His hand closed upon my shoulder. I lifted my head at his touch, but
didn't look back. I knew him well enough not to have to. The dark
flowing robes, the sickle. It could be only one.
"It's time," he said, "I'm sorry."
The words echoed ominously in the air as he withdrew his hand.
As he laid a scroll upon my outstretched palms, he looked almost
regretful. I unrolled it and read the single printed line without
reaction. "This is a death sentence," it proclaimed.
"Destiny to be met and all," he said in a voice that was barely
audible. Even so, I heard a smile in his voice, a hunger in it, that
belied his apparent regret.
I opened my eyes then, rubbed the sleep from them, and put on my
favorite wig--the one that looked even better than the hair that once
flowed luxuriously from my now-bald scalp.
"Destiny," I said, "The name's Mirabelle. Nice to meet you."
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Sad and yet she is strong, able to meet death squarely. Nicely done.
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