People don’t think about me much until they have to. Then suddenly, I’m all they can think about. Some beg. Some bargain. Some try to make peace. And some – well, some don’t care. But here’s the thing: I don’t choose who gets to meet me. I just show up when it’s time. Or when it’s almost time.
Like Hugh.
I’ve met Hugh three times now. Three proper meetings.
Now you're right in what you're thinking – that's not normal. But don't think he’s special, though he’d probably like to think he is. He’s just another human – messy, complicated, stubborn. But there’s something about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t fight me like the others do. Or maybe it’s the way he keeps slipping through my fingers, time and time again.
The first time we met, he was ten years old. A boy with scraped knees and a lopsided grin, cannonballing into a swimming pool like he didn’t have a care in the world. He sank fast. Too fast. By the time anyone noticed, he was already gone. I stepped in, ready to take him, but just as I reached out, someone else grabbed him first. A petite woman. But she had strong lungs. She pushed against the boy’s chest until water spewed from his mouth and life rushed back in. Hugh coughed and cried and clung to the lady's arm, and I stood there, dripping and annoyed. I’d arrived right on time, only to leave empty-handed.
I didn’t like him much then.
The second time, I was ready. I saw it coming from miles away. Hugh was in his thirties, a military helicopter trainee. He was good – best in his class. Confident, capable, and just a little bit cocky. Ok, he wasn’t cocky, I just don’t want you thinking he was perfect. I still didn’t like the guy.
His instructor wasn’t so good, however. Careless and eager to push Hugh to his limits. The perfect combination for disaster – because it turned out that Hugh’s limits were higher than the instructor’s capabilities.
They were practising autorotation landings that day. If you’re not familiar, it’s when the helicopter’s engine is cut, and the pilot relies on the airflow through the rotor blades to make a safe landing. Simple enough, if you know what you’re doing. But the instructor, eager to teach the boundaries of flight, went off-syllabus and started talking about vortex ring state – a deadly condition where a helicopter essentially sinks into its own downwash, with no lift to save it. He explained it badly. Then, for reasons I still don’t understand, he decided to demonstrate the very thing you’re meant to avoid.
I could see it all coming together – Hugh hovering over the controls, steady but waiting for guidance, the instructor bumbling his way through explanations while not concentrating on the deadly parameters quickly approaching. And then, it happened. They hit vortex ring.
The helicopter sank like a stone. The instructor froze, panicked, shouting something incoherent about increasing collective pitch. Useless advice. Worse than useless.
Hugh took over. His hands flew to the controls, instinctive, precise. He tilted the cyclic forward, eased off the collective, everything he’d learned. The sink rate slowed, but not enough. They were too low, too far gone.
I started running, determined not to miss my moment again. They were seconds from impact, the ground rushing up to meet them. And then – well, then I made a mistake.
As I rushed past, I brought with me a gust of wind. A small thing, just enough to disrupt the downwash, to give the rotor blades one last bite of clean air. The helicopter stabilised, and, with Hugh’s steady hands guiding it, set it on the ground. Hard, but alive.
All of this took 6 seconds. I was annoyed at myself. Three feet. That’s all that was left. Three feet between Hugh and me.
He stepped out of the helicopter, his face pale but composed. The instructor stumbled out after him, mumbling something about 'pushing boundaries' and 'learning opportunities.' Hugh just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, ‘Well, that’s one way to teach it.’
I stood there, hands on my knees, catching my breath. Death, saving someone from, well, me. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
The third time, I thought for sure it was happening.
It was quiet. No roaring engines, no panicked splashing. Just Hugh, alone in his bedroom, standing on a chair with a necktie looped around the beam above him.
He took a deep breath. Stepped off.
With his consciousness quickly slipping into darkness, his body started convulsing, putting his makeshift noose to the test.
The tie snapped.
I didn’t even have time to reach for him before he hit the floor. Hard. His eyes slowly opened, his lungs straining to pull in air. Moments later, his phone rang. He crawled towards it, one hand outstretched, shaking. I don’t know who was on the other end, but I know they saved him that day. Their voice steadied him, kept him tethered.
I didn’t step forward. I didn’t leave, either. I just watched as he lay there, phone pressed to his ear, tears rolling down his face. I thought about taking him anyway, just to be done with it. But I didn’t. Maybe I’m soft.
Hugh doesn’t know it, but we’ve crossed paths more times than those three. There was the food poisoning – vicious, relentless. He was so close, teetering on the edge. By the time I got there, though, he was hooked up to so many machines he barely looked human. I turned around and left.
Then there was the military range, a bullet whizzing past his head by millimetres. Close, but not close enough. Twice more in the skies, Hugh came near to meeting me. A near-miss collision once, and another time a flock of birds pelting towards his cockpit like a hundred living missile. He survived them all. He always does.
Humans like to call that luck. I call it annoying.
But here’s the thing about humans. They waste what they have. They run around chasing things that don’t matter – money, status, shiny objects to hang on their walls – then cry about how empty it all feels. They have the gift of life, and treat it like a burden. They have the gift of death, and treat it like a curse.
I’ll never understand them.
And maybe that’s because, in a way, I envy them. They have a beginning, an end, and everything in between. Me? I’m stuck. Locked in an eternal state of service, showing up when I’m needed, whether I want to or not.
Do you think I chose this? Do you think I wanted this? I didn’t. But here I am, watching as they squander what I’ll never have.
They frustrate me. And yet, they fascinate me.
They make me want to reach out, to shake them by the shoulders and shout, ‘Wake up! Look around! This is it. This is what you have – life!’
But I don’t. I can’t.
I just keep doing my job. Showing up. Collecting the pieces. Waiting for the ones like Hugh who might actually figure it out before I take them.
Hugh is starting to get it, I think. Slowly, painfully, but he’s getting there.
I saw him on LinkedIn the other day—
Yes, I have an account. Of course I do. Most of us do.
You thought it was just me didn't you? Think about that for a minute – just one Death? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re everywhere – quiet, watching, waiting.
Anyway, the post was the usual nonsense – a photo of a man stepping off a private jet that he clearly didn't own, the caption asking, ‘What’s your worth?’
The comments were predictable. Six-figure salaries. Property portfolios. Bonuses. Numbers tossed around like confetti at a party no one actually wanted to attend.
And then there was Hugh.
‘I’m worth life.’
Just three words.
No one replied. But I saw it. And for the first time, I thought, Maybe he’s starting to understand.
Here’s the truth about worth. It’s not in numbers or titles or accolades. It’s not in the things you own or the things you want to own. It’s in the moments you barely notice. The warmth of sunlight on your face. The sound of rain tapping against the window. The weight of someone’s hand in yours.
Hugh is learning this. Not quickly, not easily, but he’s learning. And maybe, when we meet again, it won’t be because he’s ready to let go. It’ll be because he’s lived. Truly lived. Not for anyone else, but for himself.
Until then, I’ll wait. Patiently. Frustrated. I’ll wait. Because whether you realise it or not, you’re all worth life.
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