Death delicately slid his index finger down the scar tissue spanning Gregory’s chest, tracing the ridge of smooth and slightly puffy skin, studying its peculiar give and texture.
“Is that what killed me?” asked Gregory.
“No. This one’s as healed as you’d let it get. You died from an aneurysm. Mazel tov.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Probably not. That scar… it’s an intrinsic part of your life. People get so good at hiding them though. The scars disappear. But this is a moment where you appear as you really are. I want to know how that mark felt.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t feel, Gregory. No pain. No empathy. Only curiosity.”
It felt like a flaming sword thrown through a window by a vision he wasn’t supposed to see. It pierced him and cauterized the wound behind, sealing a swirling void inside.
But he wasn’t going to tell Death that.
