The Obedient and the Bitch

by A.A. Balaskovits

Once, there was a mother who had two daughters. One, obedient and cheerful, did everything that was asked of her without complaint, and always requested more to do. The other was lazy, ornery, and a downright bitch to anyone who spoke to her. She never had anything nice to say, but she did like to talk. Unfortunately, the mother preferred the bitch, because that daughter was funny.

The obedient daughter was forced to do all the housework; she cooked dishes so extravagant the king, after tasting one of her meals, would have killed his own cooks for their lack of imagination. She cleaned, too, bending her body in all manner of ways to shoo spiders from corners and wiping dust from the most difficult places to reach. The bitch, meanwhile, did nothing, except critique the obedient daughter’s chicken parmesan for being too spicy.

One day, the mother and the bitch grew tired of watching the obedient daughter churn butter. The mother felt mortality licking at her pores, and could no longer stand the sight of two young, pretty things in front of her. The mother and the bitch agreed: the other would be sent away. “Don’t come back,” they said, “until you’ve found a way to cheat death!”

Obedient and agreeable, the daughter went on a long journey. She searched for death in the village center, then at the court of the king, and checked in the stables too, in case it might be nestling in straw and hay. She went to the tops of mountains and consulted with monks, and as far as she could swim down into the sea to parlay with fish. There were times when she believed she spied it at the edges of cooked carcasses or stillbirths, but it leapt from her sight as soon as she focused on it.

Many months later, the obedient daughter lost hope. It was an impossible task, she decided, and would return to her mother and sister shame-faced. Her sister was correct all along about everything: the parmesan was too spicy. She couldn’t do anything right.

When all hope had just abandoned her, Death appeared before her. It came as a cloaked figure whose head was covered by a thick cowl. When she peered inside, there was no one there, as though the cloth was held up by air alone.

“Please,” she asked it. “Let us play cards.”

They played War and Go Fish and Canasta and Blackjack. Each round, the obedient daughter counted cards or slipped aces up her sleeves, but no matter how cleverly she tried to cheat, Death was always the winner.

“Dice?” she asked.

They played Lair’s Dice and Farkle, but even with her best efforts, the die rolled in Death’s favor. They had been gambling throughout, and soon the daughter had lost all the coins she had on her, the clothes off her back, the shoes on her feet, the promise of her firstborn and a lock of her hair. With nothing left to bet, the daughter begged for one more chance.

“A new game,” Death offered.

The daughter agreed immediately.

“A riddle,” it said, then asked how many living creatures were nestled in her childhood home.

“Two,” she said immediately. “And three when I return.”

“How will we check your answer?” Death asked, before offering the obedient daughter its arm. They journey’d together, arm in arm, the long road back to her home. They spoke of many secrets along the way: the endless expanse of nothing beyond life, and how to cook chicken until it’s juicier than a nectarine. She confessed, eventually, that she had been sent to cheat it, and that was the reason for her searching it out for months and interrupting its rest. Death only chuckled, for they had arrived.

“Look inside,” Death told her. “What is the number?”

With joy, for she missed her mother and her awful sister, she opened the door to her home, only to find her mother dead on the floor, and her bitch of a sister at the end of a long choke on a peanut.

The obedient daughter tried to wrench the nut from her sister's throat, but the girl had gone blue, and soon she too tumbled to the ground, a lifeless thing.

“You’ve lost again,” said Death, coming up behind her. “Now I claim my winnings.”

The obedient daughter, naked and trembling, saw her vision go black and then ended entirely, for she joined her family in a pile on the floor.

Death took its leave, for it does not care for material goods or promises of sons, nor does it care for how the living comport themselves while alive. It cares only for the ultimate transition, which is its alone and can never be stolen: the moment life blooms rotten, and ends.

A.A. Balaskovits is the author of Strange Folk You'll Never Meet (SFWP) and Magic for Unlucky Girls (SFWP). Her work has been featured in The Kenyon Review Online, Indiana Review, The Journal and more. She lives in Chicago. Find her at aabalaskovits.com