"So what is death." he asked the black dressed man waiting for him. He got no answer, empty eye sockets staring back at him.

"No I mean, what is death like?" he tried again.

"You already know." It was more like a though than words, resonating inside him.

"Do I." he said, feeling mildly interested.

The black dressed man turned sweeping his bony arm out, showing him the plains waiting for them. As the man started to walk he followed.

"Am I dead?"

There was no answer.

As he looked down at his feet it seemed as he grew, as if the red dusty plain they were walking was shrinking, each step taking him farther and further.

And as they walked he remembered.

The knife.

'I'm dreaming.' he thought.

The blood, so much more than he ever had imagined.

'Black' he thought, not red, the color

The plains now long gone, disappearing under his feet, shrouded in black and red.

Someone crying?

The forlorn sound slicing his soul, chill as a cleaver.

"I have a soul, don't I?" he whispered at the silent back threading the air before him.

Red falling into black.

The knife smeared black, his last memory.

'Please' he prayed. 'I have a soul, don't I?"

His last thought, 'it's good that I did it in the bathtub.'

It would be so much easier to clean.