Friday night. Everyone’s favorite night. Blake tossed her backpack into the corner and slipped into comfy sweatpants. She swung open the fridge, time for a dinner befitting the D&D champion she is: cold pizza with pineapple.
Her foot hit a slick patch by the fridge. The slice went one way, Blake went the other. The cracking of her skull against the tile rang through her entire body. Time slowed as the sharp taste of copper hit her tongue. The lights dimmed, darker and darker, as sound faded into the background.
The apartment door creaked open. A sudden flare of light stretched the shadows, turning the air sharp and cold. A figure swept in, black robes trailing, and a brass fanfare of horns blaring.
“Your time ha…” the voice bellowed, bassy and grand. The figure stopped mid-phrase, tilted his head, and squinted. “Any chance I can bum a pint off you?” The bass was gone, replaced with something drier, almost casual.
Blake’s chest heaved. “You… you’re…”
“Yeah?” The figure leaned closer, hood shifting just enough to show a grin.
“You are…”
“Parched,” he cut in, “Proper parched. Got a pint?”
Blake blinked, dazed, sprawled on the floor next to the mangled pizza. “…What?”
The figure picked his way past Blake and the pepperoni while swinging his shoulders ostentatiously, carefully sidestepping the puddle. “Careful there,” he said. “Might get you killed.”
“I was going to say the line. Your time has come, cue the drama… all that. But honestly? Management’s got us on this ‘do more with less’ rubbish these days. Fewer scythes, more souls, no overtime pay. You know how many idiots slip in kitchens every week? Or keel over on their mistresses? And I’m supposed to keep the numbers up. Bollocks to that.”
He raised two bony fingers and swung them outward in a lazy arc, completing the gesture.
Death is a Brit? ran through Blake’s mind, before everything went black.
---
Blake came to in her bed, head throbbing, vision blurry, mouth dry.
The last thing she remembered was that grin, before the dark swallowed her. She instinctively touched her head and groaned. “Oof. Shit.”
She took a moment as she sat up in bed. “Monty Python’s Death? Showing up in my concussion hallucinations? What does that say about me?” She shrugged, “Best not to open that door.”
She shuffled into the kitchen. “Nice going, Blake,” she muttered, while crouching to peel pepperoni off the tiles.
“Oi,” said a voice, far too close. “Pass the cheese doodles, will ya love.”
She yelped and spun around. Death was sprawled across her couch, black robes bunched around him, remote in one hand, orange dust staining the other.
Blake blinked. “Oh my God. You’re real?!”
“Shhh.” He gestured toward the TV, eyes fixed. “Blondie’s on about the moon again. Fewer brain cells than a goldfish, that one. I sometimes wonder if one of my colleagues forgot to pick her up. You know what I mean?”
“Death is watching Love Island on my couch,” Blake whispered.
“Right, love. Couch’s better than mine. And you’ve got cable.”
On screen, a reality contestant squealed. Death smirked and flipped channels. He stopped on a news anchor. “See that bloke? He’s due for a visit in a few months.”
Blake pressed her palms to her temples. “This isn’t happening.”
“Don’t worry, lass. I cut you a break. Took the tax auditor instead. He was going to look into that little mistake on your return. You’re off the books now. No need for thanks. Just let me stay a little while.”
Off the books, Blake thought, whatever that means. She only nodded.
“All right then. Roommates!” Death laughed, patting a throw pillow. “Oh, and you’ll teach me D&D. I’m always collecting these lads mid-campaign, and I’ve no bloody clue what they’re on about or why they all keep throwing dice at me.”
Blake sighed. Hard to tell if it was the headache or the sheer absurdity. Either way, she tossed him a fresh bag of cheese doodles and sat down beside him.
---
That night bled into the next, and the next. One bag of cheese doodles became two, then three. Before she knew it, a little while had become a week. A week became a month. Somehow, Blake healed up fine, but of course, Death never left.
In that time, she learned two things quickly. One, only she could see or hear him. Two, having Death as a roommate was equal parts expensive and unbearable.
Last week, Blake reached her limit and snapped. “You need to clean up. And you need to not be here tonight.”
“I know you can’t see it right now, but I’m rolling my eyes,” he said. “Why? It’s not like you’ve got a boyfriend.”
Blake’s stare said enough.
“…Girlfriend?” Death added quickly. “I have a date,” Blake said flatly. “So be a good roommate, clean this mess up, and make yourself scarce.”
Death lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Cross me heart.”
He’d promised. And maybe, just maybe, she believed him.
---
The elevator rattled upward, slow as always. Blake shifted the wine bottle Ryan had brought into one hand and told herself to breathe. It had been a nice evening, Ryan was funny, asked questions about D&D, laughed at her dorky jokes, and even picked out a half-decent Merlot from the bodega downstairs.
When the doors opened, she led him down the hall and stopped at her door. Instead of walking right in, she cracked it open an inch, peeking inside.
The apartment was tidy, everything more or less where it should be. No ominous cloaks draped over the furniture. No empty candy wrappers on the table. She exhaled. Death, for once, seemed to have listened.
“Place looks nice,” Ryan said as she flicked on the light.
“Thanks, not exactly a castle, but it’s my warm home.” Blake forced a grin.
They settled in easily, glasses poured, shoes kicked off. Conversation looped around nothing in particular. She caught herself watching him, realizing with a small, sudden shock: she actually liked him.
The kiss came almost naturally. A lean across the couch, a nervous laugh cut short, lips meeting softly. Warmer than she expected. For a moment, it was perfect.
Goosebumps rose on her neck, sadly not from the kiss, but the sudden realization that perfection was about to end.
There he was. Death, leaned against the sofa, hood pulled back just a bit.
Blake jerked back. Ryan’s brow furrowed. “Did I… do something wrong?”
“No,” Blake stammered. “No, it’s…” She leaned in again, one hand behind Ryan’s neck, the other hand flapping frantic gestures toward the kitchen. Go. Away.
Death ignored the hand and looked down at Ryan’s hairline.
“That’s brave, love. Proper heroic…. A ‘bald’ choice, you know what I mean.”
Blake froze again, lips parted but not kissing. Ryan shifted back this time, uneasy. “Uh… bathroom.” He stood before she could stop him, disappearing behind the door with a polite cough.
The second it clicked shut, Blake spun around, facing Death, whispering with all the venom of a shout. “You promised!”
“Whaat? He can’t see or hear me.” Death waved it off and leaned back, “Besides, you’re punching below your weight, love.”
Blake’s fists clenched. “Out. Now.” Death tilted his head, smirk unfading. “Honestly, I’m just looking out for you.”
Before she could snap back, the bathroom door opened. Ryan stepped out, catching her mid-argument with empty air. His face stiffened. “Who… were you talking to?”
Blake blinked, thought quickly. “I was… rehearsing dialogue… for D&D.”
Ryan checked his watch like it had just buzzed. “Oh. Right. Look at the time.”
The door shut decidedly behind him minutes later.
Blake collapsed into the couch, staring at the ceiling. Death slid into the armchair opposite her, propped his boots up, and snagged the wine. “Well,” he said, swirling the glass. “I don’t think he’ll be back.”
“How does one kill death?” Blake snapped. She didn’t listen to the response, turned her head, and closed her eyes.
By morning, she would convince herself it was just nerves, just bad timing. But when Ryan didn’t respond in the days that followed, it became harder to maintain that rationalization. He even vanished from the apps. Blake wondered if she was being figuratively ghosted, or if Death had made it literal. She didn’t dare to ask.
---
In the weeks that followed, Blake went to work, came home, and found him still there: eating cereal, watching daytime TV, playing video games. Her bank balance sank lower as she supported a dependent, one she couldn’t even declare.
Even with Death hogging the couch, emptiness still gnawed at Blake. So, when he suggested the diner, she didn’t fight him.
“Glorious juice,” Death muttered before he sipped from his Earl Grey tea. He sat across from Blake at the local diner, poking at her cold fries. “Why are you so quiet? You used to have a little more energy, Blake.”
She looked up. “I’m dateless, and you’re eating yourself through my savings.”
Death, perfectly at home in the booth, stole a fry. “Cheer up. You can bet on anything these days.”
“Football?” Blake muttered.
“Small potatoes. I mean the good stuff.”
He cleared his throat and rattled off the bets on William becoming King by November, whether the next Bond’s a ginger, the exact day aliens land, how Keith Richards might outlive us all, when a famous rapper-turned-prophet will have his next meltdown, and which athlete will get their signature shoe produced first.
Then his finger pointed to the muted TV bolted above the counter.
“Like the new guy?” Death smirked.
Blake’s almost-smile curdled. “Who cares?”
Death leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s all about the death pools, lass. Newsreaders, rock stars, politicians,… fuckin’ Kardashians. Odds on who makes it to Christmas. Punters drop fortunes on it. Cleaner than the stock market, if you ask me. And twice as fun.”
He paused to scribble a few names and dates on a napkin, pushed it across. “And… you’ve got some power in your corner.” He motioned his arms as if flexing his biceps.
For a beat, Blake just stared. Then shoved it back, disgusted. “You want me to bet on people dying?”
Death leaned back, smirking. “Please. Everyone’s at it. I literally have all the info. What’s your problem?”
“I’m not a monster.”
“No,” he said, smile sharp. “You play with wizards and dice, arguing for hours over how to overcome pretend dragons, but in your own life, you’re just faffin’ about. You’re so dull. Which is worse.” He paused just enough so he could interrupt her response, “No wonder Ryan never rang you back.”
The fight that followed was volcanic. Yelling, slamming doors, stomping,… To the other patrons, a young woman was screaming at the sky. It took their attention for about 5 seconds as she got ushered out by the staff. To them, it looked like just another person who couldn’t handle the pressures of the big city.
When they got back to the apartment, Death’s usual wit had vanished, “Alright. You want me gone? I’m gone. But remember this, the taxman took your place. You are off the books. See you in, what, fifty thousand years, Blake. Stay healthy, yeah?”
Fifty thousand years. The number rattled in her skull, too big to grasp. Rage was the only thing left to grab hold of. “You limey asshole!”
He smirked, already fading. “All right, lass. Stay skint and dull. Enjoy the quiet.”
Death was gone. For the first time in weeks, Blake was completely and agonizingly alone. Silence set in, except for one little phrase echoing in her head: Off the books.
Author’s note:
No celebrities, royals, reality contestants, or rock stars were harmed in the making of this story. Any resemblance between Death’s betting slips and real-world gossip is purely coincidental… or maybe he just spends too much time on X. Either way, I wouldn’t take investment advice from him.
This is wickedly good — sharp, layered, and way funnier than any story featuring a concussion, tax fraud, and the Grim Reaper has any right to be. Blake and Death have such a vivid dynamic that I caught myself wishing this was chapter one of a longer arc. There's so much potential in the idea of being "off the books" — it opens up existential consequences I’d love to see you explore further. That said, it works beautifully on its own: part Neil Gaiman, part BBC dark comedy, part cursed roommate sitcom. Instant favorite.
I really enjoyed the humor and dark absurdity of this piece. The banter between Blake and Death is sharp, witty, and feels almost Pratchett-esque, which makes the surreal premise believable. I especially liked how Death is both inconvenient roommate and cosmic force.