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           "Let go of me! You can't just drag me around like a child!" I shrieked, grabbing onto the doorway into the kitchen. I could see my mother's unconscious, sleeping body on the floor and felt the need to cry out to her. "HELP--!"

            Death peeled my fingers off the doorway and picked me right up into his arms. I was so in shocked by that action, that I stopped struggling once he was holding me. Not that I could have moved, anyway, with his death grip around my body. "I know when someone is killing themselves. I also know when someone is killing themselves pitifully. You are killing yourself pitifully." He me down in the kitchen, still keeping me hostage in his grip. "So start eating," he reached for a butcher knife on the counter and put the cold, sharp edge to my throat, "because I'm the only one who does the killing around here. I also like you better with a little meat on your bones. Comprende?"

             I stared down at the knife in horror as he played with it like freaking baton thrower between his long fingers. "Comprende," I answered.

            "She actually listens to me sometimes," Death huffed out, roughly pushed me in front of the refrigerator. He kept one large, lethal hand on my back, and presumably kept the knife ready at his side. My mother had just happened to go grocery shopping that morning and the fridges contents were ironically like Heaven before my eyes.

            "The Grim Reaper is forcing me to eat." I shook my head back and forth. "To think my life used to be normal--"

            "Open that drawer and take out some ham and cheese," Death barked, motioning at the drawer with the butcher knife in his hand. "Then, take out some lettuce and tomato. I'll cut the tomato."

            "I know how to make a sandwich," I seethed between my teeth.

            "But you clearly don't know how to feed yourself, so that knowledge is pointless, isn't it?"

            I gave him a dirty look over my shoulder, before opening fridge drawer and taking out fresh honey ham and slices of cheddar cheese. "It's not every day  a woman is held up by a knife to make a sandwich. Quite sexist of you."

            "I'm a chauvinist pig," he admitted freely, breathing slightly down my neck. He was so close to me that once in a while, I felt his lips brush against my skin. It was driving me absolutely insane, how close he was. "But my chauvinistic qualities don't take away from the fact that I'm downright exceptional between the sheets."

            "Egotistical flirt," I muttered.

            "Yes?" He was standing so close to me that I could feel his cloak brush against my back whenever I moved slightly back.

            Ignoring him the best I could, I washed off some lettuce and a tomato and handed him the tomato. His leather gloved fingers brushed against my skin, and when he purposely grabbed onto my pinky, I quickly pulled away sharply.

            "You know, pinkies can snap as easily as baby carrots."

            I tucked my pinkies beneath the rest of my fingers. "Good to know."

            He snickered, twirling the knife in his hand. "Now watch and learn how to cut a tomato, human." I had never seen someone cut tomato slices so quickly in my life. "Vuela!"

            I wondered what else he was good at with his hands, and cursed at myself for ever reading adult romance novels.

            Death tilted his head towards me at the final slice of the fruit, bringing the knife down to the cutting board with finality. I swallowed hard, imagining he was pretending the fruit was my head. I returned to my sandwich creation, avoiding that concealed, exotic stare. Death was a enigma; sometimes, I knew he actually wanted to kill me, other times I knew he was joking, but most times,  I had no idea what the hell he was trying to do.

            The hooded man brushed past me, wondering around the kitchen, whistling to himself. That knife was still in his hand, twirling around his fingers. He filled his arms with chips and cookies from the pantry. And believe me, that was a lot of chips and cookies.

            I watched Death awkwardly (Death was rarely awkward, so it was hilarious) try organize his collection on the counter without dropping anything on the floor. I bit back a laugh. "Need help?"

            He gave up, dumping everything messily on the counter. "To hell with organizing," he grumbled, popping open a fresh bag of chips and messily indulging himself in the crunchy deliciousness.

            "That's exactly what your office told me when I first saw it." I looked up at him innocently. "Oh, that's right, you still don't want to admit you're David Star because you're a big baby."

            Death leaned over the counter, loudly crunching on a mouthful of chips. "Finish your sandwich, woman," he snapped.

            "I'm already done." I placed my finished product on the counter in front of me. "Happy?"

            "We'll see." Death silently flicked his gloved fingers towards himself. Suddenly, I was on Master Chef and he was judging my meal. I slid the plate to his side of the counter and might have done a silent prayer.

            Why did his opinion suddenly mean the world to me?

            He lifted up the top slice of bread, appeared to smell it, then expect it with his hidden eyes. I ended up making a thick, ham, cheddar, lettuce, tomato and avocado sandwich with a little mayo and pepper, all on fresh rye bread. It was a damn good sandwich. Making a noise of approval, Death reached into his collection of junk food around him, adding a colossal size of cookies and chips to my plate, then slid the plate back to me. "Eat."

            I eyed his body language carefully. By the angle of his head, he was clearly still staring at the sandwich. It was strange how I had to determine what he was looking at by how his head was tilted, because I couldn't see his face. "Looks good, huh?" I asked.

            "The perfect sandwich." I sighed in relief at those three words. "You're a talented sandwich maker." He tore his attention from my creation, as if he was seeing his true love for the last time. "Now start eating, cupcake." Everything sounded like a threat when there was a butcher knife in his hand, but I knew, and he knew, that he was jealous that I was about to eat that perfect sandwich.

            "Oh, it's not mine," I said, sliding the plate back towards him. His hooded head lifted up at me. I flashed him a flirtatious, kind of shy smile. "It's yours. I made another one for myself..."

            He grew quiet, and my smile fell.

            "Do you not want it?" I felt like I was in kindergarten again, giving a gift to someone during sharing time, and the person I was paired up with was not a happy camper. "I'll put it in the fridge, if you don't. It's not a big deal..."

            "It's not the sandwich," he said, with an empty laugh.

            "Then what is it?" There was a pain in his voice that brought out a nurturing part of me. It brought me back to our kiss in my bedroom, when I felt his raw emotions like claws tearing into my chest. Anger, sadness, reprisal....

            "I'm not a good person, Faith." His long, gloved fingers clenched into fists. "But I was neither born, nor raised what I am today. I want you to know that. The person--the thing that I am today, wants to hurt you. It wants to hurt you a lot. All it thinks about is hurting you." Death sounded a bit out of breath, as if he was trying to stay in control. "I know, I should have just said 'no' to the sandwich..."

            I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What did he want me to say to that? I turned away from him and faced the window over the sink, looking out into the front yard. Talk to me, Death, I silently asked him. Open up to me. A part of me wished that he could  still hear my thoughts.

            "I can hurt you without even touching you," he said, his voice a mere whisper. "You're fragile, and I'm indestructible." Suddenly I keeled over the sink, my hand over my stomach. My scar and the area beneath it painfully throbbing uncontrollably. "If my mother saw the way I am right now, she would be mortified. Absolutely mortified. 'Babulus!' she would call me. Fool." In the reflection of the mirror, I saw him smacked his fists against the counter once, ceasing the unbearable pain in my body. He flattened this hands on the counter, stretching his fingers out. "I know it might be hard for you to understand right now, but there will come a time in your life where you decide if you are the person you want to be, and if you're not the person you want to be, nobody can stop you from changing who you currently are. Not your parents, not your friends, not your allies... and not even me. But if you don't like the way you are, and you don't make that change...you'll lose yourself. You'll waste away until you're the worst version of yourself."

            I was speechless. No sarcasm, no sass and no rebellion. Faith Williams was absolutely speechless. Why was he telling me this? I asked myself over and over again. 

            "Once you lose yourself," Death continued, clearly deep in thought, "it's up to you to backtrack, try pick up the parts of your life you left behind, and glue them all back together. And even if you succeed in putting them all together, that finished product is never the same as the original."

            "I don't think you've lost yourself. I think you've given up." I finally found my voice, and although it was barely audible, I knew that Death had heard me. But he was choosing not to reply. I turned away from the window, to find him staring down at the counter. "I know you're the last person who would believe in everyone's ability to change for the better, but it's true. Anyone can change, or at least shape the person that they are. You've made your poor choices, and you can make a few more bad ones, or you can make a few good ones, and settle the score."

            Death brought his hooded head up sharply. "And just how many angelic decisions do you think I have to make to settle a sentence as severe, as an eternity of sucking human's souls out, and distributing them to heaven and hell?" He stood up to his full height. "Please, do tell." Even though there was a counter between us, I fought the urge to shrink back. I couldn't help but think about Ace's words about Death taking my life for his benefit, and wondered if any of that was true, and if Death already knew what I knew about my future. "Better yet, tell me how many angelic decisions do you think I have to make, so that my identity isn't covered by a damn shadow? Do you even know why my identity is covered?" He nastily demanded an answer, knocking the sandwich and the plate in front of him from the counter. his anger growing with the amplitude of his voice. "What's wrong?Does the nosy, infuriating and defiant little bitch really want to know more about me?"

            I refused to answer him, tears abruptly flooding my eyes. 

            "Fine. Don't answer. I'll tell you, anyway." He yanked down his hood, revealing a spiked up black Mohawk that I had been impossibly concealed by his hood. It was bizarre, seeing that empty blackness from his neck up, covering everything except for his hair. Death waved his gloved hand in front of the shadow on his face and it didn't even move. "It's because I'm pretty, that's why I have this thing over my face. My prettiness is a poison--a weapon to you weak minded people. A weapon, which I abused a long time ago because I abhor you ugly creatures," he hissed, and in the blink of an eye, he was now on my side of the counter. He knocked me back against the sink, pinning me there, vulnerable, with an invisible force. His hood was up again.  "Now you tell me specifically," he began sarcastically, pressing his body flat against mine, "what you think innocent Death did with his prettiness to deserve this over his face? Take a wild fucking guess."

            "I don't want to guess," I said, looking away from him.

            "Why not?"

            "I don't want to, Death. Let me go."

            "What's wrong?" He gripped me by the chin, his voice mocking and cruel. "Is the wittle baby going to cry? Aw." Now his hooded face was closer, his tone even nastier. "Cry, baby. Cry."

            "I pity you, Death, and I really wish I didn't, but I do." I stared boldly at his shadowy face, but my voice was cracking with emotions. "I pity you, and whatever you've been through that has made you this way."

            His grip tightened on me. "You're cheeks are all flushed, your hips are still tilted towards mine. I pity you, and your attraction towards me, I'll only use it against you." Death's lips were a hot, white fire against my collarbone. "So vulnerable. Does it make you upset, how turned on you are right now, even though I'm a jerk? You must feel so ashamed!" He shook me, and the dam holding the avalanche of tears in my eyes cracked. "Come on, cry! You and I both know it's what you do best!"

            I hated him. I hated how he threatened me. I hated how he condescended me, and knew exactly what to say to make me tick. I hated how used his physical size against me, as well as his intelligence. And most of all, I hated that Death lied to me constantly.

            Malphas was right. He was right. I hated Death so much that I wanted him gone, by any means necessary. I wanted him gone.

            "What you've started here, princess," Death whispered at my ear, stroking my pony tail, cradling my head against his, "is much larger than yourself. I hold the match that ignites a fire, and that fire will burn everything you love an everything you are, to the ground. You're making me strike the match." The Grim Reaper hovered over my mouth with his, like he loved to do. It was as if he was testing how uncomfortable he could make me, before I flinched away. His breath was intoxicatingly minty and his cologne was now driving me insane. "I've been very good to you. I've held back everything I am. And everything I am, leaves a path of destruction."

            "You're wrong." He pulled away, and I found that endless black shadow where his face could be, and I hoped I was looking him right in the eyes. "Everything you are, is still a lie to me, Death. I don't even know who you are, or when you're telling the truth. I could never trust you enough to let you have me."

            "Trust. Isn't that something you worry about with your friends? Both of us are running out of options, buddy, I wouldn't dwell on something as worthless to me and you, as trust." Death let out a snicker that was so cold, it was lethal. I felt his fingers crawl up my waist, his power freezing my limbs and keeping me what could be described as debilitated. "You're brave now. I put that word lightly, because we both know how fearless you really are. You won't be "brave" much longer." His felt his lips a breath away. "I'll break you, so you'll sit between my legs like a good girl, and wait for your treat."

            "You'll force me to sign the contract, you mean?" I let out a shaky laugh. "You'd never want to win me that way."

            "You're right," Death whispered in a voice was so husky and deep, I shut my eyes and fell under some sort of momentary trance. His hand found my lower back, pressing our bodies close together, and his lips brushed against my neck. "I won't force you to do anything. I'm an impatient male, but I'll wait this time. I'll wait, because I want to see you beg for my contract. And beg, and beg, and beg. Maybe you'll cry, then."

            Then he pushed away from me, leaving my breathless.

            "And congratulations, princess." I could feel those mismatched eyes still on me. "You've managed to make someone who's always hungry, lose their appetite. But I'm sure your rigged, virgin self does that to every other guy, too." He turned his back at me then, leaning against the archway to look at my mother on the ground. He started to say something, when my eyes drifted to the butcher knife on the counter, the sandwich on the floor, and my mind drifted elsewhere.

           I knew what I would say next would make him furious. I knew it was stupid. But I didn't know how mad he would get, or how stupid it was. And believe me, I bit down on my lip so hard it started to bleed, but there was a fierce part of me that refused to let Death get the last, most authoritative word in. If I wanted to win his game, I had to fight dirty. I had to play all my cards right, and I had to take no prisoners.

            But first, I needed duct tape over my mouth, in order to even stand a chance.

            I bet you're still wondering why Death was drowning me in the bathtub, huh?

            "Well I'm not hungry anymore either, so take it anyway," I began, throwing the sandwich hard at his back, "Alex."

            I promise you, the temperature in the room was now below zero.

            Death slowly turned towards me, his inclined his hooded head to the side, then went absolutely still. "Alex," he echoed, after the most uncomfortable length of silence I had ever been through. Alex wasn't just a name. It was an identity. Something personal to him that he had thrown away. For a reason. And although a point had been drawn on my side of the scoreboard, I wasn't yet in the lead.

           "What did you just call me?" I didn't like the emptiness in his voice one bit. That emptiness said something--everything--without him saying anything else at all.

            Run.

            "You heard me, Alex." I snatched the butcher knife off the table before I said my next part. I figured, what the hell, he was going to probably kill me anyway.  "Nice scars on your face, by the way. You make Freddy's, from A Nightmare on Elm street, look like a boo boo!"   

            Death let out a monsterous hiss and lunged at me.

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What an idiot lol.

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