Time Is Come

I have a gift. You could call me a fraud or a fortune teller, but I am neither. I can see Death. He is a man, a well-built man in a suit and a black overcoat. I see him when someone is about to die. He stands nearby, waiting, like a predator that doesn't need to hunt because the prey comes to him, unbeknownst. And I can see him right now, standing by her as she sways and plays the most soulful note on the violin.

Who is she, you ask? Just someone I made love to last night. Someone who asked me to stay and chose to fall asleep on my arms, not as lovers, but as parties who extended the terms of a contract. She had hired me for the night.

It is amazing, the unconventional opportunities you can find in this city, like low hanging fruits waiting to be plucked. I had come here to be a model and an actor, I stayed for the women and the money. This used to be an alternate way of life, but I think I lost track someday, immersed, not without a way out but without the will to get out.

Many women who hunt me down and pay for my company are looking to have uninhibited fun, things they dare not talk about, things they whisper to me in hushed tones. They know I am not one to judge. They know I am just a service provider, a good service provider. And I am whatever they need me to be, whatever they want me to be.

When I received last night's call, I quietly took my bag pack, locked my apartment, and left for work. My bag had all kinds of things, things the ladies love to love, things I won't tell you about. I drove to the rich part of the city and walked into the rich man's building. I took a fancy elevator and knocked on a sleek door. There she was, my earnings for the night.

She greeted me, a glass of red in hand, a silk nightgown hugging her shape. There was something so painful about her eyes. It was something I often encountered. Heartbroken women used to find me, I don't know how, but they did. All they wanted was human touch and to be loved. And I didn't complain.

I don't know her story, but I do know how much her soul craved. She made it known before she slipped into a deep sleep. "Stay," she had whispered. I don't know when she woke up. But it was the sound of the violin that awakened me. I leaned back and looked at her. Unclothed, bathing in the light of the daybreak, she sat on a chair, facing the long glass windows, staring into the horizon, she played. That's when I saw him, emerging from the corner.

I had been a witness to his appearances for as long as I could remember. Over the years I had plucked the courage to interact with this strange man. For some reason, just like no one noticed him, no one noticed our interactions either. I liked to think it was a privilege. But I didn't really know.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked him.

He smiled. "I have rarely heard such beautiful music. Mankind seems to have lost its taste, in general."

"Or maybe you should be updated? It's not all bad, you know."

He chuckled and continued to listen. I followed suit. I knew what was coming, I knew I didn't want to get caught with a naked dead client. The police wouldn't believe a word I would say. There was no stopping Death either. There was no warning her.

I quietly stepped out of the covers and got dressed. There was an envelope placed on the bed stand, with my name on it. Knowing what awaited her, I felt a pang of guilt. It would be like taking money from the dead. It's bad. But it would be worse if someone were to find my name scribbled in a rich dead woman's apartment. I put the envelope inside my bag and took one last long look at her. She seemed oblivious. I left.

The city was always alive. That's the beauty of Los Angeles. I drove back to my apartment, took a shower, and found half a pizza inside the fridge. I put it in the oven and turned on the television. Unlike most of the world, my mornings were lazy and I loved that.

As I was about to bite into the pizza, there was a crash and my apartment door flew off its hinges. Horrified, I stared at the two policemen who had just entered, looking around. How did they find me? I had instinctively dived behind the sofa and managed to crawl out of the apartment, without them noticing. I started running...

I am not sure how far I ran or when I walked back into the woman's apartment. It was as if I was pulled into this place by an invisible string. It was uncanny. And I certainly wasn't prepared for what happened next.

A man suddenly walked through me. He seemed to trip and looked back, straight at me, no... through me. He didn't know I was there. He had a camera in his hand, was dressed in a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. I looked around and I saw other men. Men in suits, men in uniforms, men in gloves, and another man with a camera.

Breathing heavily I walked into the bedroom and stared at the man on the bed. Pale, undressed, and throat slit open, I almost didn't recognize myself. And beside the bed was her, undressed, lying on the floor, a knife lodged in her ribs; red everywhere, a violin smashed into bits.

"He was really angry, my ex-husband, don't you remember?" Startled, I turned around. She smiled sadly. "It's my fault, I'm sorry." I couldn't understand what she was talking about. She saw the confusion on my face and looked down, tears in her eyes. "I shouldn't have asked you to stay... Your friend asked me to find you. He said that many don't remember, or choose to remember, and some create new memories to replace the ones that are painful, that eventually, they must, so they can move on. Tell me, what is it that you remember?"