Peter viciously tapped his feet against the cool floor, his fingers thrumming against the metal railing of the windowless elevator he was currently trapped inside for the moment. He eyed the needle above the closed elevator doors, awaiting for it to tick or wane or do something at its least. 

    It did not move. It stood right in its place, remaining relentlessly still despite his wishes. 

    Peter let out a frustrated huff, puffing out his lips. But his heart was still rapidly beating in his chest. He could feel the rapid beating of his heart pulsing from his chest, up his spine, to his trembling hands, and all the way up to thrum in his head. It was excruciating. Fear should not have such a tortuous effect on a man, he thought. 

    He let out another sigh, this time, there was a slight tremble in his breath. 

    But before he could spend another excruciating second with his festering fear, the elevator doors opened at last. Peter’s eyes flew wide as he awaited to see who would walk through those dreaded doors and join him in the lonesome elevator. The hairs sprung upward across his skin, his heart beating louder and louder. 

From the grey mist, emerged a dark, slender figure. Peter’s eyes squinted as he tried to get a better look at the man who was approaching. He could hear the click of his steps echoing, growing louder and louder as he got closer and closer. As he started to get into Peter’s view, the more he could see the figure clearly. He wore an all black suit, perfectly tailored to fit his slender body. Ebony hair was slicked back to flawlessly rest on his shoulders, a perfect compliment to his ghastly pale skin. But his eyes were what caught his attention. They were a shade of golden ember, with a slight hint of gold that shined brightly out of the slightly dark and sunken craters of his eyes. His eyes had some sort of irksome glow to them. Peter didn’t know what it was, but it sure sent shivers rattling down his spine. 

The dark figure stepped inside the elevator, taking a step to stand beside him. Peter’s chin rose upward almost ninety degrees as the slender man beside him stood almost an entire head above him. Peter swallowed down a big lump in his throat, but he cleared it as he fumbled for the words he tried to say. 

“So which one are you?” He choked, saying the only thing he managed to say. 

The figure turned to him with a sidelong glance, glowing amber eyes looking down upon him. “How ever do you mean?” 

“Oh, c’mon.” Peter scoffed, trying to mask his rapidly beating heart in his chest. “There’s always two of you when it comes to these things. Or perhaps it's just one of you, I don’t know. But you are either the good one or the bad one, so which one are you?” 

The tall man pondered on this for a moment, the corners of her lips curling upwards as if in an amused smile. “Somewhere in between, I suppose.” 

Peter’s brows furrowed, “Do you have a name at least?” 

“Oh I go by many names.” The man spoke. “Charon, Samael, Azrael, Damien-“

“Damien? So you must be the devil then.” 

“Yes, but I also go by Azrael.” 

“So you are an angel?” 

“No.” He spoke frankly. “As I said, I lay in the grey area between.” 

“Oh for God’s sake!” Peter exasperated, quite literally for God's sake. “Can’t we just get this over with? Aren’t you supposed to tell me where I’m supposed to go?” 

“That is up for you to decide, my friend.” Azrael said as he extended a palm out to the elevator panel in front of him. 

There, layed two buttons. One was labeled UP and the other DOWN. Both words were written in beautiful cursive, engraved in shades of bright gold and darkened ash. Both buttons glowed a soft pearly light, almost intincingly and alluringly. Peter extended a hand out to both of them, almost as if giving in to that soft pearly light that was calling to him. 

“Eager much?” Azrael spoke again, his voice warping him out of his trance. “You got somewhere to be so soon?” 

Peter retracted his hand, looking down and averting his eyes. “Don’t people usually go for the UP option anyway?” 

Azrael shrugged, “Only time may tell.” 

The dark figure then took a small book out from his right jacket pocket, flipping it open and licking his fingers as he turned to the right page. The slight sound of shuffling pages was all that could be heard in the small elevator for what seemed like an eternity, and it made Peter irk and ferociously tap his foot again. 

“Ah, here it is.” Azrael exclaimed, placing a finger down on the parchment and sliding it downward until he reached the particular name inscribed in dark ink. “Peter Evards. Born the twenty-eighth of March and died the tenth of October. Let’s have a look at your file, shall we?” 

Peter swallowed down a gulp, his heart practically leaping out of his chest. “Is that truly necessary?” 

“No, it isn’t.” Azrael spoke again, his tone frank. “You could just press a button right now, have your fate decided right then and there. Most people decide to go up. Others decide to go down to make up for whatever wrongdoings they must have committed on the other side and are trying to make penance for it. It’s a harmless temptation, really. You could make a decision now and see where that takes you.” 

Peter stayed silent for a moment, his thoughts bouncing from here to there. Up or down. Down or up. 

“Or…” Azrael spoke again, noticing Peter’s darting eyes. “You could weigh out your options.” He said as he eyed his book again. 

Peter remained silent once more, looking down at his feet. Azrael took his silence as a notion to continue. 

“Let’s begin with the good deeds, hm?” Azrael hummed, almost in amusement. 

“It says here that you’re a musician.” He read off the page. “Mind telling me more about that?” 

Peter’s eyes darted back and forth, staring at the ground as his thoughts bounced in his head. “What is there to tell?” Peter started. “I play— played— violin. I tried to audition for the city orchestra, but they said they didn’t have room for a street performer who didn’t know how to play Bach or Vivaldi.” Peter’s head was still hung low as he remembered that dreaded memory. 

“But you didn’t let that stop you, did you?” Azrael spoke again. 

Peter’s head quirked upward, his lips curling in. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He paused. “I ended up playing for the local children’s hospital. The nurses said they didn’t mind. If anything, they said it would help calm all the patients there.” 

Azrael hummed and nodded, “What was your reasoning to play for the children’s hospital?” 

“Just being a good samaritan.” Peter shrugged, but Azrael knew he was lying through his teeth.  

“Is that so?” Azrael quipped. 

“Yes.” Peter spoke, his tone rising just slightly. A slight coolness usurped his features, and his hands that were previously tapping rapidly against the metal railing of the elevator were now clutching into a balled fists. “It is so.” He spoke again. 

“Very well.” Azrael spoke, completely unfazed by the man standing beside him. He continued to read off the page. “So tell me, what pieces of yours are your favorite?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, slightly out of annoyance. “Is this all truly necessary? This feels like it is some sort of bad round of twenty-questions.” 

“Well, you don’t have to stay.” Azrael spoke blatantly. “As I said, you have the freedom to press a button right now.” 

“And I might as well.” Peter spoke. “That could save me from having my whole life be read off a book, being judged and critiqued by a stranger right in front of me.” 

“I am not judging you.” The dark figure spoke. 

“Well you might as well be.” 

“That is for you to decide.” Azrael’s eyes never left the page as he flipped it. Peter shuffled his feet, his hands extending and retracting as if contemplating whether to reach for that alluring, enticing button. He hesitated, and Azrael continued. “So, favorite piece?” 

“Claire de lune.” Peter spoke. “It was my daughter’s favorite piece. I’d play it for her every night at the hospital.” 

Azrael nodded and hummed, with a slight smile curling across his features. 

But Peter still continued to speak, his eyes still averted to the ground and his hands beginning to fidget. “She would smile every time I played it. Whenever times would get rough or whenever I would see her crying her eyes out because she ran to my room saying “Daddy, I had a nightmare!” I would hold her hand, take her into the closet where the world couldn’t hurt her no more, take out my violin, and play that one piece for her. And God, you should’ve seen the smile on her face. Her face would immediately light up, and a wide smile would spread across her face from ear to ear. She would light up the entire room with that smile. Just brought so much warmth to my heart, and for a moment, I forgot everything bad that ever happened in my life. Oh, what I would give to see her happy and smile again.”

A small smile curled upon Peter’s lips as those words left his mouth. The happy, joyous memory of his daughter graced his memories, replaying in his mind as if a movie stuck on repeat. But then his smile faded as that dark, dreaded day then replayed in his mind. His eyes stared back at the ground. 

Azrael took note of his silence again, his averted eyes. Part of him wanted to say something, reach out, show some form of sympathy or remorse. But he couldn’t. He can’t. It was his duty, his oath, not to interfere with the lives of souls. He must only watch and question. Instead, he decided to inquire again, “Tell me more about your daughter.” 

Peter, for once, looked up at Azrael. A tinge of anger shadowed over his eyes, but somewhere in there, lied a tinge of regret and grief. He let out a sigh, “Her favorite flowers were daisies. I used to get them for her all the time. It was my way of trying to-“ he choked, the words he wanted to say being blocked by the gate of judgement, “I’d buy her flowers as a way to stop me from buying a drink. At least my money was going to some good cause, you know? Instead of helping me drown in my own sorrows. I’d always buy my little girl a bouquet of daisies after a night gig of playing. There was a flower shop that sold them on the corner of Fourth and Main, close to where I would play. She would light up every time I brought them to her, the same way she would whenever I would play for her. She kept them right in the corner of her window in her room. She never let a single one of them go dead. She took good care of them for a seven-year old.”  

A slight breath of nostalgic laughter escaped his lips as the memory replayed in his mind. But that too faded as that cursed memory painted his memory red. He let out another breath, but he pushed past it as he struggled to continue. “I still bought her flowers even when she got sick and had to go to the hospital.” He paused. Another breath. “That’s when I stopped playing. That’s when the drinking started… I still bought her flowers though. I still bought her flowers no matter what, and I’d leave them for her by her window sill in her hospital room. I prayed every night that she would wake up one day and see them. I waited and prayed every day and every night, but it never came. So I kept drinking, kept drowning. It came so much to the point where I was running broke.” Peter paused again, almost choking on his words. His hands balled into fists again, not in anger from any taunts or insults that were thrown by Azrael. On the contrary, the reaper remained silent. No, Peter’s fists were grasped tightly around his anger and grief. “One night, I had a bit too much to drink and no money left in my pocket. But I still went to the flower shop to buy my little girl some flowers. The shop owner told me to get out, yelled at me. He said he wouldn’t let me have the flowers unless I was sober and had the money. And I guess that ticked me off or something. And I-“ He choked, looking down as tears started to prick his eyes. “I don’t know what came over me that night. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was all just me, but I let it all out. I broke the bottle that I clenched in my hand, shattered it so all I was holding was the bottleneck with the sharp edges at the end, and I went after him.” Peter shut his eyes, wincing as he remembered that dreaded, cursed night. 

He remembered the fury of his rage, the red in his vision, the strength of his hand as he plunged the bottleneck into the man’s throat. He remembered standing over him, the fear in his eyes as he pleaded for his life. He remembered showing no remorse for him at that moment. All he felt was his rage, the redness that shadowed over him and clouded his mind. He didn’t even hear the man’s pleas, the screams of agony, the choke of his blood as it all curdled in his throat and started to pool around him on the floor beneath. The blood then stained Peter’s trembling hands, stained the pure whiteness of the daisies in the shop. And that was when he finally took it all in, let the red simmer down. That was when the fact dawned on him: he had killed a man. 

He remembered fleeing the shop in a flurry of fear. He could already hear the sirens wailing in the distance, the heavy weight of all the lingering stares of people that looked unto him with fear. They all took a step back, shielding their children from the horrendous sight of the bloody man on the street. His breath was heaving, his heart trembling. Everything around him felt like a blur. The sounds around him registered as a muffle. He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, he couldn’t see the horrid looks of people surrounding him. It all felt so far away, muffled, blurred as he started to spiral. His breath was heaving, his hands trembling. Blurred. Muffled. 

Then, all went black and silent. 

He didn’t even have time to register that his feet found themselves traveling into the middle of a busy street, right in the line of fire into an oncoming car. 

And then here he was, trapped in an enclosed, doomed elevator with none other than death himself. 

“Oh, please spare me!” Peter pleaded, turning to Azrael. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I don’t know what came over me. I only ask for your forgiveness, please! I didn’t- I didn’t mean to. Please, I beg of you, forgive me!” Peter dropped to his knees, grasping the hands of the man beside him as he let the tears fall down his cheeks. 

“It is not up to me to determine how you are forgiven.” Azrael spoke calmly, remaining unmoved and still as stone, despite the pleading man at his feet. “That choice is up to you.” 

Azrael looked down at the man, amber eyes looking down at broken, blue irises. “Tell me, do you deem yourself forgivable enough to take the path upward? Or do you truly believe you must punish yourself, take the path downward, and pay penance for your sins?”

Azrael extended his palms to the dreaded, alluring two buttons on the elevator panel, Peter’s eyes following suite. 

UP or DOWN. 

“The choice is yours.”