“Oh, God. Please don’t tell me something that’s gonna make me hate you,” I whispered.
I stared blankly at the two badly, brutalized dog tags and my dad’s wedding band as Alex continued through what seemed to be a list of gibberish.
“Celts call me Dullahan. In Hindu I am Yamaraj. To the Greek, Thantos…” I know that one from somewhere, I thought. “Mexico, Muerte.” I could feel my pulse thump fiercely behind my ears. I knew that one for sure. Alex paused, watching me closely, as though patiently waiting for me to catch on. “The pale rider, the fourth horseman.”
The room filled with an arctic edge and I for a second my mind went completely numb. When his meaning finally took hold, a new sensation took over. Anger, then disgust.  I felt the blood seep from my face.  My memory violently thrusting me back to the blonde-haired girl in the music box shop, and the unbelievable thing that she claimed I had escaped.

Full blown nausea struck out at me as the words clumsily spilled past my lips. I noticed they had a bitter taste to them.
“Grim. Death.” I said, meaning for them to come out as grim reaper and then death. In my own defense, I was a little frazzled.
“That is precisely the translation.”
Puppeteer, just like the website said.  I shook the thought away.

“No.” I ran my fingers through my hair in disbelief and sputtered, “It’s not possible. You don’t look anything like…You’re not…” I couldn’t finish. But Alex called himself the thing I could not.
“Death?” he said. “I am exactly that.” He said it so calmly, so coolly, still eyeing me like he was anticipating a particular response. Perhaps, like me, he was waiting for me to go into shock, but I couldn’t quite conjure the panic that I knew was worthy of this situation. All I wanted to know at that very minute was if Alex was responsible for what happened to my dad, and what I would do next if his answer was yes.

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