Faith preferred the comfort of shadow and the subtle deception of dim streetlamps over the relentless monotony of daylight. And yet she stood, her bare feet sifting through the cold, damp sand, waiting for the sunrise. Her life had become small, fitting on the proverbial head of a pin, folding in on itself until it was empty, the angels dancing elsewhere.
They hadn’t gone far. The faint glow of their wings painted the horizon in subtle shades of rose and honey. They paused to admire their handiwork, and then sped across the water in a fleeting soft shoe, casting shimmering fingers upon the pearl and vanilla shells that dotted the wet sand like glazed breadcrumbs. In defeat, the moon gathered its silvery bobbles and moved on.
But Faith wasn’t alone. The ocean tugged in her ears, a whisper, a promise, the only voice left. It lapped at her feet with a cool tongue. She followed the rhythm of the waves until the water nuzzled her chin. A spray of salt brushed her lips as she leaned back and embraced the comforting pools of silica and gray that pulled her under. But then darkness came on velvet wings. It beckoned with delicate claws, making its own promise, one she feared she deserved more. She gasped and rose above the waves, looking for the shore.
Death, or perhaps a bible salesman, stood on the beach among stray clumps of seaweed and driftwood. Faded, like old news print against the crisp edges of a new page, he stood tall, sporting a dingy black suit and a checkered bow tie with matching wingtips.
“Good morning!” he called out.
Faith took a hesitant step forward even as the ocean drew her back.
Death smiled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. He withdrew a crumpled cigarette pack from his suit pocket.
“I don't suppose you have a light?”
Faith shook her head. She moved closer, waist-deep now.
“Not a problem.” A small flame appeared in his cupped hand, briefly illuminating his face as he leaned in to light his cigarette. He stared at her as he inhaled and then tossed the stub on the sand. Crumpled and vulgar, it sat among the polished shells like a vagrant in a china shop. Gray haze swirled over the smoldering tip, releasing a tiny cancerous tongue into the air. Mortified, Faith took another step closer to shore.
A lone seagull flew in meandering circles above their heads. It called out, a mournful cry rising above the waves.
Death looked up at it and scowled. He straightened his tie. “My apologies.” With hands buried in his pockets, he headed across the beach.
Faith stared at the cigarette. It trembled, shivering in the encroaching light. A brush with death and now it lived. An abomination. Around her, the ocean pulled, whispered, scolded. This was not her concern. And yet, she couldn’t take her eyes off that thing, bent and writhing, digging its way into the sand.
She fought the tide and trudged back to shore with the sodden ends of her shirt slapping her knees. The cigarette barely registered in her hand as she picked it up. It played possum in her palm, motionless, waiting. Faith hesitated for a moment and then sprinted toward Death.
He was in a parking lot, rummaging through the trunk of an old Crown Victoria. Myopic headlights scrutinized her through cracked lenses as she circled to the back, skirting bald tires, and a dented fender. If he noticed her, he gave no sign, reaching further into its metal chops. Curious, she leaned in and was disappointed by an obvious dearth of bibles or body parts. Instead, rows of cheerless boxes, most ripped or mangled beyond repair stared up at her. It seemed Death sold water purification kits, and crummy ones to boot.
Faith fidgeted for a moment, aware of how she must look. “I believe this is yours." She offered the cigarette butt to him on an open palm. It pulsed in her hand. It took everything in her to not drop it and grind it into the asphalt.
His shoulders tensed, bones clicking under the suit fabric. He shuffled the boxes tighter against the trunk walls, even resorting to crushing a few to create more space.
“Sir?”
His hands, seamless and pale like porcelain gloves, froze, poised on the trunk lid. He lowered his head, eyes closed. “If that's mine and I'm not saying that it is, then why do you have it? It's rude, criminal even, to take things that don't belong to you.”
“It's just a cigarette,” she said, hating herself, knowing it wasn’t true. It began to crawl up her wrist, tiny teeth burrowing. She stood paralyzed, feeling the rot spread beneath her skin.
Death slammed the trunk shut and leaned against it, swaying slightly as he watched her. Then he scowled and plucked the cigarette butt from her arm. It made a mewling sound as he crushed it between his fingers. He dropped it, lifeless to the asphalt and offered her a crumpled business card.
Faith took it, careful to not let their fingers meet. The print was uneven and smeared. Owen Zeigler, specialist in collection and delivery. “It’s a little vague,” she said.
“It's adequate.”
She stared at the strange man; odd and vaguely nefarious, best left alone. “I’m sorry.” She handed the card back to him. “This was a mistake.” She turned toward the small apartment complex behind them.
“Wait.” His voice crawled up her neck. “You’re going the wrong way.”
She looked over her shoulder at the monster in bargain polyester. He stood motionless except for his hands, those perfect hands, twitching and writhing with a mind of their own.
An elderly jogger passed between them without a glance, his labored breathing blended with the rhythm of the surf. He crossed over to the beach, remnants of an abandoned sandcastle toppling in his path. A young couple followed, carrying a Chihuahua in a tote bag. Their eyes skipped over the old man in the baggy suit and the woman with hollow eyes with less regard than one gives to a discarded beach umbrella and flip-flops. Only the dog took notice, its wide eyes glued to Faith, turning its head to watch her as the couple moved on.
Ziegler cleared his throat.
Faith stepped away, still feeling the weight of the dog’s gaze. But Ziegler’s stare was worse. “Why did you say I’m going the wrong way?”
He gazed up at a small group of seagulls swooping in lazy arcs over the beach. “Ask them.”
Their cries filled her ears, distant and demanding. She thought of Alice’s rabbit, always late, never quite where he needed to be. Behind her a gentle wind tugged, prodding her toward the ocean with cool fingers. It would be easy to follow, one step after the other until the steps ran out.
A click of wingtips echoed across the pavement. Ziegler was walking toward the apartments, head bowed.
“Where are you going?”
Ziegler paused, running smooth hands through sparse hair. “I’m not here for you, but you just won’t go away.”
The air grew cold in the gathering sunlight.
Hell with him. Faith ran past Ziegler and into her apartment. Nothing had changed. It was as she had left it, everything in place, clean, neatly folded, nothing left to do or fix.
She wandered into the small kitchen, aware of angry voices from the next apartment. They started low and then grew, one pleading, one unforgiving. She reached out, the wall spongy beneath her fingertips. The voices peaked and something heavy fell to the floor. No aftermath, just silence.
Faith went to the back patio and leaned cautiously over the short dividing wall.
“Marci?”
Her neighbor appeared; damp hair pulled back in a pony tail. She stared vacantly ahead, swaying slightly in the morning light, her bottom lip starting to swell.
Drawn towards her warmth, Faith reached across the divide.
Unmoved, Marci stared at the beach; arms limp by her sides.
Ziegler appeared over Marci’s shoulder; an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. Startled, Marci vanished into the depths of her apartment.
He lit the cigarette.
“What did you do?” Faith whispered.
“Oh, it wasn’t me.”
The corners of his lips curled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening into dark holes, leaving only the whites to stare out.
“Who are you?”
“A collector.”
“Of what?”
“I think you know.”
The cigarette dangled from his lips. It shivered slightly in the sun.
“You keep that away from Marci.”
“I’m not here for her.” He crossed the dividing line and pulled Faith close. “But tell me this. What do you see?”
“Right now, I only see you.”
He smiled and brushed the hair from her face with a cool hand. “And there’s the rub.” The cigarette struggled against his clenched teeth. It gasped, casting a patch of frost against her cheek.
“You should go.” He gave her a gentle push.
The surf mingled with the muted call of seagulls. Their voices drifted into the ether, leading her back to the beach.
Marci stood in the parking lot, facing her apartment. Faith paused next to her friend and followed her gaze. A shadow moved behind Marci's window, then doubled-back, rippling the curtain. It leaned into the fabric, pulling them apart. Perfect white hands pressed against the glass.
Faith fled across the sand as oblivious beach goers passed her on either side. She followed the soft flutter of gleaming wings as they rose higher into the morning sky. She ran, each step lighter than the last until nothing was left and the world folded one last time, her pin complete.
In the distance, a crowd gathered. Something had washed up on shore. They stood in shocked silence, some holding their children tight.
And somewhere far away, a car trunk slammed shut, as Death drove away in a black Crown Victoria.
