WATTYS 2023 SHORTLIST
Cara, a troubled college dropout, finds herself slowly falling for a handsome stranger - who turns out to be Death incarnate. But the arrival of a mysterious being puts Death's home for lost souls and his very existence at risk...
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Sarah certainly doesn't try to make things easy for me.
When it's my turn to scoop some eggs onto my plate at the stove, she walks straight through me as if I'm not there and the resulting chill that spreads through my body knocks the breath out of me. Then, she plops down into the chair that I had previously claimed, shoving my phone out of the way.
All the while, Death frowns at her while shooting nervous glances in my direction. As much as her obvious slights annoy me, I keep a neutral expression on my face as I choose a seat on the other side of the table.
When I was much younger, I used to be bullied at school: mainly by kids who made fun of the fact that I always went home to a restaurant instead of a real house. They would spread rumors that I slept underneath the grills at night and stored my clothes in the walk-in freezer. My mother told me to act like I never heard a word that they said, and sure enough they grew tired of picking on me and moved on to a new victim. That was precisely the way that I would handle Sarah.
I pick up my fork and nonchalantly shovel a bite of scrambled eggs into my mouth. Judging by the lack of taste, I realize that Death must not be much of a cook. All the same, I make an Mmm sound in the back of my throat, trying to be more polite than the girl opposite me.
Sarah's eyes narrow. "You're eating."
I freeze, my mouth still full. "Yeah..?"
"You're supposed to wait until everyone is at the table."
"Sarah," Death sighs. "It really doesn't matter."
"I'm just saying." She spins the silver ring in her nose. "If the human wants to act like she belongs here, shouldn't she follow suit with the way that we do things?"
The human. My face burns at the nickname and I set down my fork, but before anyone can say anything else Lisa bursts through the doorway, exclaiming in a sing-songy voice, "Eggs yum yum yummy eggs!" That's one way to dispel the tension.
"The stove is still hot. Let me help you." Death rises to prepare Lisa's plate as the fifth and final breakfast guest shuffles into the kitchen behind her. I watch him closely, and he doesn't even notice me.
He's a white man – I'm guessing in his mid-thirties – and he has the kind of appearance that is instantly forgettable. Gray eyes, trim blonde hair, the hint of a mustache. He wears a suit and tie and carries an expensive leather briefcase, his neck bowed over a newspaper that's clutched in his free hand.
"Hey Paul," Sarah greets him.
He mumbles something under his breath about the stock market, barely lifting his eyes from the article he's reading as he fills his plate with what remains of the eggs. When he sits down across from me, filling the last open seat, Sarah clears her throat and speaks in a sickeningly condescending tone.
