Death And Her Double Roulette Wheels
By: Lauren Phillips
Tags: Death, Short Story, Fiction, Gambling, Life

Photo by Macau Photo Agency on Unsplash

Death is not what I expected. I had envisioned some craggy old man or a faceless ghoul draped in black. Not a classically beautiful woman in a hooded cloak of silvery-white. Her appearance makes me pause in the doorway, and I wonder for a moment if I am in the right place. She assures me that I am in a voice that is soft and lilting, bordering on hypnotic. I thank her and close the door behind me.

The room is small and square with no windows and blank, featureless walls. The only source of light is her cloak, which emits a hazy, star-like glow. It is enough to illuminate her features and the table behind which she sits. Its surface is covered beneath a silk cloth in deep purple, but no matter: I already know what it conceals, for that is why I’m here.

I am not dying. If I were, she would come to me. This is just a routine appointment, one that most people have at some point in their life. We are here to establish the truth. Just establish it. Whether or not I wish to know it is entirely up to me.

‘Are you ready?’ she asks. Her head is bowed but her large green eyes are fixed on my face.

I nod.

She grasps the corners of the purple cloth and with an expert flourish, whips it away. Beneath are two roulette wheels built into the table itself. The sight of them causes my breath to snag in my throat despite my best efforts to brace myself. The one on the left is significantly larger, with more than three times the number of segments. I immediately notice that they are not all the same size and lean forwards to get a better look.

Instead of numbers, each segment is engraved with a possible cause of death. The largest is Cancer, although it is broken down into various subsections, in case I want to know precisely which part of my anatomy will be the literal death of me.

Lung.

Pancreatic.

Bowel.

Reading the labels makes my head spin, so I tear my gaze away and cast it over the other sections instead. Road traffic collision is also pretty sizeable, as is Dementia, Heart Attack and Stroke. It isn’t all bad though. Old age and Natural causes are both satisfyingly chunky, and many of the more outlandish endings take up so little space as to be negligible.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about those,’ Death says, one corner of her mouth curling. ‘This is what I like to call the Natural Selection Section. Not very politically correct, I know. Apparently I’m meant to call it the Grave Misfortune Section, but I think my name is more accurate.’

Squinting at the engravings on these wafer-thin segments, I am inclined to agree. Possible endings include Fork in toaster, Shark attack and Falling vending machine.

‘Modern medicine is a truly wonderful thing,’ Death says, her tone distant and dreamy, ‘But it does mean that Natural Selection has had to get crafty, hence these particular segments. From what I’ve seen of you so far, I don’t think you’re in any danger from any of these.’

Her words coax the ghost of a smile from me, and I wonder how many times she has had to sit down with someone who was fated to meet one of these unfortunate ends. I wonder how those meetings transpire, and how she manages to hide her amusement. Having been in her presence for just a few minutes, I feel confident in assuming she does it badly.

‘So how do you want to go about this? Shall I spin the wheels, or do you want to do it? Do you want to know the results, or shall I put them in a sealed envelope for you?’

I already know my answer, having thought about it a great deal prior to the appointment.

‘I spin the wheels,’ I say firmly, ‘but I don’t want to know the answers.’

Death surveys me for a moment, the tiniest of frowns between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Worried that she is about to refuse my request, I ask, ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not at all, it’s just a little unorthodox is all.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, people tend to want either full control or no control. They opt to either spin the wheels themselves and know the results, or they have me spin and keep the results a secret. Not many people ask for one without the other.’

‘I guess I’m not many people.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

Death is quiet for a few moments. She regards me in a way that makes me feel naked, exposed, as if she knows every quirk of my character despite having only just met me. She eventually breaks the silence by asking if I have any questions before we begin.

As a matter of fact I do. I want to know more about the second wheel-the one that shows the age at which I will die. The ages on this particular wheel begin at thirty and end at one hundred plus, which leads me to ask, ‘Do the wheels tailor themselves to different people?’

Death looks impressed, as if I have spotted something most people don’t.

‘They do indeed. There would be no point including ages you have already lived beyond, hence your Age Wheel begins at thirty.’

‘And this one?’

I indicate the larger wheel with its assortment of possible deaths.

‘Some of the segments are present for everyone, although their size may change according to various factors. Others come and go depending on a person’s lifestyle and where they live.’

‘So say I lived in Australia?’

‘There would be significantly more threats from wildlife present on your wheel.’

I nod to show I understand and press ahead with my final question.

‘What about the people who die tragically young? Who spins the wheel for them?’

It is clear from Death’s surprised expression that no one has asked her this in a long time. Maybe no one ever has.

‘No one,’ she says after a brief pause. ‘Sometimes the wheels spin themselves. When that happens, there’s nothing I can do.’

‘So you have no control over any of this?’

‘None. I just go where I’m needed at the appointed time.’

She smiles, but this time her eyes are distant and sad.

‘So it won’t make a difference which of us spins?’

‘Not one ounce of difference.’

We both know the moment has come. I watch as Death reaches into a drawer and pulls out a piece of plain notepaper, an envelope and a silver fountain pen. She sets the items on the table before her and from the inside of her cloak produces a tiny white ball.

‘It doesn’t matter where on the wheel you place it,’ Death says as she hands the ball to me. ‘It won’t sway the outcome.’

Feeling oddly detached from myself, I spin the wheel and set the ball rolling. The segments flash by in a blur of red and black.

Cancer.

Road traffic collision.

Heart Attack.

Stroke.

Old age.

There is no telling where the ball will come to rest, even as both it and the wheel begin to decelerate. Not that it stops me trying. The Natural Selection Section rolls by once, twice, three times. The serious health conditions are coming back around, but then so is Natural Causes.

‘If you don’t want to know the result, I suggest you look away now.’

I do as Death says, averting my gaze and wondering if she know she is parroting the words of football pundits. Perhaps she does it on purpose as a way of amusing herself, seeing who reacts and who doesn’t. A series of frantic taps tells me that my fate is just seconds from being sealed, or rather confirmed. It’s hard to know which is more accurate.

The tapping stops. Now the only sound is the scratching of Death’s pen as she notes down my result.

‘All right,’ she says, ‘you can look now.’

I snap my head back to look at the larger of the two wheels, but the little white ball is nowhere to be seen. That’s strange. I didn’t hear any rustling that would indicate her retrieving it. Perhaps it vanishes by itself to prevent people accidentally seeing their result when they didn’t want to. It wouldn’t surprise me. Not now anyway.

‘Now for the Age Wheel.’

Death opens her hand and proffers me another white ball, or perhaps it is the same one. I take it and set it on the wooden rim of the wheel, dragging in one last deep breath before I set them both in motion. The wheel goes spinning in one direction, the ball whizzing around in the other. The smaller sections go by like horses on a carousel.

Thirty to thirty-five

Thirty-six to forty

Forty to forty-five

Much like the Natural Selection Section, these segments don’t give much cause for concern by dint of being so small. They are there, but the chances of the ball landing on them are slim. The older age brackets are much larger. From sixty onward they balloon in size, taking up great swathes of the wheel until we get past ninety, at which point they revert to their standard thinness. By the looks of it, the chances are I’ll be gone by then.

As before, I find myself trying to anticipate where the ball will land. My guess is that it will be somewhere between sixty and ninety, preferably in the latter half of that window. Not that my preference has anything to do with it. There is still a chance it could land on Thirty to thirty-five.

‘Look away now,’ Death urges me, and I obey. The ball skitters to a halt, she makes a note of my result, and that is it. We are done.

‘This is for you,’ Death says, handing me the sealed envelope which now contains the details of my eventual death. I chance a glance at the second wheel, but of course the ball has vanished.

‘Do with it what you will. Open it when you’re ready. Or don’t. Toss it in the fire. Tear it up and let the wind take it. It’s entirely up to you.’

‘Thank you.’

I take the envelope from her. Part of me is tempted to tear it open there and then, but that part is small and easily overpowered. I don’t really want to know. Not now. Not ever.

Death is on her feet, her right hand extended. I shake it, and our eyes lock over the roulette wheels.

‘Until we meet again,’ she says with an enigmatic smile.

I nod and turn to leave, but halfway to the door I pause.

‘Just one more thing before I go,’ I say, turning back to face Death.

‘Yes?’

‘The contents of this envelope, are they set in stone?’

Death is quiet for a moment, apparently amused by my question.

‘What do you think?’ she asks at length.

It’s not an answer per se, but in a way it is. I return her smile, grasping her meaning perfectly.

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

As I leave, I make a mental vow to never open the envelope. Maybe I’ll destroy it, maybe I’ll give it to someone else for safekeeping. Either way, I don’t want to know what is written on that slip of paper. Partly because I don’t want to live with my own death sentence hanging over me, and partly because it is not really a death sentence at all. More of a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I don’t know what the prophecy is, the chances of it coming true are significantly lessened. Death will come for me one day, but there is no real way of knowing when that will be or how it will transpire. Until then I will continue to live my life in a way that is sensible but not boring, vigilant but not paranoid. My Dad always said he would rather go of a heart attack at sixty knowing he’d had a good time, than live to be a hundred on a diet of water and lettuce. I have to say I agree. Of course, there are some risks so colossal that only an idiot would run them. But a life spent trying to circumvent every risk is not really a life at all.