“Hello?” she said.
The voice was silken honey. It resonated with soft vibrations, like a wind stirring within or a sweet song. “I felt your call for me.”
A hooded man–no, something more than a man–slowly materialized in her favorite reading chair at the foot of her bed. The La-Z-Boy, which had over many years molded to the shape of her own body, seemed to suit him comfortably. Was this Death?
The costume was unexpected–no complete shroud covering his entire body and head, and he wasn’t carrying a tall scythe. He looked far from grim. A hood barely covered his face, pale and oddly handsome, with plump, moist lips, like ripe pomegranate seeds. Tendrils of unruly pitch-black hair poked out. Albino eyes, mirroring smoldering embers, held her. A black leather cloak showed starkly against luminous white skin and covered his torso, but not his legs. She could see a hint of his bare, hairless chest and strong legs revealed below. Why Death was… dashing. Her bedtime nakedness felt suddenly vulnerable, even more vulnerable than her bound hands and feet.
Yes, she called for Death, wished for him the way fire would wish for wind. For too long, despair and bitterness swirled together like clouds in a gathering storm. She would’ve embraced death as the monstrous skeleton of lore, with his abominable, toothful grin and hollow eyes speaking with dark foreboding. There was art to this image; like any good movie, life sets the mood and tenor of the story as it drifts to its inevitable conclusion.
But here was something entirely unexpectedly seductive. She could yield to this sort of death and easily be spirited away to who-cared-where.
“Call for you? I begged you to come.”