Mae

Death is a frequent flyer. He's everywhere and everyone. 

But to Mae, he was someone. 

It started when she was five, and her mother passed away. She didn't know any better. Thought the man without a face was a friend of her mother's, animating suddenly and courteously helping her mother up from her fall. He was tall and thin. She couldn't quit remember what he was wearing, or how his hair was, but he was human looking. He kindly helped her mother up, who looked different. She was glowing, illuminating the foyer. Her hair was down long and she looked twenty years younger. She smiled warmly at Mae and she and the man left forever. 

Oh, they tried to tell Mae. Her mother was dead. Gone forever. Only to live on in her heart. 

But she argued profusely. She's with the man ! He has her ! They ran off together in love !

And so, brushing it off as childlike imagination and odd coping skills, they let her be. 

She was by herself a lot. So she drew him. She could never get the face right. That would come later. 

At eighteen, her father passed away. Slowly, in his sleep they said. But Mae knew. 

Mae knew the man had come back. He had visited her dad in the dead of night, and took him along just like her mother. This time, the man was different. Tall, yes. But more profound. Like there was life under the moonlit skin of a man shrouded in mystery. She also saw his eyes. Amber that pooled slowly like hardening honey and froze her in her steps like that of actual amber. But they were full of life. Like the sun shining through a brown stained glass window. And that's when she knew she was in love. 

She sketched him like a poet weaves cosmic aphorisms around a beloved. She sketched him so fine and so well that it was like he was there with her. The eyes were the most striking. Contrasted with the black haze she blended around them, it was haunting. Spectators who appreciated her art had shivers down their spine. A reaper, they would say. It must be. I can see the eyes: life over death; and the hood covering the face. 

Soon her work was admired prominently. She was accepted into art school, where she continued to draw the elusive man: Death. 

As much as she was admired, she was hated. Her roommate didn't understand her fascination with death. It was unnerving. She would soon find out how unnerving Death was, for a few days later she fell and hit her head on a bedpost. And yet again, Death appeared.

He was beautiful. This time up to his cheekbones were visible. His boots made a clacking sound on the floor as he helped the girl up. Mae couldn't help but notice Death's eyes linger on her. On her soul. 

Her sketches were renewed and renowned. So much more detail she added to them. And the eyes, the eyes got better ! Like they were looking into your soul. 

Of course, they got demanding. Finish the sketch ! Show us what Death looks like !

Funnily, a lot of them would see Death for themselves soon. Each person met strange accidents. Twists of fate that let Mae see her Charming. And each time she did, more and more detail was uncovered. 

A lot of other things were uncovered too. So many things, that Mae had to leave art school. 

She was relocated, to a facility. Where she could still draw, but would need to be monitored. 

She also was required to take medication, which was fine with Mae, for that way she could dream, and see Death whenever she chose to, for it was quite hard in this facility to catch a glimpse of him. 

After working hours and hours on sketches and paintings, she grew frustrated. She had seen all of Death, except his mouth. It was such a big part of her portrait, that she had to see him one more time. 

She knew that this would be the final moment for her to complete her portrait. 

So she smiled and yawned and waited for Death to come. And he did. 

This time he was in full view. Same dark, tall, handsome eyed devil she had known; except this time, he was wearing a wickedly curved smile that was pulled tight over pointed teeth and a blood red mouth. And he cackled. And so did Mae. And the two cackled into the night and left for dead. 

Mae of course never finished her portrait. 

Or finished confessing.