The post The Painter | A Short Story appeared first on Elliot Kessler.

            Wyatt tried to remember his date. Nothing came to him. Then he remembered. It never occurred. Why?

            His car had spun out of control. He slammed into a streetlight, and another car came careening into the driver’s side!

            Wyatt sat up with a start. Where was he now? Did glass from the shattered windshield penetrate his eyes and blind him? He felt around. Then he realized that he couldn’t feel, and he couldn’t hear his own breath, his own heartbeat. He wasn’t breathing. He laid a hand on his chest only to find that his heart wasn’t beating either. What was going on? He felt the slow build of panic inside him.

            A light appeared in the distance. So, Wyatt could see after all. The yellow light was small and faint. As time passed, it grew and seemed to become brighter and brighter. Wyatt covered his eyes with his hand, only to find that he didn’t have a hand. He looked down, and he didn’t even have a body! Wyatt tried to gasp, but he still couldn’t breathe. He looked back up to see that the yellow light was very near now.

            Upon closer inspection, Wyatt saw that the yellow light was a bright, flame-lit lamp held by a man with slick, black hair and a neatly pressed black suit and tie. The tie had a pattern on it that, after his eyes adjusted to the light, Wyatt thought was made up of skulls, but he could not tell for sure.

            The strange man looked at a tiny little notebook which he held in his left hand, the opposite hand which held the lamp.

            “Wyatt Hansley, is it?” asked the man. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s been another busy night, I’m afraid. It’s a shame, really. But I’ve gotten used to it by now. Although, I’m not sure if that is a good thing.”

            The man spoke with a thick English accent. Wyatt hadn’t heard too many accents like that in Oregon and found it most interesting.

            “Who are you?” asked Wyatt. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

            The man smiled, but the smile seemed somehow sad and sympathetic. “I believe that I can answer all three of those questions with one simple answer. I am Mr. Death.”

            Wyatt gaped at the man. “You’re who?”

            “I just said, Mr. Death.”

            Wyatt took a second to process this. “So, that car crash…?”

            “It was fatal, yes.”

            Wyatt thought for a moment more. Millions of questions raced through his head. Most likely, he had time to ask all of them. “So, what I believe about the universe—my Catholic religion, I mean—it’s false?”

            “Bits and pieces are accurate,” said Death, “but reality is far more complicated than any human could comprehend.”

            “Any human? You say that like you aren’t human.”

            “Correct.”

            “So, what are you?”

            “There are no words in any human language where you could even remotely understand what I am.”

            Wyatt nodded. “Fair enough.”

            Wyatt took a moment to remember another one of the questions he had. “My date, that secretary, Haley, is she ok?”

            Death nodded. “Yes. Perfectly adequate.”

            Wyatt hesitated. “Is she, you know, worried about me?”

            “She’s been stood up before. She thinks that you simply don’t care for her. Then she will hear about your death, and she will be saddened. However, no tears for you will come from her. She barely knew you.”

            Wyatt felt as though his mind had stopped working. He forgot all about his other questions and remained there, stunned. The only thing that came to his mind and made its way to his lips was “Oh.”

            Death gave him another sad smile. “She wasn’t the one for you if that should bring any comfort. It wouldn’t have worked out.”

            “Who was the one for me?”

            “Your girlfriend when you were a sophomore in college,” said Death. “You broke up with her after a fight, but she was the one you were meant for.”

            Wyatt desperately wanted to cry, to have warm tears run down his cheeks and sob with his head in his hands. He didn’t, however, because he physically couldn’t. Physically, Wyatt didn’t exist anymore. He was merely consciousness.

            “Did I do anything of meaning in my life?” he asked.

            Death raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

            “Was I remembered? Was I worth anything? Did I affect the future?”

            Death smiled. “Let’s take a look.”

            Suddenly, Wyatt found himself floating hundreds of feet in the air above Portland. This was where he had moved after college, condemned to work at a small insurance company in a tiny cubicle for the rest of his life.

            Death waved his arm out in front of him, gesturing towards the entire city. “This is Portland, but not as you know it. This is Portland fifty years into your…. What’s the word? Ah, yes. Future!”

            Wyatt looked down at everyone walking in and out of buildings, down streets, on sidewalks. None of them gave a care in the world to the man in a black suit with a skull-patterned tie hovering in the sky above them.

            Wyatt looked at Death. “Why doesn’t anyone notice you?”

            “Why do you think?” asked Death. “They can’t see me. No mortal can. It is only when one becomes immortal that one can see other immortals.”

            “So, I’m immortal?”

            “Indeed. Would you like to take a closer look to see what has become of your memory?”

            “I would like that, yes.”

            “Let us go, then.”

            Wyatt looked at the scenery around him as he zipped through the air. He didn’t feel any sort of sensation at all. No breeze, no fear, no inertia, only movement. They stopped at a house away from the tall, ominous buildings. Death walked up to the door and opened it, allowing Wyatt and himself inside. They stepped in, and Death silently closed the door behind them. They crept through the house until they came across an old woman sleeping in her rocking chair.

            “Who is that?” asked Wyatt.

            “I believe you already know who that is. This is Scarlet, your sister.”

            “Was she sad at my passing?”

            “She cried for about a day but got over it soon enough. She always thought you were a horrible person, you know.”

            “Yes,” said Wyatt. “I know. I thought the same about her.”

            “She never really found happiness. She never married, and she hated her job until retirement. Then she was stuck here with no friends or husband, and no purpose. She was all alone and miserable until the end. Let’s continue, shall we?”

            Death led Wyatt out of the house, and they zipped through Portland once more. This time, however, they stopped at the insurance office that Wyatt had worked at, but it was merely an old, abandoned building scheduled for demolition.

            “Not even the work I did in insurance was worth anything?”

            “You were well received by customers if that helps,” said Death. “However, you are correct, and it wasn’t worth much. They closed not long after your death, and most of the people that worked there found better jobs that they enjoyed far more than insurance. On we go.”

            They zipped through the city one last time and came to a hospital. They navigated the corridors and, after waiting in an elevator for a while, navigated one more passage and reached a small ward. Inside the ward was another old woman, on her death bed, holding the hand of her loving husband.

            Death gestured towards the woman. “This is Haley on the night that I pick her up, I believe. She found another man and lived a long, happy life with him.”

            “Did she remember me?”

            “I’m afraid not. All the new memories she made with the love of her life pushed away the memories of that one shy employee at the insurance place she worked at fifty years ago.”

            Wyatt felt a wave of grief as it struck him hard and deep. He shouted at Death. “What, then, was the point of any of this? Why did you show me all these things? What was the purpose of my life?”

            Death grinned. “Oh, Wyatt. It wasn’t so bad. You’ve done many great things in your life. You just don’t know it.”

            “Like what? What have I done?”

            “Do you remember that one boy in high school who drew those incredible drawings?”

            “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do remember him.”

            “That boy was too scared to show his work to anyone. Not even his own family. His confidence was boosted immensely when you caught a glimpse of his drawing and told him how remarkable it was. He became one of the greatest artists humanity has ever known.”

            Wyatt stared at Death. “Really?”

            “Really. Do you remember, also, the young woman who dropped her papers and her Frappuccino whom you assisted at the café?”

            Wyatt nodded. “I do.”

            “That young lady had severe depression and was considering taking her own life that night. I was prepared to take her when you showed up and made her feel some sort of worth. You made her feel loved. Eventually, she sought help and became a much happier person because you went out of your way to help her.

            “So, you see, just because you didn’t become famous or rich or create something revolutionary doesn’t mean that your life was worthless. When people visit the Sistine Chapel, do they look at the pillars and beams holding up the building, or do they look at the painting? They look at the painting, of course. But that doesn’t make the pillars and beams any less important. You are one of those pillars, Wyatt Hansley. Without you, the future would look very different. I have taken many people, and so far, none of them have been unimportant. I don’t expect to ever find anyone who is worthless. Everyone is important, whether people know it or not. Everyone has a role to play in this world.”

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