Goodbye Jason

Tonight is Jason’s final night.

He turns a corner into a dark alley at the highest speed he can manage, which isn’t much. He is obese and gasping for breath already, and his heart pounds like it’s ready to give out.

She found him at his workplace, cleaning a fast-food restaurant after hours. The sharp pain in his chest heralded her arrival. She didn’t need to say anything—he knew her immediately.

Death.

The inevitable conclusion of all life.

And still, Jason ran. He is not ready to die. Not yet. There is still so much he means to do in life. So much he has yet to achieve.

He slumps behind a dumpster, struggling for breath. He allows himself a couple of seconds to rest before peeking to see if she is following him.

The alley is empty.

Did he do it? Did he outrun Death?

A pre-teen girl clad in black saunters into the alley. Small frame, pale skin, long black hair, black hat, black round sunglasses.

She is Death, dressed for a funeral.

“No!” Jason gasps.

He can almost sense the bottomless black pits lurking behind her sunglasses, boring holes through him. Or maybe it’s a red glow, evil incarnate hiding behind the black glass.

Jason pushes through the exhaustion and forces himself into motion in the opposite direction.

“Not yet!” he shouts. “Leave me be!”

He staggers to the other end of the alley and makes his way up the street. Any direction will do—so long as it’s away from Death.

The edges of Jason’s vision blur as the world starts spinning. He leans against a lamp post, pausing to take a few breaths and let his head clear.

He’ll never be able to outrun Death at this pace, even though she’s only a girl walking at a leisurely pace.

If only Jason were in better shape. If he hadn’t let himself get to this state. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to die tonight.

As if on cue, a taxi drives by. Someone on high must be looking out for him! Jason stumbles into the street, waving frantically until it stops.

“Drive,” he gasps as he collapses into the back seat. “Anywhere. Just go.”

The car pulls away—not fast, but significantly faster than a walking girl. Or Jason running.

The heat inside the car is stifling, so Jason, already sweating profusely, rolls down the window to get some air and looks out at the city.

It’s so quiet. Few people are out at this hour, but even if the streets were crowded, how many would notice the beauty around them? The gentle glow of street lamps, the scattered pattern of lit windows in apartment buildings, the corporate giants shrouded in post-midnight darkness, the faint neon hum of small businesses fighting to survive. A marvel, if one just stops to notice.

Do any of them know? That Death prowls the streets?

A flicker of movement catches Jason’s attention. The driver checks his pocket watch, and Jason notices his hand—oddly small, child-like. His stomach tightens. Reluctantly, he lifts his gaze to the rearview mirror. She is a pre-teen girl with long black hair and round sunglasses, her black hat resting on the passenger seat.

Her sunglasses shift slightly, and Jason feels the weight of her gaze, as though it’s burning through the lenses. Her stare presses down on him, sending a sharp pain into his chest.

Jason throws the door open and flings himself out of the moving car. The impact jolts him, but the sting is fleeting—overwhelmed by the fear and the crushing presence of Death squeezing his heart.

He pushes himself to his feet, clutching his chest, and shuffles toward a nearby nightclub.

The sign at the entrance reads “One More Night”. What tremendous luck—that’s Jason’s nightclub!

The bouncer nods as Jason approaches. “Good evening, boss,” he says, stepping aside to let him in.

Jason walks inside, his hand still pressed against his chest. It does nothing for the pain.

“Don’t let,” he starts, takes in another breath, then finishes: “the girl in.”

He lumbers through the crowded dance floor until he reaches the bar on the other side.

“Call everyone,” Jason orders the bartender. “The whole security detail. Everyone. Armed.”

Jason glances back at the entrance.

Death walks in. Her sunglasses catch the projector light, flashing it toward Jason as if directing her terrible gaze at him.

Jason slams a fist on the bar and points at her. “And stop that girl! No matter what! Do whatever it takes—just stop her!”

The bartender blinks, surprised. “Ask the whole security detail to stop this child?”

“By any means necessary,” Jason barks, his voice cracking. “All of them, and the guns. Now!”

“O-okay,” the bartender stammers, fumbling for the internal phone.

Jason gathers his strength and lurches toward the elevator. Behind him, his men spill out of doorways, weapons in hand. They move in perfect unison, raising their guns like soldiers in a choreographed drill. As they should—it’s their job to be efficient.

He punches the elevator button and steps inside, sweat streaming down his face and splattering onto the floor. The doors slide shut, sealing him off from the chaos outside. He jabs the secret code for his office on the top floor, then slumps against the wall, panting, as muffled gunshots echo in the distance.

Can Death die?

If there’s a way, Jason’s men will find it.

The elevator dings, its doors sliding open to reveal Jason’s office.

He steps out, half expecting Death to already be inside, waiting for him, but also half admiring the beauty and opulence of his throne room.

The place is richly decorated: expensive leather upholstery, the finest silk curtains, a handcrafted mahogany desk, a state-of-the-art computer, a massive TV, and bookshelves brimming with both ancient and modern knowledge.

Tonight, however, his most prized possession is the heavy blast door behind his large chair. It leads to a flight of stairs going to the rooftop—an impenetrable gate to the safest place in town. The last line of defense standing between him and Death.

The elevator descends. It will carry Death to Jason; he is sure of it.

But even she can’t get past the blast door. It requires a code, his fingerprint, and an eye scan to open—and it weighs 3,000 pounds.

Jason rushes through the security measures, seals the blast door from the other side, and begins his climb. By the time he reaches the rooftop door, his lungs are ablaze, and his heart pounds like a war drum.

He stumbles forward, each step heavier than the last, until his legs give out and he collapses to his knees. The pain in his chest is still killing him, but the cool breeze atop the building soothes his sweat-covered skin.

He closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment to relax.

“Not yet,” he whispers to himself. “I’m not ready to die yet.”

The rooftop door behind him creaks open. Jason’s breath catches in his throat. He scrambles to his feet, muscles trembling.

The black-haired girl steps into the moonlight, ambling towards him.

Unhurried.

Unworried.

Inexorable.

Not yet!

Jason clenches his fist and throws a punch. She tilts her head slightly to the side—just enough to let it pass. He swings again, harder this time, but she slips away from the blow with ease, almost incidentally. Jason summons every ounce of strength for his next strike—a killing blow, if his meaty fist connects with the girl’s small skull.

But his aim is off. The force of the swing throws him off balance, and he crumples to the ground.

He looks up as the wind steals Death’s hat, lifting it high into the night sky. She watches it disappear into the distance before her attention shifts to the vast beauty of the city at night.

The sky is devoid of stars, swallowed by light pollution. But the full moon remains, shining above the city’s lights as if engineered to complete them—street lamps, windows, billboards, neon signs, and a massive cosmic object charged with the light of the sun.

Death walks past Jason, stopping at the edge of the building to admire the cityscape. A collection of far-off sounds below completes the image—cars and people, shouting and laughing. Someone breaks a bottle somewhere.

People living life.

People who are not Jason.

Hot tears trickle down Jason’s cheeks as he lifts himself into a sitting position.

Death removes her sunglasses and hangs them on her shirt. She doesn’t look at Jason, but he now sees what the glasses have been hiding all this time—normal, boring hazel eyes. If he didn’t know her as Death, he wouldn’t be able to pick her out in a crowd. He could walk past her and not even see her.

Just an ordinary girl. Invisible, in the way humans are.

“You have built a beautiful city, Jason,” Death says.

Her voice is that of a normal girl—unremarkable. Mundane.

“I didn’t build it,” Jason says. “I only own this building.”

“You own all of it,” Death says. “We are in your mind, Jason.”

“What? In my mind? How? Why?”

“You had a heart attack while mopping the kitchen,” Death explains. “You are dying. This is the last firing of your neurons before your life is extinguished forever.”

“Extinguished... forever?”

Death nods.

“And none of this is real?”

Death pulls out a pocket watch, glances at it, and tucks it back. “Jason is real and Death is real,” she says. “The rest you know is not. You don’t own a nightclub, or a building. You are a cleaner with heart problems caused by poor lifestyle choices.”

“What do you mean heart problems? What heart problems?”

Death lets out a soft sigh. “So many of your kind choose to remain blind to what is right in front of you,” she says. “Even in your dream world, where you can roll out of a moving vehicle and walk it off, you can’t go up a flight of stairs without your heart and lungs giving up on you.” Her plain hazel eyes land on Jason. “You know. You’ve always known.”

Jason pushes himself to his feet. Death is right. In a way, he always knew. But there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“Please,” he says. “I’ll do better. I‘ll take care of my health. Just don’t take me, please.”

“Everyone must die, Jason,” Death says.

“Okay, but not yet,” Jason says. “Give me a few more years, please.”

“I can’t give you more time,” Death says. “Only you could have done that.”

Poor lifestyle choices.

Jason trudges over to Death and gazes down at the streets his mind created. A couple of dogs fight over a greasy plastic bag. A homeless person wobbles off somewhere. Farther down the street, a man and a woman dine outside at a restaurant. She keeps playing with her hair, smiling, while he gestures with his wine glass, talking about something. They laugh. On a date, no doubt.

This world he has created is full of tiny details.

“I always wanted to create,” Jason says. “Write a novel. Direct a movie.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I... I wanted to.” Bitter tears prick Jason’s eyes and spill down his face. “Life didn’t let me. Rent is very expensive, and there’s only so much time and energy I can spare.”

Death checks her pocket watch again. “Life held you back?”

“It did!” Jason says. “And besides, it’s not like anyone cares to support such dreams. Nobody teaches us how to be creative at school—only how to be better workers.” He wipes his tears, but they keep streaming down. “And my parents never cared about what I wanted. Get a degree, Jason. Earn money and you’ll be happy, Jason. Of course I never got to do anything I wanted. Of course I’m going to die without achieving any of my dreams.”

“Such was your life,” Death says. “Can you make peace with your resentment in your final moment?”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “No,” he spits through gritted teeth. “It’s not fair! None of this is fair!”

“Fairness is a societal fiction and nothing more, Jason,” Death says. “The way of things is not concerned with it.

“You lived by design—in the comfort of perceived safety and predictability, seeking calories. Millions of years of evolution led you down that path.”

“Right,” Jason says. “Millions of years of evolution—how am I supposed to go against that? Against my nature?”

“You’re not ‘supposed’ to do anything.” Death checks her pocket watch again. “If you wanted to attain your desires, you should have listened to yourself.”

“What do you mean? You just said I lived by design.”

“You did, but you also benefit from nature’s greatest creation—the human brain. You can reason, plan, control your impulses, factor long-term outcomes into your decisions.

“Humans are complex beings, Jason, and even though the way you communicate those complexities to yourselves might seem primitive and complicated, the message is always obvious if you only pay attention.

“The pain, Jason. The longing. The knot in your chest when you read a good book, wishing you’d written it. The fire of inspiration from a great movie, and the guilt of letting it fade. The envy when others succeeded where you didn’t try.

“Those were your guides. Your inner self, pulling you in the right direction. But you never walked that way. You chose to sedate yourself with mindless entertainment, junk food, and psychoactive substances. You drowned the signal, so all that remained was comfortable numbness.

“You humans call that ‘playing it safe,’” Death says. “You achieved nothing and now you are dead. What did you save yourself from?”

‘Failure,’ Jason wants to say. But Death is right. Failure is the only thing he achieved.

“Now you find out it’s better to risk living than to die with regrets,” Death says, glancing at her pocket watch. “But now is too late.”

A chill ripples down Jason’s spine.

His energy evaporates. He falls on his back.

“I should have written that book I couldn’t stop thinking about,” he says as Death looms over him. “I should have asked Jennifer out.” The city lights flicker and dim one by one, consumed by darkness.

“I should have gone on that vacation to Europe that kept popping into my mind.” The sky fades next, leaving only a pale glow where the moon once hung—until it, too, disappears.

“I should have found a better job.” The streets dissolve into nothingness, buildings break apart like dust blown into the wind. The edges of Jason’s world fold inwards, drawing everything into the void.

“I should have given myself a chance.” With both hands pressed against his chest, Jason looks Death in the eyes. Those hazel eyes on that unremarkable girl. The end you never see coming.

“It hurts.”

Jason’s eyes close as the last remnants of the city dissipates along with his form, leaving Death alone in a vast, black emptiness.

“Goodbye, Jason.”

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Author’s Note:

I don’t know if you needed to read this, but I needed to write it. Not for some sense of catharsis and not because the characters wouldn’t leave my mind otherwise. I had to write this to quell existential dread about ending up like Jason (although in many ways we are quite different). I called myself out with this story, and I think that’s a healthy thing to do.

If you don’t have big plans for the new year, I think you should. Big plans and small steps (read more on starting new things here). I know I have big plans. There’s plenty of work to do and there always will be, but that’s a good thing. And now no matter how far I get, or don’t get, at least I’m going somewhere. When Death comes, I’ll be ready—even if she’s early.

Don’t be Jason. Make your preparations.