A Race with Mortality

A RACE WITH MORTALITY

by Wilson Jackson

At the sound of the gun, Robert Young was off and running. The two-time Olympic gold medalist track and field star had turned professional at the age of 25. He joked with friends, saying why run for fun when you can dash for cash? His professional career so far had been very profitable—going undefeated and leaving every opponent in his dust. All except one. His current opponent looked strange, and Robert almost laughed when he saw the man at the starting line getting ready, placing his feet inside the starting blocks. He was old, and not just any kind of old, relic. Hair white as snow, face withered, body long and muscular but stringy, the man kept pace with him.

Robert was mystified. He never thought about anything while running. His races were simple. He ran, won, got his prize money, then prepared for the next event. The race today was different, and Robert noticed it before the gun sounded off to start the race. The people in the seats. Not sold out. The spectators were different from the usual sparse crowd. They were young, old, tall, short, their faces showing cultures from around the world. Robert was disturbed seeing babies in stands without parents. Who would be that irresponsible leaving infants unattended? In fact, the crowd had children of all ages, and they, too, should have had parental guidance, but there was none.

Robert stopped watching the crowd because it scared him. He saw people looking sick and some were covered in blood, wounds displayed on their bodies—gunshots, stabbings, and blows to the head. Why was he doing all this thinking while running a race? He had never done this before. Why now of all days? Robert grimaced from a sharp pain in his heart but kept on running. He felt a chill, and it got colder as he continued to run. Robert wondered what had happened to the warmth and sunlight before the start of the race? He now ran into total darkness. The old man ran with him, stride for stride.

The race finally came to an end—a tie. Robert couldn't believe it. He didn't lose, but he didn't win either. He shook his head, approaching the man who ran with him toe to toe. The man smiled, offering his hand, and Robert shook it then jumped back. He thought he touched a block of ice.

“Who are you and how come I never heard of you before?” Robert asked.

The old man smiled. “You know me, but not in the way you think.”

Robert frowned. “What do you mean?”

The old man cleared his throat. “I’ve been around a long time, running races, never winning or losing. I come for you when your time is up, whether you're ready or not. You can run, but you can't hide. You may prolong the inevitable, but I will get you in the end. I don't discriminate; you could be rich, poor, young, old, famous, or a regular person.”

Robert swallowed hard.

“Doctors warned you you had a weak heart, and you ignored them for your love of running. You’ve run your last race, son. You will not lose, but you'll never win again. Now do you know my name?”

Robert stared at the old man. “You're crazy!” He leaned over grabbing his chest in pain dropping to the ground on his knees. He looked up at the old man. Robert felt his breath being taken away when the man touch his forehead.

“No, son.” The old man shook his head. “My name is Death.”