Death sighed sadly to herself, she exited her battered old VW beetle. Secateurs in hand, she strolled through Maggie’s ward unseen by all. Mr. D’arcy trotted at her heel, a large doggy smile on his face.
Maggies ethereal form stood beside the corpse of Maggie Trout. Wild and terrified was her expression; her eyes too wide, as she stared down at her mortal remains.
“Now Maggie my dear,” Death began, “I granted you life, and you squandered it through delving into stories, living within the written word, only to be rendered dead by it. Look down at your mother, feel her pain. The loss of a child is eternally worse than the loss of a limb, yet, you have thrust this on her. Her grief for you is now there to be borne upon your shoulder, from this moment until the end of time. And to think, all you had to do was to live.”
Death, as she had done since the world was conceived, severed Maggie’s necrobilical cord, and freed her soul from her body, but not from the place nor the time.
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