2:00 a.m.
It's closing time. The patrons have left, and the DJ is packing up. Jenny Price has had a bit too much to drink. It's time to go home. She is still sitting at the bar when she checks her phone and notices the time. She staggers out of her barstool and goes to her office to grab her purse and keys. All the employees are busy closing up.
"Y'all know what to do," Jenny says drunkenly. "Headed home. Good night."
The valet pulls up to the lane with Jenny's car. He hands her the keys, but not before asking her:
"Ms. Price you look like you've had a lot to drink," he says. "You sure you don't wanna call an Uber?"
"No I'm fine," Jenny says, slurring her words.
Jenny zooms off. The air is dry. The roads are quiet – a little too quiet. Her hands tremble on the wheel, whiskey still burning on her tongue.. No rage, no regret — just buzzing in her ears and hollowness in her chest. No Mai. No meetings. No Gina. No father. Just the road. She's always acted like she doesn't feel anything, but now she genuinely doesn't feel anything but drunkenness and the anxiety of knowing she's going to be too hungover to go to work tomorrow. "I can call out though, I'm the boss."
But not feeling — That's dangerous.
She speeds down the city streets playing Oooh La La La by Teena Marie from the car's Bluetooth. It was her father's favorite song, he used to sing it with them when they were kids.
"Ooh-La-La-Laaaaa!" she belts, but she's no singer. "It's-the way-that-you-feel-when-you-know-it's-real…"
She approaches an intersection, but the traffic light is red. She's too numb to pay attention. So, she zooms right through it.
Ahead, headlights slice through the darkness. Another car approaches, attempting to make a left turn. A white Mitsubishi Mirage.
Dorothy Watkins — a 68-year-old grandmother just trying to make it home from work, unaware that fate was about to collide with her. Dorothy Watkins had just gotten off her second shift, her fingers sore from hours of typing. She was thinking about warming up her leftover stew. She was thinking about her grandbaby's school play next week.
"Sweet Jesus!" Dorothy shouts in horror. "AHHHHH!" She honks her horn, hoping Jenny would hear.
"Oh shit!" Jenny shrieks, music blaring from her speakers. "AHHHHHHHH!" She slams her brakes.
It was too late.
The world shattered in a brutal impact of glass and metal. Both cars slammed into each other head-on, immediately coming to a halt.
The news spread immediately:
"Jenny Price, CEO of the Price Corporation and Downtown Nightclub Queen, Killed in Early Morning Collision"
Dorothy wasn't a name, so no one cared. Jenny was though. So the headlines only mention her.
Paramedics, news trucks, and police surround the scene. Jenny's lifeless body, her forehead split wide open, is carried out of the wreckage and onto a stretcher to be taken to the morgue.
Jenny died instantly. Dorothy's death was more painful, as she was still alive for a bit before passing away from blood loss.
Suddenly, Jenny appears in the street — but she looks different. Her reddish-brown curls are now pitch black. Her skin is now a bluish gray. She has on black, skin-tight, clothing that covers her entire body. She is barefoot.
"Oh my God," she says to herself. "Am I dead?" She walks around, observing the scene. No one notices her, as she cannot be seen. She is a spirit.
She looks at her car, then at the other.
"I… I killed somebody?" Jenny is horrified. She begins crying, before she is approached by a strange looking figure, standing feet away from her. Her back is turned, looking at the wreckage, she doesn't notice the figure approaching her until she turns around.
She screams as she should. There's no safety anymore – not even in death.
The figure is a man in black cloak with a hood over his head. He has black angelic wings on his back, along with skeletal fingers and feet. He is faceless. In his right arm is a long scythe. The man begins walking closer. For the first time ever, Jenny feels real fear.
"What's… what's going on?" Jenny asks. "Who are you?"
"You're dead."
Jenny is shaking, unable to process what she's just heard.
"It looks that way," Jenny says, still in disbelief. "But am I really dead?"
The man pulls out a sheet of paper, taking his time.
"Let's see," the man says, in a very professional and matter-of-fact way. Like a cop on a beat pulling over a reckless driver. "Brain hemorrhage, internal bleeding in the heart and lungs, fractured skull, crushed larynx, broken spine. Yeah sweetheart, you are 100% dead. Like you had zero chance of surviving."
"Oh my God," Jenny says, panicking. "I can't… I can't be dead. I have so much I need to do! I have a company to run, ok? I just opened a night club, my sister—"
"Yeah, yeah," the man says. "Everybody says that. They have all these plans and goals, until I show up. Guy I had before you crashed his motorcycle in the rain, no helmet. Said he was going to see his girlfriend, that they were having a baby. Guess where he is now?" Azrael chuckles a bit before shrugging. "Dead. Just like you."
Jenny glares at him, with a flood of emotions: fear, awe, dread, curiosity. This is all very new to her. Jenny is someone who is used to things she can touch and feel: Money, clothes, cars, alcohol, data, etc. The unseen things? The abstract? The supernatural? That's not her forte. It is yet another thing she is not equipped for, another thing she cannot control.
"Who are you?" Jenny asks again, moving closer to the man. "Answer me!"
"Who am I?" the man asks. "Name's Azrael, I'm the angel of death. Or as you humans like to call me: The Grim Reaper."
"Angel?" Jenny repeats, her voice barely above a whisper. "Of death?"
"Yep," he responds. "My job is to guide souls to the afterlife. So, let's go."
Azrael holds out his hand. Jenny looks at it with shock and disgust and begins pleading for her life.
"Look," Jenny says. "I can't die. Not like this."
There is a beat between them as Jenny is lost in thought. The reality of her demise still not setting in.
"I can pay you! Money is not an object—"
"Pay me?" Azrael asks, laughing. "Did I not just tell you who I am? I'm an angel. Of death! Like, I'm literally a celestial being – human money is completely worthless to me."
Jenny is still trying to be in control.
Azrael looks at Jenny. For the first time in his existence, he feels pity for a mortal.
"Look, it'll be completely painless. If you come with me now, I promise it won't hurt. Until you face judgment anyway."
Jenny gasps. "Judgment?"
"Yep," Azrael says. "Everything you've ever done will be judged. Reward or punishment. Paradise… or Hell."
"Hell no!" Jenny protests. "I'm not going with you!"
Azrael sighs. "Oh, you're one of those. Well then now you're resisting death."
"Good, whatever that means."
Azrael stands still. He was having a good and easy day, up until now. He has a nuclear option that he saves specifically for events like these. He clears his throat, before suddenly the street vanishes. Darkness falls like a curtain, and Azrael grows — taller, wider, wings unfurling behind him like an eclipse. Jenny could feel her knees weaken — not just from fear, but from something older. Something celestial.
"Jennifer Tanya Price," he thundered, voice cracking the sky. "You are resisting the process of death!"
He raises his scythe at Jenny, blade pointed directly at her.
"If you do not come with me now," Azrael says. "Then by the power given to me by the Celestial Order, I will be forced to physically remove your soul from this realm with this scythe."
Jenny gasps.
"It will be painful! You will feel every memory, both good and bad. You will feel the worst pain you will ever imagine on this side of Heaven. And you will still die, and you will still face judgment. Is this what you want?"
Jenny relaxes, accepting her fate.
"No," Jenny says, her face downcast.
Azrael shrinks back to his regular size, the dark room makes way for the city again.
"Well that's good," Azrael says, voice back to normal. "Nobody wants that." He offers his hand out to her again.
She reaches out slowly, reluctantly. "This is really happening," she murmurs, then finally touches his hand. "Ew," she says as her hands are squeezed by Azrael's bony fingers.