 seconds, so you'd better--" The girl pointed wordlessly past him, where the little bottle of sleeping pills was rolling towards a hole in the ground. That messy, nasty little portal from her room to the basement. Death's eyes widened. "No, no--"
"Better hurry," she quipped, bouncing a little on the bed. "It's moving pretty fast." Death looked at her, stricken and wide-eyed, then did a most humorous thing. He whirled and, with all the grace of a rhinoceros, dove for the bottle of pills. He crashed into the carpet like a fallen aircraft and -- just inches past his fingers -- the bottle rolled into the hole, out of sight.

Libby collapsed back onto the bed, consumed in giggles.
"What grace! What speed! Tell me, you are a professional ballet dancer, aren't you?" Staring in the hole with wide, disbelieving eyes, Death didn't say anything for a moment. Then he struggled to his feet and turned on her.
"Stupid little wretch! If you won't do it, I'll kill you myself!" Death started towards her with outstretched hands curled into claws and made to strangle her. Libby backed away just a little before saying calmly,
"Excuse me, sir, but do you have the time?" He stopped dead in his tracks -- so to speak -- and fumbled with the pocketwatch.
"It's-- no, no, that can't be right--" Death shook his head. "No, no--" Libby snuck a look at the watch.
"8:37 and 15 seconds. Oh, so sorry, do try again!" She looked up at him with a big grin. His face was a mixture of disbelief, anger, and fear.
"Idiotic wench! Do you realize what this is going to--" Libby raised her eyebrows.
"Me? I think it was entirely your fault. If you hadn't spent such time fooling around, I might've been ready by now. But it didn't turn out that way, did it?" She smirked. "Care to try again?" Death stared at her in shock, and -- just as suddenly as he had appeared -- he was gone. All that remained were two grayish footprints that were rapidly disappearing and the black remnants of his cigarette.

Libby blinked.
"Well. That was interesting." She paused, looking down into the hole. Then she shook her head. "Nah. It's not worth it." Humming merrily to herself, she ripped up the note and the will. The girl brushed away the cigarette ashes and straightened the blankets on her bed. And, with a little spring in her step, Elizabeth Marie Holland headed towards the bathroom to pour out the bottle of Jack Daniels.