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He sat. The room was blurry around him, or perhaps that was just the dim lighting. The warm glow seemed to bounce off the table in front of him, coming off in soft pulses. He rested his hands upon the splintered thing, the derailed remnants an eerie depiction of the beautifully crafted thing it once was. The woodsman he’d bought it from – decades ago, on that cold, Autumn afternoon – had spent countless hours whittling away at the deep mahogany. 

His eyes drifted to that single piece of dull, rusted metal, inches away from his spindly fingers. What once shone a bright silver was now riddled with flecks of reddish brown. Aged, but effective. Isn’t that the very essence of humanity? Regardless of the trivial, youthful flair that most desperately cling to, Death is the only permanent thing in this world. 

He frowned, reaching towards the rusted thing. Similarly, he reflected on his own intrinsic fatigue, mind riddled with some twisted, perpetual state of melancholy. Then, externally: The body of a young athlete, now replaced by aches, pains, and moans. Long, spindly fingers, barely graceful enough to rotate the metal between them. 

What was it made of? Iron? Steel? Certainly not silver; not even the Royalty would bother with silver utensils. He paused, inhaling slowly. Would they? People of such power, of such wealth – they shouldn’t bother with such intricacies. The metal would just rust in the end. Like all else. 

Royalty, just as everyone else, would fall victim to their imminent demise. Everyone falls victim to Death’s cold, firm grasp. 

He looked at the spoon, that ugly, rusted bit of metal. Steel, iron, silver – it didn’t matter. The thing hadn’t touched a meal in years. It never even touched the cracked insides of his dying mouth. 
It used to be a fork, he realized, smiling. Months ago, it was a fork. Sitting on the very table before him, basking in the dim, flickering lighting. The handle was bent in a crooked, awkward way – slightly to the right, and curving further in that direction towards the end. 

The man felt his lips purse and his jaw clench, eyes beginning to glisten. They had taken it away from him, he remembered. The fork. They had told him no more. Then, They left him, forsaking him. They expected him to wrap his head in the comfort of his atrophied arms and die in the blanketing depths of his sorrows. 

He did that, for a time. Yet, Death never came. Instead, there was just the Pain. It felt so good, the Pain! He reminisced, smiling as he thought of the sharp feeling of the prongs against his open skin, tearing apart the wrinkles that lay on his arms. As if unzipping a zipper, or untying a tie. It was… right. Death would not come for him, not while he cried. Only the most eternal souls know Pain to the extent that he does. Moments of peace, among the sea of Their torment. 

They took it away. His peace, his Pain. For what was he, if not his trauma? For what was he, if not his own man? A man, They said, who doesn’t need a fork? A man, They said, who doesn’t know right from wrong? 

Oh, but he knew. He knew right, and he knew wrong. Sometimes, the wrong things, they… they helped. They took it away, though. They told him no more. And who was he, if not for Them? That may not be a question he could answer. They helped him. They told him what to do. They made him who he was. 

But they took his fork. 

He looked at the spoon. He pondered, his other hand clenched tightly beneath the table. This utensil. He’d never used it. It never fed him, nor did it bring him Pain. It was a thing neither of life, nor of Death. So… why? Why would something so pure – so ignored – rust in the gentle hands of Death? 

From what he could recall, not a soul had touched the spoon. Well, no, that was a lie. They had put it there, after telling him how horrible he was. Yet, he was a product of their own recreation, his being the sole purpose for their existence. What was he, if not for Them? 

They told him, before they left him. Left him to die. “You are a very bad man,” They said, as if confident in his evil. Seeing him as a man stripped of morals, purely living off guttural instinct. 
No, he knew right from wrong. He tried proving it to Them, once. “I’m right. I’m right,” he muttered. Then screamed. They never listened. 

They called him crazy, as if surprised by Their sudden realization of his superiority. They told him, “you’ve finally done it. We never knew it would be like this.” 

But They knew. He’d told Them before. He had told Them before he looked Her in her eyes. He had told them before he watched Her go. He had told Them. He had told Them. 
“Killer”, They said. “Murderer”. 

No, he was no killer. They were trying to hurt him, to lie. Didn’t They know that he was too accustomed to Death’s glare? They didn’t scare him, so he could dismiss Them. Fictitious, just remnants of distant memories. 

Yet, who was he, if not for them? And who were They, if not for him? 

It was good, now that he rid himself of Them. They took the fork away, They took his Pain. They lied to him. 

He stared at that spoon, twisting in his fingers. He missed his fork, just as he missed Her. 

Oh, but it was there! He realized. There beside him. Always there. Somehow he forgot the fork was right where he put it. His gaze drifted from his seat, his neck slowly turning to his right. A smile spread across his face. There it was, the fork! Right where he had left it. And there She was, too, kind enough to hold it for him. 

Oh, how he missed Her.