August 11, 2015

The History of Death

Author’s Note:
I wrote this as my summer book project for the book, THE BOOK THIEF. In case you haven’t read the book or seen the movie, SPOILER ALERT, the whole book and the beginning of the movie is narrated by Death. Here is THE HISTORY OF DEATH, by Morgan Allen.

You already know my name. Although, before now, you might not have thought of it as a name such as one belonging to a person, so much as a word for something that happens. I am Death, and my story has rarely been uncovered. I told a small amount about myself in the novel called THE BOOK THIEF, but I did not reveal my origin. I did not think it was the proper time. I have decided that now is the moment to uncover my history.
There was a time in which all souls knew where the path was that would take them on a new journey. The journey after death. But eventually it became increasingly harder to find. Souls would get lost. Many of them never made it to the path at all. Of course at the time I had no idea that this was happening. To me when someone died, they did just that. They died.
I was too young to think about what happened after death. I was only a child. Then, the night my mother died, I cried and my eyes flamed with acid tears and my heart burst. I was never the same afterwards. I kept going on the hope that I would see her again after death. I created a fantasy of a gate with my mother standing under it, waiting for her beloved son.
But that dream never came to reality for me. I did see her one more time, after I died, but I was not to go with her on her final journey. I was to stay behind and clear the earth of the wandering souls that were stuck there. At first I did not understand why I could not go with her. I did not understand why I had to stay behind while she took her first step beyond the gate.
Then in my mind I realized. I understood how all of the wandering souls of this earth felt. I understood, because I had felt the same way after my mother had died. Lost. Almost completely hopeless. For me, in that time, there was only one hope left, that I would get to see her and go on that journey with her to our new life, whatever that may be. I understood, and so I let go. I told my mother I loved her for the last time. I turned and began my work. I didn’t look back. I knew my purpose now.
I was slower at first. I was not yet accustomed to my job, but after a few decades you kind of figure things out. After several centuries I had perfected my work. But rarely had I encountered someone as many times through death as Liesel Meminger, the book thief.