The boy snapped his tendons, they flayed loosely, gave his body that disingenuous 'white boy has no real rhythm' look. He panicked, then settled.
The chair in the room was empty. No, second thoughts...or was it fourth? It wasn't empty, it was nearly empty. Grey death perched on the seat. Shiny, spent suit, hard knobbled knees stretching the cheap fabric to its limits. His tight grey hands, devoid of pulsing life, just dry paper fingers, dry paper palms, hugged those ugly knees.
Death seemed uncomfortable sitting...should he be standing?
The sun flayed through the window - it was a good sunny day, but deep blue sky, startling sun belonged to another world. Grey death winced visibly when the sun's rays tried to play on his long toothless face. "You're not welcome here" he muttered soft bitter words. And as if hearing/understanding, the sunlight paled away.
The boy fidgeted. What could he do, he was a boy. He had life left...he fidgeted, it was natural.
Death flicked a surprisingly moist eye at the boy, a faint smile puckered his lips. "Not yet boy, but soon."
A bead of sweat formed between the boys shoulder blades. It trickled slowly down his back. It was frightening and sensual at the same time. Deaths eyes widened, his tongue strolled across his dry, chapped lips. He knew, and he was enjoying. Death understood and savoured the flavour of the boys sweat. It was life, it was urgency, it seemed boundless, and it was delicious.
"Hang on to that life boy. Keep that sweat, piss, spit, semen, and shit coming. Means you're alive. Means you're functioning to optimum levels." He smirked. Death always had a wry sense of humour. Why wouldn't he? He always had the last laugh, so to speak.
The grey of death sighed. He smacked his bony knees with those paper dry hands. "Time I was off. Can't sit here forever."
"I need him to stay."
A wry smile played across deaths lips. He stared intently at the boy. "Why, you going to take his place?"
"Thought so. Let him go. I'll be back for you soon enough. And boy."
"Be punctual. I always am. Doesn't do to keep death waiting you know. It's discourteous."
One last stare from the grey of death and he was gone. The boy stood opposite the chair, a chair filled with his small, grey, tired father.