Death makes a house call (Fiction)

* (Editor's note: This is part of a short story, that I will continue to work on as time permits. I hope you enjoy it, and please leave some feed back if you can. This is the beginning of my attempt to write more fiction and I could use any pointers from people that actually write fiction or know about this particular process.)

Death makes a house call
Grandma Baker always seemed odd to me. More so than the typical self-communication disorders that the elderly seem to suffer the older and older they get. You know, when they start mumbling to themselves or flat out conversations with thin air.

When I ask Grandma about these episodes, she just pretends like she didn't hear me, clams up and shuffles down the hallway to my parents' spare bedroom in her slippers and knee-high pantyhose with the holes scattered about like translucent Swiss cheese.

She was always paranoid, claiming to see visions of Death taunting her or trying to scare her into a heart attack. Grandma Baker was a constant nervous wreck.

I remember when she walked in on my parents having sex, she was in a catatonic state for a week. We had to put her in the hospital because she was pissing and shitting herself, with no control over any of her bodily functions. The hospital's psychiatrist finally snapped her out of it and now she doesn't even remember the little fornicating fiasco. Mom and Dad have since been locking the bedroom door, even when no one else is home.

Grandma began mumbling something about Death one day before I was preparing my lunch for school and it caught my attention.

"What does Death look like, Grandma?" I asked, not knowing if she would even answer me.

Those big brown eyes behind wrinkled lids, crow's feet and graying brows glanced up at me, locking on to the deepest part of my soul. I felt the chill that she must feel everytime one of these visions appear to her.

"He changes appearance a lot," she said. "But mostly he looks like the archtypical death figure ... You know, the skeleton wearing a cloak."

"And he carries a scythe, right?"

"No," Grandma said. "Sometimes he's carrying a riding crop. And one day I saw him with a goldfish in a Mason jar"

My laughter at the ridiculous mental image apparently didn't amuse my elder. Her forehead furrowing with anger and her false teeth clinked as her lips and corners of her mouth turned downward.

"Listen here, Grandson," she said, pointing an authoritive frail finger in my direction. "You and your parents may think I'm a crazy old coot, but when you get to be my age, Death starts making house calls."

I looked down at my sandwich, quickly slapping together the vegetables and condiments on my enriched white bread before topping off with layers of cold cuts. The lunchs at high school were always bad, and to save the money my dad gave me to purchase my meals, I always prepared my lunch at home.

Sneaking a peak, I looked up. My grandmother was still staring at me with cold, hard eyes. The expression on her face hadn't changed.

I flung the sandwich into my lunchbox and snatched my book bag, and just as I open the front door to run out the bus, I turned back to my grandmother.

"Well, if you see Death today, tell him I said 'Hi.'" And with that little quip I dashed through the door, slamming it shut behind me to escape the inevitable scream pursing from Grandma Baker's lips.