Dancing Macabre
story by Klau Stępień Kasandra Y. Sharac Joana Estrela
illustrations by fffilipeee
"Why do people always choose Saturdays when you ask them what day they would like to die on?” the Reaper looked critically at the calendar hanging on the wall.
“Hmm,” Grimelda pondered the question for a bit, “Well, I don't know about other people,” she finally said, “But I have a party on Friday and I already bought the dress. So, I really cannot die before Saturday.”
She jumped up from her silken bed sheets and started walking towards the wardrobe. “Do you want to see it?”
"Sorry, what?"
"The dress!"
The Reaper checked his wristwatch. “Sure.”
Grimelda walked into her wardrobe, rummaged around for a bit and came out with a silver sequin dress and a loud
"Tadaa!" The Reaper said nothing. He thought the dress looked a bit cheap, even though it probably wasn't.
Grimelda started saying something about who will be at the party and -- and this seemed more important -- who will not
be at the party. The Reaper just zoned out staring in her direction but at nothing, thinking back on yesterday's work day,
and the day before yesterday and the day before the day before yesterday and how they were all very similar deep
down.
People had told him that reapers make their own schedule, get to work while they travel. He thought that would give him
freedom, but now he felt trapped in the grim routine of feeling the weight of all of those people's lives. It was particularly
disheartening, even for someone who didn't have a physical heart.
"Grimelda, I've considered taking a break from work. Going on a vacation," he looked at her, expectantly.
She continued diving in her wardrobe, throwing out clothes on a pile on the ground, in search for a pair of shoes
matching her party dress.
"Grimelda?"
"Hmm?"
"I said I need a break."
"A break from what, sweetie?"
"From taking lives."
She turned around, with a wrinkle of concern between her eyes.
"What happens if you do? All those people will have to continue living."
"Isn't it what they would prefer anyway?"
"Of course not, dummy!" Grimelda shook her head at such nonsense.
"What do you mean? Every time I come to take a life, people try to postpone. You did the exact same thing yourself."
"I said I want to live until Saturday. Not forever. There's a difference. Look, we humans, we can't handle time. We don'tknow what to do with ourselves. The moment someone gives us an unlimited amount of time to do something, we start
acting extremely weird."
"Weird in what way?"
"For example, panicking about having to do a thing and ending up not doing the thing at all."
"Okay, that is indeed kind of weird."
"What about you? Are you immortal?"
"I think so. But I don't have an unlimited amount of time to do anything. My schedule is completely packed because
mortals keep needing to die."
Grimelda came a bit closer and asked: "What would you like to do if you could get a break from it all?"
At this, the Reaper pondered.
Almost in a whisper, he said: "Honestly, I guess I wouldn't mind going to a party... as a guest. Preparing the perfect look
for the evening, acting all fierce on the dance floor, getting compliments from strangers... Imagine, people actually being
excited to see me!"
Grimelda grinned and raised an eyebrow: "You could do all of those things, you know."
"No way, impossible. You said it yourself: all those people will continue living against their will."
"That's because you have no replacement. That's a very unsustainable way to run any business, really. You always
need to have someone who can take over your work."
"That's easy for you to say. Do you know someone who could do my job?"
Her grin became even wider as she picked up the sequin dress and held it in front of the Reaper's bony clavicles, as if
trying to imagine what it would look like if he wore it.
"No, not that one," the Reaper said immediately, "It's not my style."
He pointed his chin at a black velvet dress sticking out of the pile of clothes. "That one," he said, "And you will need at
least one day of training to get the basics down. Reaping is not something just anyone can do."
"Oh, don't you worry," Grimelda said, "I'm a fast learner... At least that's what I've been told," she added with a wink.
***
Three uncertain taps on the door. A few moments of silence, then steps approaching, and a wary glance through the
peephole.
"Who's there?"
"Good afternoon, sir!" Grimelda gave it her most trustworthy smile, "I am here to talk about...your future!"
"Not interested! Goodbye," the man barked and pushed the door shut, but Grimelda's boot blocked it well in time. Better
safe than sorry, she had thought earlier that day when she'd opened her closet and had to choose between her frolic
ballet flats, which would have felt so heavenly to wear on that warm early spring Friday, and her old Doc Martens, a relic
from the teenage years of rebellion and dirty nails.
"Oh excuse me, sir, but I don't mean to talk about your future like that! No redemption and salvation kind of bullshit,believe me, ha!" She smiled, knowingly. "If you could just let me inside, so we can have a chat..."
"I don't have time for this! Please step away!"
Grimelda pursed her lips and sent the man a concerned look. "What do you mean, you don't have time?" Her tone was
that of an irritated teacher, and the man felt a flashback to his school years—Ms. Milchik, continuously displeased with
his essays, commenting them out loud in front of the class, mean smiles and giggles popping up all around the
classroom and hitting his overly skinny body clad in worn-down jeans. The tone broke his confidence; he looked at the
strange woman expectantly.
"You are Dave Davidson, is that correct, sir?" Grimelda looked into her folder, to double check.
"Yes." He scratched his right palm; then quickly added: "Ma'am."
"Then you most certainly do have time for this, trust me!" Grimelda cheered up, relieved she hadn't fucked up her first
delivery.
Dave Davidson, accepting his newly refound boyish confusion, let her inside and the two of them sat on the living room
sofa, which was covered with a transparent plastic sheet.
"I wouldn't have guessed you'd be one of those people who keep their furniture under plastic!" Grimelda, visibly
amused, bounced a few times on the glossy surface.
"It's not like that..." the man shook his head, apologetically, "My mother... she passed away some months ago." A sigh.
"Some years ago, actually. It used to be hers, and I was going to sell it or give away, but somehow haven't gotten
around to it."
"Right." Grimelda noticed a picture of a sweet-looking older woman on the side table. "How much would you want for it?
The sofa?" Fucking hell, she thought. "It's really well preserved! I was looking for something I could put in my guest
bedroom..." What was she doing?
"Wait, is that why you're here?Did I put up an online ad back then and never deleted it?"
To her own surprise, Grimelda suddenly found herself incapable of saying the words she practiced so thoroughly with
the Reaper: Today is the day you die. So instead she said: "Vintage dusty rose three seater on eBay, that was you,
right?"
"Oooh, did I actually put that ad up? I know I was really thinking about it when I was drunk, but I thought I didn't do it in
the end... But maybe I did? Oh God, I'm so sorry, you came here all the way for nothing, ma'am. I don't think I'm actually
ready to sell this couch."
Grimelda, feeling herself stuck between a rock and a hard place (or, between a rock and a vintage dusty rose place)
said: "Well... but obviously your subconscious was ready!"
"My therapist thinks I'm still in denial about my mother's death." Dave threw a longing look at the sofa.
"Do you miss her?"
"I don't know... Maybe..."
"What if I told you you could meet her? I could arrange it for you! Soon, now!"
"What do you mean?"
And here it was, her cue, her perfect segue. Proud of herself, she smoothed a wrinkle on her pants and stood up,
towering over Dave's dismayed face, over the plastic-covered sofa, over the dead woman's picture in a frame—over all
the mundane, bread-and-butter futilities of life that she was starting to see in the right perspective, the perspective of:"Today is the day you die."
***
The Reaper was admiring himself in the mirrored hallway of the theater where the party was. The velvet draped over his
pelvic girdle, with his coccyx popping out ever so slightly. This fabric really brought out his bone structure, and he was
feeling it. Finally, his life would be turned around. He would live his true, authentic self. What could possibly go wrong
when you are wearing a dress like this? He took a deep breath and entered the massive dancing area.
The whole place had a vibe of faded rococo glory drenched in a modern hue. He walked up to the bar and ordered a
Dark & Stormy, when a young woman with glittering green eye shadow turned towards him and said: "I like your dress.
Very cunt."
Grimelda had explained to him that he should act cunt and brat, and that those were all good things. But all that came
out of his mouth was: "Erm, thanks."
The woman gave her straw a playful tug. The drink she was holding was yellow with pink, it looked awfully sweet.
"I'm Esme," she said.
"I'm The Rea... Reanna."
Esme raised her eyebrows: "The Reanna? I'm lucky to meet the one and only Reanna then. I like your big dick energy...
I haven't seen you around before. Are you new?"
"Erm, I'm a friend of Grimelda's."
"Ooohh," Esme flashed a big smile, "If you're a friend of Grimelda, then I'm sure you know how to have fun," she said
with a wink and pulled him by his arm up to the dance floor.
The Reaper had never danced before. Oh, well, that is if you didn't count the multiple times when he'd led the Danse
Macabre in the Middle Ages, or provoked dancing manias throughout the continent. But that'd been part of the job. He
had never danced for fun. The concept of fun had always seemed foreign to him. One of the silly human whims that
oftentimes cost them their lives. He'd seen people die doing most ridiculous things—sky diving, letting off fireworks,
riding a motorcycle, feeding a hippo in the zoo—and it was mostly males who engaged in such activities. The Reaper
found females a way more reasonable a species. Fun. It was true that Grimelda knew how to have it. It was not
something they'd bonded over, though. It was curiosity and mutual respect that had brought them together. But now he
was willing to see if he could feel how Grimelda felt when she attended places like this. So he followed the tipsy woman
right to the center of the dance floor.
"Here, I got you the best cocktail you'll have ever tried!" Esme shoved a tall glass into the Reaper's hand.
"Um... thank you." Not being able to get rid of the drink under the expecting eyes of the woman, he moved it towards his
face and tilted, pretending to take a sip.
"Oh, come on! Bottoms up!" Esme shouted, and patted him on the back, which caused The Reaper to lose his balance.
The liquid traveled out of the glass into his mouth hole, flowed through the rib cage and pelvis, splashing between his
feet.
He froze in panic, eyeing the woman in front of him.
"You're a little freaky, aren't you!" she giggled, wholeheartedly.
The rhythm accelerated; now the sweaty bodies swarmed tightly around them, shaking their heads of hair, swinging
their limbs covered by fat and skin. The females were encircled by the males, who performed ritualized movements,presenting their traits and abilities in this precopulatory sexual selection. But the women engaged in courtship displays
as well; you could notice them use temporary ornaments, sheer fabrics revealing soft skin, colorful facial painting,
enhancing their natural features. The Reaper surveyed Esme: her tight sequin dress, her red platform shoes, her
frenetic bouncing and hungry looks directed at him—he took it all in and wondered—could he feel attracted to her?
Could he at least play along? Not having genitals, brains, nor hormones was not on his side. But he could still try to
perform. That was what that evening was all about. The DJ started to play ABBA. Dancing Queen. He laid his hands on
the woman's hips and swayed back and forth with her.
Suddenly, something made him feel trapped.
He quickly excused himself and fled to the toilets. There was a waiting line leading to the ladies' toilet; the gentlemen's
facilities seemed empty. He froze, hit by the necessity of choice. The logical decision was to hide in the male part, take
advantage of the fact that The Reaper was a man in English. But he was a woman, Marzanna, in Slavic folklore. The
language and its limitations were as flawed as the human brain. He didn't want to have anything to do with that.
And yet there he was, immobile, unable to go past the silly mortals' labels.
"Reanna! There you are!" Esme shouted, barely holding two drinks, spilling the contents of the glasses with every step
she made, and when she finally got close to The Reaper/Marzanna, there was only half the liquid left in each of the
recipients. "Got one for you," she shoved it into his/their face, splashing even more fluid.
"Thank you. But, actually, I do not drink." He/they gave the drink a polite smile.
"You don't drink alcohol? You're straight edge?"
"No, I mean: I don't drink at all."
"Oh, are you like on a water cut? Are you into crossfit?"
"Erm, Esme, honestly... I'm a skeleton." Marzanna felt a weight fall off their shoulders as they admitted what felt so
obvious and so hidden at the same time.
"Oh, well, yes, I can see that!" Esme said.
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"Oh, honey, I've seen freakier shit! I think you're cute. I'd like to get to know you. Wanna go out for a cig? It's not like you
can get cancer," she winked.
Marzanna smiled. "Yeah, let's leave this crowd."
Esme fumbled around in her purse, which seemed to be bottomless. Marzanna wondered why on Earth Esme needed
to carry so much of her belongings anywhere she went.
"Could you hold it for me?" she rammed a remote control into their palm.
"...A remote control?"
"Otherwise I never know where it is! Hmm, OK, this is not it either..."
"A hammer?
"A girl's gotta be able to defend herself! And be ready to perform carpentry when the time calls."
"A pack of... Condoms?"
She threw them a mischievous little smile, "For later. Ah, here, cigarettes!"
Was there going to be a later, Marzanna wondered. A tang of anxiety — a sensation they had never felt before — madetheir bones rattle in a worrying manner. They found a fair amount of curiosity towards this woman in front of them but
the shaky sensation took over and:
"I do not have a penis," they blurted out.
"Who says it's for you, honey?" Esme's pearl laughter reverberated in the toilet area, making a few of the queuers turn
back and eye her up.
"Oh. Oh!" they joined her in the chuckle.
"Shall we go?" she offered them her arm.
"Yes, please."
***
Grimelda could finally take her Doc Martens off and let her feet breathe. Dave Davidson had been relatively easy, at
least he wanted to see his mom. Nothing prepared her for what came after: children in hospital beds, young couples in
crashed cars, women strangled to death by their husbands.
Unless an emergency came up, she had nothing on her schedule for tonight. She crashed on the bed and was
overwhelmed by a sudden burst of shaking and tears. It had been two days and she had not seen a sign of the Reaper.
Suddenly, she could hear his footsteps on the stairs, but pretended not to notice. He opened the door quietly and tried
to sneak in like a teenager coming home late.
"It's 1 PM," Grimelda raised one of her overplucked eyebrows. The Reaper chuckled and shrugged his arms, playfully.
"I'm feeling dead!" he collapsed on the sofa.
The joke did not land on Grimelda who protested:
"So, are you gonna tell me where the hell have you been for two days?"
"Out partying. You knew that..."
"For two days in a row?! You think we're in Berlin or something?!"
"Made some friends, I guess. Hung out."
Grimelda studied The Reaper's face, thoroughly. It all looked the same, just as plain as a skinless skull could look like.
But then again, she noticed some fleeting impression of an energy that she'd never sensed looking at him before. Some
freshness and vitality. Something she missed.
"It's Saturday," she sighed. "I think I'm ready to die."