The visitor

When the doorbell chimed, I knew who it was. I walked slowly to the door almost unwillingly, as if taking my time would change things. I wiped all traces of the tears that for the past two weeks, burned paths down my cheeks.

I opened the door slowly and was blinded by the sun’s glory forcing its way through the door. What I saw both surprised me and disgusted me. He was standing there with his hands clasped in front of him. We stood there for a long while staring into each other’s eyes. There was something in his eyes that frightened me but amazed and intrigued me. He was immaculately dressed from head to toe. But it was his voice when he spoke that held me captive to him. His deep, sensual voice vibrated throughout my body in and out of every single pore penetrating even the most intimate parts of my soul as he asked, “Where is he”? I couldn’t speak because my voice hid away somewhere in my throat in awe of his presence. I just pointed to the hall that would lead him to his victim. The way he walked was amazing and such power and authority sparked off his entire being. I walked quietly behind him, each one of his footsteps were three of mine echoing deep within my heart. When he reached the only door that was left ajar, he did not hesitate to be invited in but kept walking until he reached the bed. I went around the other side and asked him, “Can you make his departure quick and painless?” To my surprise, he smiled almost taking my breath away. I looked at my son lying still on the bed; his rasped breathing was the only sign of the life that yet dwelled in his body. I grabbed his hand in mine whispering a prayer as the visitor watched patiently. I kissed my son’s face and hands breathing in his bodily scent for what would be the last time as I said almost in a whisper, “I’ll be waiting by the door”. The visitor’s only response was a slight nod.

I must have cried all the tears I had left as the clocked walked slowly, steadily on. I felt numbed and cold. When I heard the sound of footsteps approaching me, I looked up. The visitor walked towards me with his head down. When he reached me, he looked up and what stared back at me was not the same person. His clothes were wrinkled, dirty and torn and his semblance appeared darker somehow. His eyes that amazed me before, looked tired, red, and swollen, even his presence changed. We did not speak a word until he reached the porch. It was then that he stopped. His shoulders were sagging, his head was down and he did not turn to me as he said in a voice full of exhaustion, “My job is never easy”.

An hour almost passed before I was able to stand by the bed of my son and it was then that the reality of the situation hit me hard almost knocking me out of my very existence. Death just battled with life and death had won.