The Glorious Death of Wilbur Strode

Wilbur Strode was getting old. He knew this not only from his gray and thinning hair, or the creak in his joints as he went about his day, but by the dulling of the sounds that inhabited the world, the quieting of the chorus of noises in the symphony of life.

"World's Symphony in A minor," he thought with a smile.

Wilbur Strode sat in his brown leather chair in his small, cramped apartment. A large television that he never watched sat quietly in front of him. He stared at the slightly askew mirror version of himself. As he watched with glazed eyes, Wilbur lifted his left hand and waved at Backward Wilbur, his only true companion. Backward Wilbur waved back. Wilbur used to carry on long and in-depth conversations with Backward Wilbur, but the latter liked to talk when Wilbur was talking, effectively ending most discussions.

Slowly, and with great care, Wilbur lifted himself from his chair and shuffled toward the kitchen. His dark blue pajama bottoms dragged the floor and threatened to fall off his wiry, skin-and-bones body. He also wore his favorite t-shirt, which depicted Gollum from the Lord of the Rings films crouched in a menacing pose. On the back it read, "My precioussss". He did not bother with stepping over the debris that littered the floor; he just plowed right through, cutting two small paths with his feet.

Wilbur cupped his hands under the running water from his kitchen sink and took a drink from his makeshift cup; he then refilled, this time rubbing the water on his face, enjoying the luke-warm, surreal texture of the liquid. It made him think of jumping in mud puddles and swimming in blood. He could not remember which he had done when he was young.

Back in his chair. Wilbur always loved his chair, even after having it for so many years. He could fold out the leg rest and just stare at the ceiling for hours on end, contemplating the effects of a life of time travel and soul-selling.

"Psst," breathed a quiet voice.

Wilbur looked away from his ceiling and saw Backward Wilbur with a strange grin on his face.

"What do you want?" Wilbur asked, a bit angered that he was pulled away from his musings.

"He's almost here. I can feel him in the air. And you can too, methinks," Backward Wilbur answered solemnly.

Wilbur sighed. The time had come.

* * *

It began as a very quiet, high-pitched tone. It steadily rose in volume, swelling to a nearly mirror-shattering squeal. Backward Wilbur got up and dove behind the chair. Feeling that perhaps this was a very practical idea, Wilbur did the same. A light filled the hallway outside of his apartment, the luminescence seeping through the cracks on all sides of the door.

The door suddenly arched outward and exploded into the hall, leaving splinters strewn about the floor. Wilbur risked a glance over the back of his chair. Standing in the doorway was Malcon. Malcon had come for him at last.

Wilbur stood and regarded the creature with as much courage as his fractured mind could muster. Malcon stood about four feet tall and was slender but athletically built. He wore nothing but brown sackcloth pants and his skin was the color of ash. The creature's feet were a little too big for his brown, two-strap sandals, causing his toes to hang out. Malcon's hair hung to the middle of his back, drawing attention to the ash-colored tail that dragged behind him as he walked. Atop his head, in a grotesque effigy of a crown, were two twice-curled horns.

"Hello, Wilbur," Malcon said, his voice dripping with poisonous hatred.

Wilbur straightened and said, "M- M- Malcon. Has it been fifty years already?"

Malcon smirked. "I am not in the mood for your games, Strode. It is time. The fabric of this world is beginning to tear. It is in the best interest of all for you to be away from here. Your time traveling has stolen away valuable time from this world and I need that time. There is much business to be done here."

"Am I going to become a demon like you, Malcon?" Wilbur asked, visibly frightened.

"I am not a demon! I was once a man like you. But I, like you, desired the power to change. What I am now is a result of my ability to harness my power and turn it inward. You, sir, will simply die. You will be no more."

Wilbur stared at his debris-strewn floor. He seemed to be thinking diligently about something in the fog of his mind. He looked up again.

"You promised me I would see my family again. You said I could see Mary and my son William. You promised!"

Malcon twisted his lips into what passed for a smile. "And so you shall. And your mind shall be clean again, made new like the day you were born."

Malcon snapped two clawed fingers and the glaze in Wilbur's eyes went away. His mind flexed, allowing ideas and memories to flow through the deep circuitry of his brain. He remembered sailing with Columbus and fighting in the Coliseum against gladiators who wanted to kill him, barely finishing with his life. He remembered standing in Golgotha as three men were killed upon crucifixes. He recalled the terror of Hiroshima, the laughter induced by Shakespeare's plays, and the sadness at the loss of JFK, John Lennon, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Another memory floated on the edge of the sea of knowledge. A fragmented remembrance that threatened to tumble over the edge of his mind, never to be recalled. He saw the faces of Mary and William. He saw tears rolling down their cheeks. He saw pain on their faces. He saw, dimly, Malcon's ash-colored hands around their throats.

Rage welled inside Wilbur's chest. He knew why his mind had been darkened slowly over the years but his mind was clear now. He remembered everything. Despite his nearly uncontrollable anger, he thought about what needed to be done and calmed himself.

"Wilbur, it is time for you to die. Your power has been stripped and your mind has been restored. I am indeed grateful for the acquisition of your soul. It will serve me well."

Wilbur said, "I hope that as I die my soul will rest in good hands. I do not want it to be idle when it breaks forth from my body."
Malcon smiled his evil smile again. "Worry not, Strode. I have great plans for my increased power."

Malcon snapped his fingers again. Wilbur immediately slumped to the floor, the light gone from his eyes. After a quiet moment, a light gathered in Wilbur's chest, growing in intensity. Suddenly, Wilbur's spirit burst from his body and shot toward Malcon. Malcon raised his arms to the sky and closed his eyes tight, holding his chest ready to receive Wilbur's soul. Malcon, however, did not notice the sudden solidity of Wilbur's spirit. The spear that was Wilbur Strode slammed through Malcon's chest and burst through the other side, leaving a gaping, cauterized hole.

As Malcon fell to floor, inches from death, the light crossed the room to the lifeless body of Wilbur Strode and entered through the chest. Wilbur gasped a breath of life. He looked at Malcon writhing on the floor and walked toward him.

Standing over Malcon, Wilbur said, "I remember what you did, Malcon. I remember how you stripped away everything I loved. I would have done anything to see my family again, even give my soul to the wretch who took their lives. I have waited fifty years to destroy you. Your time has come."

Wilbur calmly reached down and grabbed one of Malcon's horns in each of his hands. Quietly, he broke them, detaching them completely from Malcon's head. Malcon let out a short shriek and was no more.

* * *

Wilbur Strode was getting old. The knowledge inside his head, however, such as how to survive when the soul is reaped from the body, still coursed through his mind. He saw things with a new clarity that even time travel to gain the knowledge of the ages could not grant him.He remembered all that had happened in his life, even saw the smiles of his wife and son. He knew he would see them again when death finally came for him.

For the first time in many years, Wilbur shook off the murk of insanity and went for a walk in the sunshine, smiling all the way.