Let's share a glass of whiskey

        The man opened the door of his flat and locked it behind him. He ran at the only window, moved the slats of the blind apart and checked if he had been followed. No one. In the badly-lit street, there was only an excited cat. Probably killing a mouse, the hit man thought. He put down his briefcase, emitting a dull sound as the weight of his Mark XIX Desert Eagles touched the marble table. He took off his black jacket, and loosened his red tie. He then sat down on one of the two chairs, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
Boring. Redundant. His life could be summed up in one word: killing. And when it was not someone’s life that he was ending, it was the time that he was trying to murder. He closed his eyes...
Knocks on the door. The man is instantly awake, a gun in his left hand. He stays like that, without moving, for a few seconds... before the knocks start again. His watch indicates sixteen minutes passed three in the morning. Silently, he puts his gun in his holster. He then walks toward the door and unlock it.
“Who’s here? he whispers.
No answers.
- Who’s here? he asks, louder.
- Open the door”, a woman voice whispers.
He grabs the handle, and pulls quickly... but the corridor is empty.
On his right, the stairs were plunged into darkness. He could only hear the old pipes of the building, faintly shrieking as the water was running through them. He closed the door, and rested his forehead on the cold wood. Was he dreaming what just happened? Was he that tired? He needed to sleep.
“I’m here Paul.
His blood became ice. There, between the window and the table, stood a dark figure. Its contours were unclear, and it was wearing a black hood, hiding its face –if it had one. He drew his gun and instantly pulled the trigger. Right in the head. The bullet even dug a hole in the wall behind the figure.
- Good shot Thirteen. But I’m not sure that it will be...
Paul fired again, this time where its heart was supposed to be.
- Excuse me, I’m trying to talk here. D’you mind? the woman voice complained.
The man could not move. He was keeping his arms raised, aiming at that thing.
- Who... what are you? he finally succeeded to articulate.
- Shoot first, ask after eh? That’s the spirit! the woman voice laughed.
- Answer me! he shouted. He was shaking.
- Wow wow Paulo’. Calm down a bit, would you? I don’t think that telling the whole neighbourhood what’s happening here is a good idea, the voice calmly answered.
Paul then realised. He just fired, twice, in the middle of the night. But he wasn’t caring. Not at all.
- Who are you? he repeated.
- Oh, I have many names. Mot, Thanatos, Anubis, Luison, Jabru... But most of you now call me Death.
As the figure spoke, it began to move slowly toward Paul, and when it finished to answer, it took off its hood with a gloved hand... revealing the face of a young woman.
- Blue eyes... Red lips, dark hair... Is this some kind of a joke? asked Paul, who was starting to believe that his whiskey was maybe too strong.
As an answer, the woman took off one of her glove. She then pinched the cheek of a terrified Paul with the bones that were her fingers.
- A wise man once said that you can laugh about everything, but not with anyone. Don’t laugh at Death when she’s in front of you, that’s just an advice.
- Death... What the...” he whispered, shaking stronger.
Death was standing in front of him. He fell against the door, and sat down on the floor, dropping his gun.
“Why are you here? Am I dying? he finally asked after a few minutes.
- Haha, no you’re not dying Paul. Not yet. I’m here because God sent me, she answered, staring into his eyes.
He jumped.
- Wait, what? G-God? he stammered.
- Yes God. Allah, Buddha, the Divine. The Big Boss y’know, she said, smiling.
The man felt a headache coming. He was drowning into an ocean of questions.
- Why? he finally asked.
- Now we’re talking, Death said, as she sat on a chair. He sent me to you because today, you became someone even more special than who you were before.
She refilled the glass with whiskey, and drank.
- You must mistake me for someone else then. I’ve always been a hit man, he said, not convinced at all by what he was saying.
- Haha, yeah... a hit man... You’ve been someone since you’re born Paul. You’re the Thirteenth, she said, whispering the last word.
- The Thirteenth...?
Now that he was thinking about it, she did call him like that earlier.
- Yes. In your veins runs the blood of Paul, Saul of Tarsus, the Thirteenth Apostle. By being his descendant, your destiny was to embrace the light and become a great Christian. But when you killed your first target, your path was lost, and nowhere to be found.
As she was talking, Paul sat next to her, dizzy.
- But today, when you took this very last life, you became the man who killed the more. You became a Death Feeder.
The man was smiling. He drank what was left of the whiskey in the glass and poured more.
- Well, that last bit was pretty obvious... If you’re here to thank me, there was absolutely no need to, you’re welcome!
- What did I tell you about joking with Death? she said, raising her lips in a frosty smile.
She took the glass from his hands, and drank. A deadly silence settled.
- My “destiny” was to be a “great Christian” eh? Well, I’ve been known to make my own choices.
The alcohol only was allowing him to speak. The man was terrified.
- That’s why I’m here my dear. You have to make a choice now.
He gulped. He had trouble breathing now. He took a sip from the glass.
- What kind of choice?
- A choice between life and death, mainly, she answered, widening her smile.
He wasn’t feeling his lips anymore.
- I don’t get it.
- It’s easy really. You have two choices. If you choose life, you’ll have to make up for all the death you have brought. By doing so, you’ll win back your title of Thirteenth and certainly a good spot in Heaven... But you can also choose death of course.
- What will I have to do to make up for all the kills?
As he asked this question, Paul was feeling weird, as if he was not even there anymore, as when you fall in a dream. At these words, Death’ smile became even wider... too wide maybe.
- You’ll have to die as many times as you killed, the way you killed. You’ll have to become a martyr.
He finished the glass. Death refilled it.
- What if I choose death?
The smile on her face disappeared.
- Then you’ll become Death itself. Me. We’ll be one, collecting the souls of the dead, bringing them to God’s son to be judged, and thus for the eternity. Indefinitely watching the last moments of life of humankind, harvesting without discrimination, from the stillborn to the old, from the burnt to the drowned.
Paul could not breathe anymore. He tried to sigh, but only a weak whistle came out of his throat.
- I’m leaving now. You have one day to think.
Death stood up, and put back her hood on.
- Wait..."
But she was gone. Paul went to the window. Behind the pane, the sun was rising...