they will likely be able to search for a millennium more.
Though the general public scorns them—spits on them, wonders why they waste their time—everyone waits for the day the Cynx will roll into town toting their much sought out prize behind them. The six will strap Death down, arm out and scythe in hand. The public will form a line. They will walk towards him, slowly and reverently. Smiling, they will lean forward and slit their own throats upon his blade.
I always imagined Death's eyes would steam over then, little tears slipping out—slick and smooth as lines of tape. He must care for us, to abandon us so wholly.
Stomping down the street, I keep my eyes level, my stare straight. It’s best not to attract the attention of others, their boredom. It’s best to let them think you’re bored too. And it’s pretty damn easy, as long as you’ve got the face for it, no matter your age.
The young are no longer for the picking.
Everyone is old now.
Everyone is dangerous.
I’ve been walking for a while now, and it’s too quiet tonight. Streetlights grate against all the dark around them, wearing orange halos. The glows leak from their metal-and-glass cages, cut the road into triangles of night and not-night. I slip through the spotlights, hands shoved in my pockets. Shoulders back, gait smooth. Expressionless. Let everyone think that I’m holding something sharp. I’m in no hurry.
“Can you be dead without dying?” I make a point of whispering, stare glazed, as an older woman with red, spiky hair and roaming eyes drifts past. They’re borrowed words, from my brother, and I tend to use them on anyone whose looks are too long. “Can you be alive without death?”