Death is My BFFLAD Rewritten (Book 2 of the Rewritten Death Chronicles)

Chapter 16: The Fire

The Creator is here!!! 

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 "Faster!"

"Pull your knees up higher, so they're aligned with your hips."

"AGAIN!"

"Fist up, head tilted down. Protect your face at all times."

"You knock over a cone, you start over!"

"Are you napping?"

"NOT GOOD ENOUGH!"

"I don't know what that was, but it definitely wasn't a god damn push-up!"

"Break."

My back hit the mats again with a cringe worthy wet slap.

This whole training thing was getting out of control.

"I am absolutely blown away," Death said, his unnaturally flat expression now hovering over me, "that you made it halfway through the Graveyard yesterday."

"I made it an eighth through," I corrected snootily. After correcting him, I realized I made myself sound like a wimp. I mean, who can blame me? "The Graveyard" looked like something straight out of Ninja Warriors or a boot camp, with its monster tires, swinging spikes, ladders, ropes, and a warped wall, that led to ominous black curtains.

"Glenn was gracious to you, then. He told me you made it halfway through. One-eighth is absolutely fucking pathetic."

I pulled my aching body up so that I sat up on my forearms. "I'm so glad you accept me for who I am. Please, tell me more about how you feel."

"I feel you would lose at an arm wrestling match against my pinky."

I scanned over his hard muscled frame. He wore a crisp, faded grey t-shirt with black joggers. Unholy Lord Almighty, did he look good, and I certainly wouldn't win an arm wrestling match against his pinky...

"Are you even listening to me?" He growled.

"I'm trying the best that I can!" I yelled, realizing I'd been blatantly checking him out.

"Then try the worst that you can."

"You're not even sweating, you freak," I growled as I peeled the rest of myself off the mats. I stood up as smooth as possible, in an attempt to look like I was getting my second win. In reality, I looked like I was about to escort myself to the hospital to get my two broken legs looked at. Death clearly found this very amusing, but it only showed in his eyes. "At least I tried to keep up today," I continued.

"Tried," he clipped.

"Listen, you don't even have to breathe. And that makes keeping up with you in here–oh, I don't know, impossible?"

"Just say the word and I can stop you from breathing too, cupcake." He arched those stupid pierced eyebrows. As usual, His exotic, masculine beauty captured all my attention. Every day something seemed to change about him. That day it was his eyes. They were exposed because of his lack of aviators and narrowed more cynically than usual. His one eye was darker than normal, and a deep, woodsy green. His other eye, with that horrific scar slashed through it to his eyebrow, nearly glowed a livid mint green. The only part of his eyes that remained the same were his pupils, thin horizontal slits, trapped aesthetically in their catlike way.