He awoke to the smell of flowers.
Lilacs, to be precise.
His eyes fluttered open as the light, not unlike the sunrise of a pale spring morning, gently cast itself upon him.  For a moment, everything seemed a blur, as though he were stuck in limbo between sobering consciousness and dream-like eternity.  A soft breeze drew by, sweeping his long black hair in his green eyes.
He sat up, brushing his hair aside as he gazed upon his surroundings.
Where the hell was he?
Well, he was in a garden for starters; he lay upon a flagstone path, with bits of moss growing on and in between the slabs of grey and pink rock.  On both sides of the sprawling pathway were low lying shrubs.  Some were rather modestly cared for, while others were more ornately shaped topiaries.  Interspersed, here and there, were lilacs; some grew in small bunches, while others stood lone as small, fragile sentinels.
“Well don't just sit there, Eamon, or you'll get yourself all dirty.  Stand up, for goodness sake!”
Eamon turned, surprised; behind him the path continued towards a white gazebo, occupied by a single woman.  She appeared to be elderly, her face lined with faint wrinkles, and silvery-grey hair that spilled down over her shoulders.  She was seated at a small round table, with a strangely elegant yet modest porcelain tea set placed upon its surface.
As he stood, he realized that he was fully clothed except for his feet, which brushed against the moss covered flagstone as he moved.  Drawing closer, he noticed the gazebo was situated on an arch above a small ravine, clear enough for him to see the small rounded stones at its bottom.
He stepped into the gazebo, and hesitated.  The woman gave him a look of mild impatience.  “Well, then, go ahead and have a seat, dear.  The chair isn't going to bite you.”
He pulled the chair out and sat down.  “Who are you?”
She cradled a small delicate cup in her hands and sighed.  “Well, as good a place to start as any, I suppose; though, if you don't mind my saying so, you already know me.”
Eamon's brow furrowed somewhat.  “I do?  Then how come-”
“Oh, don't be so surprised dear, everyone knows me.”  She took a sip from her cup, and added wryly, “Or rather, everyone thinks they know me.  Truth is, I almost never quite live up to everyone's expectations, if you'll pardon the saying.”
“I'm sorry?”
Her eyes widened some, and she set down her teacup with a slightly abashed look on her face, “Oh, I do apologize.  I keep forgetting, you don't realize it yet.”
“What do you mean?  Realize what?”
“All in good time, young man.  Now, would you care for some tea?”
“Look, lady,” he said exasperatedly, rising from his seat, “I don't know what your game is-”
“Sit down, Mr. Harper.”  She flashed him a stern look, like an endearing grandmother would to a troublesome child.
He did as she said, and she took another cup and poured an amber colored liquid into it.  “Thank you.  Now, have some tea, young man, I insist.”  She offered him the porcelain cup, which he accepted.  He took a sip; he couldn't quite tell what kind it was, but it was pleasant nonetheless.
“Now, I realize I'm being a bit tiresome, Mr. Harper, so please bear with me, but what do you remember last?”
“Well, I...”  He paused, looking away momentarily, then back.  “I'm not sure.” he confessed, feeling more than a little confused.  “”I woke up this morning, I had breakfast, and...everything else seems fuzzy...” he took another sip, and added, “But I know I did something.  How else did I get here?”  He paused.  “Bloody hell, where am I anyway?”
“Don't curse Eamon, it isn't becoming of you.”  She set her cup down on a white dish and looked him squarely in the eye.  With a start, Eamon realized that her irises were a deep rose color.  Her eyes now carried a piercing quality to them, and she said, “Now, before I say anything else, Eamon, I need you to understand that whatever I tell you, you have to believe me.  No matter how impossible it may seem, you need to accept it as the truth.  Do you understand?”
Confused, he nodded.
She took a deep breath, and released it, saying, “You're dead, Eamon.”
He blinked.  “What?”
She closed her eyes and sighed.  “After all this time, it still hasn't gotten any easier.  You're dead, Eamon, I am sorry.”
“But that's impossible.”
She folded her arms, looking exasperated and resigned.  “I am truly sorry, Eamon, but you need to accept this before we go any further.”
“Alright.  If I'm dead, how did I die, and why am I talking to you?”
“First of all, I am Death; second, I cannot tell you how you died, nor can you remember unless you accept it first.”
Eamon fell silent, then, “I don't believe you.”
“Eamon, look me in my eyes, and answer this: Am I lying to you?”
They looked into each other for a few tense moments; then, Eamon sighed, answering, “No, you're not.  I don't know why I'm saying this, but I believe you.”
“Thank you, Eamon.  Most people take longer than this.”
“But,” he hesitated, “If you're Death, then how come...well, I was expecting something more...imposing.”
As she raised her teacup, Death answered, “As I said before, I hardly live up to many people's expectations.”  She grimaced, “I am sorry, that was in poor taste, wasn't it?  I should be more mindful.”
Eamon managed a laugh.  “Well, I can't say I'm disappointed!”  He fell silent once more, then murmured, “If I'm dead, how come I don't remember it?”
Death sighed and lowered her teacup again.  “Most do not.  In your case, it was sudden and rather...well...violent, I suppose.”
“How did it happen?”
She paused, mulling her thoughts over.  “Well, it was an...accident, of sorts.”  She raised her hand as Eamon opened his mouth to speak, “That is all I am going to tell you for now; everything else will come shortly.”
She resumed drinking her tea, and Eamon stared at her with uncertainty.  Hesitantly, he brought his hands around the delicate cup before him and raised it.
Wait.
He paused, furrowing his brow as he gazed downward.
There was...something, back in the corner of his mind.  Just out of his grasp, just barely, but it was there nonetheless.
“Just reach for it, Eamon.”  He jerked up at the sound of her voice.  “The sooner, the better.”
With reluctance, he closed his eyes, trying to dredge up the memory.  An image formed in his mind, a vision of sorts; a single oak door, not locked, but closed tight.
He felt a hand, weathered and delicate, grasp his own.  “Open the door, Eamon.”
He did.



At first, there was darkness.  Nothingness.  Pure oblivion, just him and all of eternity stretched out before his eyes.
Then, just as suddenly, there was everything.
Light blinded his eyes, and he was torn between shielding them from the sun, and protecting his ears from the sounds that assailed him.  As he adjusted, he opened his eyes and looked around.
New York, New York.  Just as it had been this morning.
He gaped, turning around, looking every which way.
Was it real?  Was any of this real?  Did everything that happened just now, actually happen?  He continued looking around, then froze.
He saw himself, moving straight towards him; a strange thought that was, going through his head.
The first thing he immediately noticed was the books he was carrying.  Edgar Allen Poe, Howard Philip Lovecraft, Thomas Stearns Elliot...good god, did he always carry that many books at once?
Another thing he noticed was just how unkempt he was.  His clothes were wrinkled, his shoes were untied, and his hair kept going astray.  A few strands would blow into his face, and he absentmindedly clutched at his books and swept the hair away.
He started to run a bit.  “Hey.”
His other self kept moving, his expression somewhat absentminded.
He went faster, “Hey, wait.”
Still, he elicited no reaction.  As Eamon stopped, his other self moved past him, and he threw his arms up.  “Hey, come on!”
He stopped, looking around with a look of puzzlement, and for a brief moment, Eamon dared to hope.
Then, his other self shrugged, and continued his absentminded gait.  Eamon threw up his arms.  “Great,” he shouted, “brilliant!”  He tried to catch up with himself.  “Look, if you could just stop, please-”
“Hey, Eamon!”
They both turned, startled.
The voice had come from a tall, lanky woman whose gingery hair fluttered as she moved, her green eyes smiling as she ran.
His other self nearly dropped the small mountain of books he carried.  “B-Beth!”  They stammered in unison.  The book-carrier stopped again, looking around in confusion.
She ran up, pushing her hair aside, and smiled.  “Hey, how's it going?”
“Oh, I-I'm...fine...” he said, looking around still.
Beth gave him a puzzled look.  “You don't look so good.  Are you feeling alright?”
His book-self laughed, “Yeah, I'm good, just...hearing ghosts, I guess.  Um...hey, do you have the time?”
She glanced towards her wrist.  “It's...10:53.”
He almost dropped his books again.  “Holy crap, I'm late!”
Beth shrugged.  “Well, that makes two of us.”
They began walking, and Eamon hung back, trying to remember what happened from here.  His other self shifted his books awkwardly, and murmured, “So, um, I was wondering...”
Beth smiled, “You wanna go out for coffee some time?”
He stared at her, gaping somewhat, and blushed; an awkward smile formed on his lips.  “Sure, I'd like that.”
Eamon made a soft groan.  Did he always come off as such a dork?
As they approached the corner, the light changed, signaling for them to continue.  As they crossed, a feeling, a sort of ominous certainty, settled in Eamon's gut.  As they reached the other end of the crosswalk, Eamon's other self stopped and groaned, “Oh, fuck!”
Beth stopped, puzzled.  “What is it?”
Eamon glanced to the side, and paused.  A red SUV approached from the distance.
“I forgot my laptop.”
A it drew closer, Eamon noticed it was starting to weave from side to side.
His other self turned and walked back, “Listen, I'll catch up with you later.”
Cold realization struck him in the stomach.  “No, no, wait-”
Beth flashed another smile, “Alright, see you later.”
“No, STOP-”
Darkness claimed him once more.



His eyes flew open; jerking upwards, he gasped, as small hands tried to restrain him.
“Oh my god-”
“Eamon, it's all right.”
“No, no, oh god no!”
“Eamon-”
“Let me go, oh god-”
“Eamon, you need to calm down!”
Her hands, despite looking so frail, were strong.  He stopped flailing, gasping for breath, eyes wide.
“It's all right,” she soothed, “You're safe now.”
Eamon shook his head vehemently.  “No, no it's not all-”
“Eamon, there is something else I need to tell you.”
He paused, shaking, then, “What?”
Death released her hold of him.  “Have some tea first.”
He shook his head, “No, tell me-”
“Drink the tea, Eamon, trust me!”
He paused, still shaking.  Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the small porcelain.  Hands jittering, he brought the cup to his lips and drank.  A moment later, he began to feel more calm, sedate.
Death took hold of her own cup, “There, now isn't that better?”
He nodded.
“Now, I ask you again: do you trust me, Eamon?”
Again, he nodded.  “Yes, I do.”
Death paused, considering her words.  “Right now, Eamon, you are standing at a crossroads.”
He stared at her; then, “What does that mean?”
“It means, Eamon, that you have a choice.  There are circumstances regarding you, setting you apart from everyone else.”
Slowly, he laid down the porcelain.  “What are they?”
“First, if you so wish, you can follow me.”
Puzzled, he asked, “Follow you where?”
“Someplace good.  That is all I am allowed to say.”
He remained silent.  Then, “You said there was another choice.”
“You can come with me, or you can go back.”
He stared at her.  “Could you repeat that?”
“You are strong, Eamon.  Far stronger than you realize.”
He hesitated.   “But, you said I'm dead.”
Death took his cup and set it down.  Grasping his hands, she said, “I also told you that you are different.”
“I don't-”
“Eamon.”
He paused.
“Close your eyes.”
He did so.
“Now open them again, and look to your right.”
He did as she said, and squinted as a light cast itself upon him.  At the gazebo's edge, was a large circle, from which the light emanated.  A soft humming seemed to fill his head, and a pleasant warmth drew across him.
“Now, look to your left.”
He looked.  Down the stone path, was the oak door.
Softly, Death murmured, “You have an eternity to look forward to, Eamon.  But you only have one life.”
He released her grip.  Slowly, he stood up, and made his way to the door.  He grasped the handle, and paused.  Turning, he whispered, “Thank you.”
Grasping her cup again, she said, “Oh, don't thank me, Eamon.  It was your choice to live, after all.
He turned back, and pushed the door open.  White light fell across him, and he stepped through.  As the light enveloped him, he turned again and yelled, “One more thing.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“What kind of tea is that?”
Death smiled.  “You would like to know, wouldn't you?”



Pain.
Oh god, it hurt!
“Eamon!”
“Lady, you need to let him go.”
“Eamon, don't go!”
Groaning, his eyes fluttered open.  “Beth?”
She sagged with relief.  Grasping him against her, she murmured, “Oh god, Eamon, don't you EVER-”
“Ow, ow-”
She released him, eyes wide.  “Oh, god, I'm sorry!”
He gazed upward, panting.  The sky.  Oh, it had never been so beautiful before!
“Beth.”
“Yes, Eamon?”
“Have I told you you're beautiful?”
She laughed.
As he closed his eyes, he felt hands grab him, raising him from the ground, and placing him on a stretcher.  As he opened his eyes again, he looked down at his feet, which were bare.
“Hey Beth!”
“What?”
“Grab my stuff, will you?”
She laughed again.  “Only if you call me, mister!”
“Can do!”
As they loaded him in the back of an ambulance, he laid his head back and sighed.
“Eamon.”
He looked back up.
From outside the ambulance stood Death.  Smiling, she said two words.
“Good luck.”