When Harry Met Death

Content Advisory: Contains discussion of suicide - no werewolves are harmed

“Are you going to pull that thing or not?” a bored voice asked.

Harry jumped, almost pulling the trigger.

Standing next to him was a very tall, hooded figure holding a wicked looking scythe.

He emitted a sound somewhere between a squeal and a scream.

“You’re Death,” he squeaked out.

“Well, duh,” the voice said, rattling the scythe at him as if it should be obvious. “You were about to kill yourself, right?”

“Right, right,” Harry said, trying to gather his wits.

At age 16, bloodied and bruised from yet another beating from his pack, he’d had enough. Harry couldn’t imagine life would ever change. Despairing, he’d taken his dad’s gun, went out behind their pig barn and sat under the expansive Idaho night sky.

Harry knew he’d never be the man or werewolf his father and pack demanded.

He liked boys. In the way other boys liked girls. Lord knows he’d tried not to. But, he did. And he wanted to be pretty. He loved dresses and lipstick and high-heeled shoes. And he’d rather bake cakes in the warm kitchen with his mom than run through the woods hunting game with the pack.

They’d tried to beat the different out of Harry.

But they couldn’t.

You can’t “beat out” who a person truly is. You can make them better at hiding it. But it lives on. Deep down.

It felt like there was no way out. No way he could ever be what they wanted. He couldn’t take another beating. Couldn’t take the shame.

“Look if you’re going to be awhile about it, do you mind if I sit down? It’s been a hell of a night,” the voice said, weariness evident.

Harry gave a nervous giggle. Death had said “hell”.

And then he thought, “If Death is real, maybe Hell is real too”.

And he really didn’t want to go to Hell. Did someone go to Hell if they killed themselves, he wondered? His minister said they did, but the minister said a lot of things Harry didn’t particularly believe.

The figure leaned the scythe against the barn and sank down next to him. Harry watched as a long skeletal hand rummaged in a pocket before coming out with a pack of cigarettes and matches.

“Do you mind?” the figure asked, turning a hooded head in his direction and holding out the pack.

“Well, I do have asth…,” Harry began.

But the figure had already struck a match and held it to the end of a cigarette. He heard the deep inhale of an experienced smoker taking a drag on a long-anticipated cigarette. Smoke filled his nose as the figure next to him lifted a hand and pushed back it’s hood.

“Holy Mother of God,” Harry thought. “Death is a drag queen.”

“Almost pumpkin,” Death said.

“Oh crap, Death can hear me think,” was Harry’s next thought.

“Of course, I can, silly boy. How would I ever do my job if I couldn’t hear what people were thinking?” Death said, shaking out her lustrous head of hair and turning the full weight of her gaze on him.

Harry’s breath caught.

Death was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Harry wished he looked just like her.

She had long, rich auburn hair. Her perfect face had flawless pale skin stretched over dazzling cheekbones. She had full luscious lips and large, luminous eyes. He couldn’t quite make out the color in the dim light, but…

“They’re green,” she said. “And thank you for the compliments.”

He jumped again. Right. Death reads thoughts.

Death chuckled, took another drag on her cigarette and loosened her robe.

Blowing smoke up to the heavens, she said, “Look, you going to do this thing or not kid? I’ve got other places I need to be tonight.”

“Well, I…” Harry began. It was a little harder to find his resolve with Death sitting next to him.

“Would it help if I told you death is just a doorway to another life?” Death asked.

“Wh...what?” Harry stammered.

“Or maybe it would help if I told you it gets better,” Death sighed. “I see kids like you all the time. I get it. Your life sucks. But how do you know it won’t get better if you just hold on? And, how do you know your next life will be better than this one?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry said, despairing. “I just can’t take this anymore.”

“I think you can,” Death said. “People take worse all the time. I think you have a choice. As soon as you’re able, get the hell out. Find people like you. Take a chance. Ask for help if you need it. Give help if you can. Create a life worth living.”

Harry put his head in his hands. Despair welling up. Tears filled his eyes. It felt so impossible.

“What do you have to lose?” Death asked. “You can always come with me later.”

Harry lifted his head and looked at the magnificent creature sitting next to him.

If a living Death were possible, what else was possible?

He sat silent for a moment, letting her words sink in.

Taking a deep breath, he finally said, “Thank you.”

Death looked momentarily taken aback.

“I don’t want to die yet,” Harry said, still shaky but resolute.

Then he took another deep breath, wiped his eyes, and asked, “And where in the world did you get that fabulous bustier? Is it leather?”

From that moment on, Harry and Death were fast friends.

Years later…

Harry sat backstage, his brilliant blue eyes shining in the round lights of the dressing room mirror. Turning his head from side to side, he surveyed the expertly made-up face of the gorgeous woman staring back at him.

Fluttering long, lush lashes, he’d took in the extravagant eye shadow and liner, making his eyes huge pools of deep azure blue. With one gloved hand, he ran light fingertips over cheek bones highlighted to impossible perfection with contouring blush. Lush, platinum blond curls were piled high on his head, giving him an eight extra inches in height. “Who didn’t need an extra eight inches every now and then,” he’d thought as his glistening, ruby-red lips quirked in a small smile.

Sitting up straight in his hard-backed chair, he’d gazed at his sparkling, strapless white-sequined gown. It was lovely and a masterpiece of sewing ingenuity. His seamstress could have been an engineer, she’d built so much infrastructure and girding into the gown.

Swiveling in the chair, he’d inflated his chest and admired the profile view. His padded bust was full and shapely, skirting the edge of overblown without quite going there. His hands encircled his waist. It looked impossibly small. He sucked in his stomach and drew himself straighter anyway. Posture and presentation were everything in the pageant world. And, he wasn’t a five-time winner of the Ms. Seattle Drag Queen crown for nothing.

Still looking into the mirror, he swiveled even further in the chair, glancing over his shoulder and taking in the elegance of his bare muscled shoulders. At least those were his. Of course, the derriere wasn’t. But he knew for a fact the padding he sat on made his ass pert and ample. He’d heard it a thousand times.

Suddenly weary, he turned around in the chair and faced himself in the mirror. He could see the small dressing room behind him cluttered with sequins and feathers and bright fabrics. Leaning in closer to the mirror, he could see faint lines at his eyes and mouth. He was tired. And getting older. Pageants just weren’t the fun they used to be. But, what else could he do?

“Hello, Harry,” Death said from behind him.

Harry jumped out of his chair and spun to face Death.

She stood there as bold and beautiful as the first time he’d seen her many years before, with her bright auburn hair, impeccably beautiful face and bustier hoisting the girls to dizzying heights.

If Death had been a drag queen, she would have won any and every pageant she’d entered. She was that stunning and fierce.

“Why thank you, pumpkin,” Death said, smiling.

Oh crap, he’d forgotten she could hear his thoughts.

Her smile widened.

From behind Death’s cloak, a little girl peered out.

Harry blinked in surprise.

He could see the girl’s dark purple eyes from across the room. They were stunning with her bright red hair. Unfortunately, they looked like she’d been crying. She wasn’t crying now. In fact, she had a decidedly rebellious set to her chin.

“Come out here darling,” Death said impatiently, putting one hand on the girl’s back and propelling her forward. Standing at Death’s side, the little girl straightened her shoulders and tightened her little hands into fists. She looked like a really defiant, really scared kitten.

Harry raised one elegant eyebrow and looked at Death.

What was Death doing with a child?

“This is my daughter, Beatrix Angelina D’Vita,” Death said. “She needs a home. Turns out living with Death isn’t the safest place for a little girl.”

“I can imagine,” Harry said with a wry smile on his glossy lips.

“How would you like to be a father?” Death asked.

Harry cough-sputtered and put a satin-gloved hand to his enhanced chest. “Excuse me?”

“Well, not a father, technically,” Death said. “More like a parent-figure.”

Harry looked at the little girl in her rumpled jeans and t-shirt. She looked back at him in his white sequined gown and six-inch heels.

Blue eyes met purple eyes.

His softened. She was so adorable and brave and scared.

Her eyes widened. He was impossibly shiny and almost as beautiful as Death. She could also see he was tired and a little lonely. Both of their worlds changed in that moment. Both felt a spark of recognition and a twinge of hope.

Death watched the exchange.

“Alright then,” Death said. “She’ll live with you. You’ll take care of each other. I’ll check in from time to time.”

And then Death was gone.

The little girl and the drag queen silently stared at each other. What had just happened?

Harry sank weakly onto his chair.

Drawing in a deep breath, he held out a hand out to the girl and said, ““Hello sweetheart, I’m Aunt Harry.”

She slowly came forward and put her hand in his. “I’m Trixie.”

And that was that. From then on, Trixie and Harry were a family.