By Palomi Sai Vemala
I was never meant to live. I was damned from the start to suffer and to spread it to everyone around me, to render myself and everyone else to be contained within misery.
When you face death everyday, it starts to warm you. It starts to feel like kindling a fire, hot and ready, the wood gnawing away from the persistent flames that keeps growing and growing until it consumes the dark embers, then greedily continues to consumes you whole. Until it takes over your entire body, leaving behind a shell. What once was in this body had left, with no traces - it was almost scary to think that there ever was a human living in it.
The air around me feels heavy, thick with the scent of burning ash. It stings my lungs, a fitting punishment for every word I swallow, each one being a bitter coal. The fire which was once a
comfort, now crackles with mocking laughter as it devours me. It whispers in its gravelly voice, of the life I never had, of the warmth I never felt, of the connections I never dared to make.
But even a hollow shell casts a shadow and in the thrashing orange glow, there is a silhouette—a distorted reflection of what could have been. Is it hope? Or is it the fire’s mockery again?
He knew that he was dying. Slowly, yes, but surely. The darkness that slowly started from his lungs had spread throughout his body, eating its way through him. It seizes his heart and claws its way through his ribcage, banging against them with each breath he takes. It haunts his feet, threatening to take away each footstep he takes.
“Cherish it; cherish it all before you regret not taking more steps. One day, I will come. I will take over; I will render you useless and your family helpless. I will take away everything.
Everything.”
A cough racked his body; the itching sensation was too much. It was a dry, rasping sound,
sending a wave of pain across his chest. It was a terrible comfort, really; the pain was a persistent reminder that he was still alive.
A memory crossed his mind, the image of him as a little boy flashed across his mind. Him looking up at the fireflies while he sat above the soft grass, the sun just setting below as his dad called him back inside the house.
“Remember?” the darkness whispered. “Remember? When it was all good, when your father still loved his family, when you could run.”
He tried to call out to his mother but midway he realised, his words failing him that his mother had gone outside.
“Ma?” he said in a voice shrank to a small form. “Ma I’m scared.”
He was still the same little boy but he knew. He knew he could never say those words to her. He could never tear his walls down; never expose himself, never, never, never. He sunk into the bed beneath him, pulling the comforter up as he shut his eyes tight. And he laid on the bed with his knees to his chest, for god knows how long before the time passed, the hot afternoon winds and blue sky turning orange with cool breezes passing through the window and setting the sound of the wind chimes.
With the soft tinkle of the glass, he felt a cool hand press against forehead. The heat that was rising in his body slowed as if the time shifting around him paused.
“You’re dying,” a voice above him said.
He looked up, expecting a monstrous visage or a bony reaper in its black cloak, instead there was a boy. A boy dressed in white who had an expression on his face that he couldn’t decipher.
"You know, don't you?" she continued. "The darkness in your lungs, spreading."
The boy lifted his hand and he wished for him to put it back as the coolness dissipitated. He could only nod, all the words he tried to speak caught up in his throat.
A faint, knowing smile played on his lips. "There's no shame in that. It comes for us all eventually."
He found himself focusing on the soft clinking of the wind chimes, the sound strangely calming amidst the turmoil within him.
"What happens now?" he rasped, the words rough and unfamiliar.
“We sit and wait. You can do anything you want and I can do anything that you would like me to do. Your soul is still not at rest so until then, you’re stuck in a state of being dead and alive.”
He shifted around the sheets, unsure of what to do next. “You’ll do anything?”
“Except for contacting the living, yes.”
“Can you…clean my room? I know it’s bizarre but if I can’t say bye to my mother at least I don’t want her cleaning up my mess after my death.”
His eyebrows quirked up, intrigued by the request and answered back, “Of course.”
The dying boy looked at him for a while, his eyes simply training the fluid movement of his body: swiftly picking up the spare clothes from the floor, walking outside to pick up a basket and
placing the clothes in, tidying the desk, cleaning the glasses and windows, shifting around through his prideful rock collection, and polishing each of them with such precision. When he looked at him move, he didn’t feel the green-eyed snake circling around his neck; rather, he felt at peace. He felt at peace after so, so, long. He then found himself asking, “What’s your name?”
The motion of the boy stopped, as though the question had hit a pause. He looked up from the
soft linen he was holding and in a soft voice said, “Azrael.” His voice strained as he pronounced the word in a slow manner.
“Azrael,” he echoed. As the guardian went back to cleaning the room, he let out a small laugh. “You are the first person to ever ask for my name.”
“You mean, no one ever tried to strike up a conversation with you?” He blurted it out without a second thought, as though it seemed like the last thing he was expecting to hear. Azrael tilted his head to the side, and the boy could not help but be reminded of Nessler’s newly adopted puppy, who would always put its head to the side when it couldn’t understand something. Returning to the oranges he held, he placed them into a ceramic cerulean bowl with swirling whites, which made it look like the sea.
With that task done, he eyed the mount of books in the corner and said, “Not really, no. I mean, do not get me wrong—they do talk to me, but they asked questions that any other dying person would ask. Surprisingly, most of them accepted their deaths, and some did not take it well; they were hard to pursue. Is my family okay? What about my lover? I didn’t water the plant today. I don’t want to die. Is there an afterlife? Will I see God? Is He going to punish me? I forgot to feed my cat; do you think you can do that?” With each question, he arranged the books on the shelf. They were all thick, covered in dust, and leather-bound. Thick carvings were made with golden swirls and fancy lettering, and they smelled strangely of smoke and pine.
“Well… did you feed the cat?”
“No, I cannot. I am restricted from entering the human realm unless a soul must be taken, which means that unless someone is dying, I am unable to get into a connection with them.”
“So you didn’t feed the cat,” he said with a slight pout playing at his lips. He barked out a laugh and set the books down unable to hold them while his shoulders shook.
“My apologies,” he smiled and leaned against the desk, “Do you like cats?”
“More than anything,” he sighed. “When I was able to go out, I would literally try to pet them
all. Ever since forever I’ve been wanting a cat but my mother made it very clear that they’re not good for my health.”
“And yet you still go after them.”
“Let’s keep that a secret between the two of us."
They smiled each other as he went back to putting the books in place, “Secrets are safe with me.”
Once that task was done Azrael looked at him and asked gesturing to the empty space by the window right next to the rocks, “May I sit here?”
“Of course.”
As he settled into his seat, he couldn't help but be reminded of Azrael’s true angelic nature. Silence set in, both of them rested in each other’s presence. If it weren’t for the minimal noise, he wouldn’t notice the little slump of Azrael’s shoulders when his his back leaned against the wall.
Usually, silence irked him. It crawled up his skin and seeped deep into his nerves and would shake his body, sending it into a confused state of danger. It was too much and yet too little.
He settled into his seat, the cool wind blowing in through the window sent a shiver up his spine. Despite the discomfort, a strange sense of peace washed over him. Here, in Azrael's presence, the silence felt different. It wasn't the gnawing emptiness he usually experienced, but a quietude filled with a unspoken understanding. Silence with him was warm, comforting. Death may have burnt him, but Azrael was like a soothing balm. It felt like time had slowed down and nothing
could get to him now. Yet, the old aversion lingered, a tremor beneath the surface. He stole a glance at Azrael, who had then closed his eyes. Did the silence bother him too? Or was it
something else entirely? The weight of the unanswered question pressed down on him, a subtle echo of the silence he was trying to ignore.
Watching him slumped against the wall, his mind wandered off and without a thought he asked, “Is it tiring? I mean collecting the souls, meeting the dead—all of that.”
“I don’t collect souls,” he said as he got back up, smoothing out the white fabric of his pants and rearranging the shawl around his shoulders, “I merely help them be brought to peace so that they have a clear mind and soul to go see their trials, to say it simply.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”
He smiled. “No, it’s alright. Humans can make mistakes. In fact, in order to discover, you need to make mistakes. To answer your question though, I don’t have a choice. Even if it is tiring, I have no choice but to keep going on with what I do. To stop means to perish,” he stopped, hesitating over what he would say next.
“It is tiring, however. But I’m not human am I? I cannot give the excuse of being tired to take rest. Somewhere, there is always someone or something dying. The world is dying, if I should put
it that way.”
“You can be tired here,” he said, “I mean, I know I’m dying and all, but you can tired while I last here. I’m fine my soul is clean or whatever..” he trailed off unsure on how to continue in his
efforts on comforting.
“You honestly,” Azrael looked up and began to say, “are the last person to say that.” “What?”
He dismissed his question with a wave of his hand and replied, “I appreciate your efforts though.”
The silence settled back in this time again. Night was settling in and his mother still was not back. After the crickets outside started chirping, Azrael suddenly shot up and murmured, “That can’t be possible.”
He lifted himself back up against the pillow and looked at him, curiosity spread across his face. “Your soul, it’s healing. It’s not dying anymore.”
The boys eyes widened. A warm wave of hope washed over him. He could survive? He rasped out a question, his voice barely a whisper, “Are you sure?”
The figure by the window turned, its form shimmering slightly in the moonlight. "Yes. The damage is mending itself. Slowly, but surely."
Azrael's gaze darted to the window. The last rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across the room, but the oppressive feeling that had filled the house earlier was gone. A fragile hope bloomed in his chest.
"What does this mean?" he asked, his voice stronger this time.
The figure tilted its head. "It means you may recover. You may get better."
But along with the wave of hope came along sadness. Does this mean he won’t get to meet Azrael again?
Almost as if he could hear his thoughts, the angel spoke up, “I am your guardian. Doesn’t matter if you’re alive or not, even if you die tomorrow or when you’ve reached the age of sixty and your bons are withering, I will always be the one to escort you.”
A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips, the thought of a constant guardian, a presence watching over him, was not something he would dare to imagine.
He looked at the figure, its form bathed in the soft moonlight. "Will things be different then?" he asked.
“Maybe. Your life could get better enough to even bring a cat home.” They both laughed. A pause.
“I guess it’s until then.” “Yeah…I guess.”
His mother came back home that night, apologising for the late arrival because of the breakdown of her car.
“That old red thing was going to give away someday,” she sighed.
Tthey sat in silence, a distant melody of the piano started playing and he leaned his head back
against the pillows. it must be the neighbour, their son had recently bought a piano and was eager to learn.
“Did something good happen Mateo? You seem happy,” his mother had stated as she set the
small wooden table tray on his bed and placed the hot soup on top. He stooped down to take a sip and immediately regretted it, the metallic taste burning his tongue as he put the spoon back down. He thought for a while, thinking on whether to tell his mother. Maybe she’d put him into psychotherapy this time? He wanted to open his mouth and tell. .
I met death today. He was beautiful. He was kind and is thoughtful. He likes my jokes. He’s patient with me and answers every question I have and doesn’t make me feel lonely. His hair
shines when the sunlight falls on it and he has a couple of white strands. He looks my age, but his eyes give away.
Mateo stared at the chipped blue paint on his tray table, swirling the lukewarm soup forgotten in his spoon. He glanced at his mom, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain meeting death in a sun-dappled meadow, a place that felt more real than his own room? Death wasn't like the skeletal figures he'd seen in movies. He was more like a forgotten melody, bittersweet and tinged with a strange beauty. Mateo gripped the spoon tighter. He had more questions, and for some reason, he felt death was the only one who could answer them.
Until then, perhaps someday he'd find the answers he craved, but for now, he focused on the
warmth of the soup set before him, the sound of his mom humming in the kitchen, and the simple beauty of ordinary life.
By Palomi Sai Vemala
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