indian_death

A layover in Ataturk Airport is quiet. The restaurants are all closed–not the bars, but I’ve already drunk myself to sleep once.

I sit outside Gate 227A; it’s close to the smoking room. I look down the row of seats to find a middle-aged Indian man half-way through a bar of snickers, laughing. I look around him and find DEATH sitting in the seat beside with the face of someone who feels as though they just told a rather good joke. I frown at her.

“What?” she mouths, catching my eye. I shrug and lean back, arms crossed. I see her from the side. She gets up and pats the Indian man on the leg, says something. He nods, continuing to chuckle.

She walks over to me, swaying a bit, sits.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“What?”

She crosses her arms, mocking. I let mine down.

“No.”

“Good.”

DEATH starts to whistle.

I glare at her. “Knock it off.”

“What?”

“The whistling.”

She whistles louder, then stops. “Are you going to stop pouting?”

I nod. “Do you talk to everyone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does he see you the same way I do, like, as a little white girl?”

DEATH frowns, “yeah.”

“Doesn’t that bother him?”

DEATH looks over at the Indian man. He is dozing off with a light smile.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

I watch him too, jealous.

“Well, have you always been this way?”

She nods.

“Huh,” I say, without meaning to. Then, “why?”

She seems to actually be thinking about it, then throws up her hands, “someone’s idea of a sick joke it seems.”

“Who?” I ask, before I can stop myself, knowing her answer. She knows, I know, and so, says nothing.

I move on, “what about like aliens, and stuff?”

“And stuff?”

“Aliens, then.”

“There are no aliens,” DEATH says, simply. I look out of the big wall of windows, up.

“Really?”

DEATH shrugs, “how the hell would I know?”

“I thought you took everyone?”

“Maybe death isn’t so damn important to everyone as it is to you people,” she mumbles. Her eye’s tilt a bit. I look her over, suspicious.

“Are you drunk?”

She nods, “why aren’t you?”

I shrug, “already drank myself to sleep once.”

“Oh, what a surprise,” she goads.

I laugh. “Want to have a cigarette?”

She nods again. She grabs onto my arm for support and we tip-toe past the sleeping Indian man.

 

Author Benjamin Davis and artist Nikita Klimov created one story and one picture each day for one year. In May 2018 they published their first book, The King of FU

8 Comment on “DEATH in an Airport

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