Another day, another death.

That was the motto Death lived by, and the standard he strived to uphold. It was his duty, on an inveterate task he had taught himself to maintain since the beginning of time. No matter the day, whether it was good or bad, or not much at all, Death promised to at least manage that, and an eternity of practice taught him he would be content. And indefinite number of lifetimes past, the motto looked somewhat different, involving two deaths over one, but those times had been much more brutal, and not nearly so much savagery was necessary in the modern age. And so, it remained that there would only be on death, at the least, and with this, he could be happy.

‘But one cannot only kill,’ thought Death on one of these days. ‘There must be something beyond just this slaughter.’ And the thought festered in his mind for centuries.

His inspiration came one day, when he was summoned to the murder of an elephant. Three huntsmen were measuring it with their rifles as he stood behind them, impending. The men aimed, fired, and dropped the elephant, a few futile steps carrying it only some metres away. The animal writhed and suffered, in a quiet impotent agony; but only for a few moments, when its grunts fell quiet, and Death completed his assigned task.

And that would have been the end of it. The death delivered, its deliverer ought to carry on home, not bother with it any more, like he had with uncountable past. But there was something particular about this animal, and nothing particular about his uneventful abode, that did not immediately dispel his presence, and he remained to watch what future would meet the magnificent beast.

The elephant was taken away, stripped of its skin and its flesh, and its ivory tusks. It was the shining silver of these tusks, streaked with the blood of their past holder, that caught our deliverer’s eye. He followed them along, tracking them across their commercial journey, till he learnt their purpose, as men had deemed their beauty misplaced.

Meticulously and masterfully carved, these horns of gorgeous white were whittled and shaped into little white blocks, and placed into a machine that Death did not recognise, though whose purpose his wisdom could explain. Shaped with carefully crafted wood, Death was witnessing the creation of the piano, and following this object’s birth inspired him with a blessed creativity of conception. As he watched its pieces get pressed in place, the pedals polished, the strings tuned, he knew his inveterate conviction was not a fantasy; that there was more than just his murder: that he would learn to play the piano, and with his timeless knowledge he knew, with certainty, that this was a pleasure he would be swift to enjoy.

As its final pieces were put into place, Death believed he could feel a sense of genuine excitement welling up inside him. He could see himself elegant, cast in its seat, melodic and harmonic like the music it produced. It was a happy thought. His first happy thought, in the course of his infinite existence; and it was something that scared Death, though he wished to latch on to it dearly.

His excitement grew so powerful that Death was possessed by the spirit of euphoria, and he wished to spread this ecstasy with all he knew.

Everyone regarded him strangely. This was not how Death behaved, and it was direly atypical for him to be feeling as such.

‘But how will you play,’ scorned Life, ‘with those fine skeletal fingers? You will not be able to reach the keys.’

‘And how will you reach the music,’ criticised Existence, ‘when its realm is detached from our own, and you will not be able to touch the keys at all?’

And many more critiques followed, all in like breath, which Death could not manage to ignore. It did not matter what all the other concepts thought, he figured. All that mattered was that of the final say: that of Reality, and her word could only be acquired in one way.

The day the piano was completed, he sat by its side, waiting to be left alone with the monumental instrument. He had yet not killed anyone that day, so great was his anxiety at that moment. Eventually the night came and the mortals left, leaving Death alone with the piece. With bated breath, he sat in its seat.

He regarded the mesmerising white keys with a careful hope like he never had before. They felt so near, yet so distant. Existence’s words came to his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could never quite clear them from his head. He sat, and for some minutes, just watched. Eventually, his time came. He played a key.

But his bony finger passed right through, as Existence predicted. He measured the keys with his hands; and Life was correct, they were too small to press the keys, like she had said. Death lowered his hands, distraught and defeated. Reality had said ‘no,’ and that was all there was.

Not a soul passed that day. That day his dream died, and Death was not content.

19.X.2022