Every End, A New Begnining


Death visits Lucy shortly after Turpin's ball.

She's humiliated. Wearing a ballet slipper-colored dress, which hangs against her, torn at the sleeves. Bodice. Skirt. Anywhere that was in the way for Turpin. Lucy hasn't changed out of it. The landlady suggested she take a bath. Get the grime off her. But there's no point to it.

Lucy takes the vinyl of poison from the drawer where she hid it. Darkness fills her mind. There is nothing else. No memories of Benjamin. No giggling from Johanna. Dark and cold.

She swallows the bottle whole.

There is nothing.

The darkness remains, but it surrounds her. Like going through an alleyway at night. With light up ahead. There is no light in front of Lucy.

And then Death appears.

He looks at Lucy with beadle-gray eyes. His face is hardly more than a skull with some flesh slapped on top. Black cloaks Death and he carries a scythe. He hunches over, exhausted from years of this work.

Lucy waits. But Death does not take her.

"What are you waiting for?" Lucy asks, "I am here. I swallowed the poison. Let me go."

"I am afraid, I cannot," Death says, and his voice is like a dove with black feathers.

"Why can't you?"

Lucy drops to the floor. To show Death what a pitiful sight she is. To show Him she has given up. She is ready to die. To go with him. Leave the mortal world of man and all his wickedness.

Death sighs. "It is not your time, my dear."

She blinks. "Not my time? I took arsenic. The entire bottle. Surely, it's my time."

He shakes his head. Lucy bites her bottom lip as anger flares up in her chest.

"No!" Lucy shouts, "Stop saying that. It's my time. It's my time to go. My time to die!"

Death looks back at her. He wears the expression of a parent who is long overdue for a rest. A look Lucy has seen her mother and father wear. A look she has worn many times ago.

"It is not your time," Death says again. He rises. "I will be there when it is."

"You're here now. You're here now. Take me now."

"No, child, I won't."

Lucy releases a groan. "Then why are you here?"

Death sighs again and surveys the apartment room. He takes a few steps before pausing and looking back down at her.

"If only I could tell you why."


He sits alone. Listening to the screams of his fellow prisoners. Another failed escape. Another night dedicated to hearing the gunshots and cries of the innocent. Benjamin's spent many-a-night listening to such noises. He can't get them out of his mind. Tomorrow will be worse. It'll be the day more men die. Hanged as they force the other prisoners to watch their faces turn blue and pale and ghost-like. As the other prisoners hear their necks snap.

Death is there when Benjamin looks up. Sitting on his bed, with his shoulders in a tense position. Neither move.

"Are you here to take me then?" Benjamin questions.

He would've liked to escape. Or come home to a wife and child. But perhaps it was better this way. Better for Benjamin to die before he watched his fellow inmates die. He didn't know if his heart could take anymore.

"I am not here to take you, Benjamin Barker," Death says.

Benjamin stiffens. "What are you here for?"

Death doesn't answer. But he gestures to the outside world. Benjamin grimaces. He doesn't want to look outside again. Blood is not his friend.

"I don't mean to be rude," Benjamin says, standing, "But if you aren't here for me, you might be of more use outside."

"I know you don't intend to be rude."

Death wasn't walk. Nor does he float. In a hybrid of the two, He travels to the window. He traces pale fingers along the bars with a sigh. Benjamin watches Death. He doesn't allow himself to look between the bars.

"Please, sir, may I inquire about why you are here?"

"You cannot, Benjamin Barker, but I will tell you this." Death faces him. "You're a good man."

Benjamin jolts backward. Did Death come all this way to tell him he was a good man? He tries to cover his shock by clearing his throat. "Thank you, sir."

Death nods.

"Just remember that, Benjamin Barker."


"Your father's at tea with the Swedish king, he'll bring you the moon on a silver string."

As Johanna tries to look through the barred window, she allows herself to imagine. She's at home, still. At the Judge's house. But that thought doesn't make her feel any safer than she is here.

When she tosses her yellow hair over her shoulder and glances back, Death is there.

"Oh," Johanna says.

She's not surprised. She's locked up in an asylum, for goodness' sake. Of course, Johanna is going to die here. She doesn't mind; she supposes. But the image of the dead woman's corpse-strewn across the floor, because there was no room in the morgue, haunted her. Johanna preferred to die some place nicer. Surrounded by the things she loved and listening to her birds sing. She's never heard of anyone making it out of an asylum alive - and well.

"I suppose you're here to take me," Johanna continues. She stands and brushes off her dress.

Death cocks his head. "I am not."

"Oh." She can't think of what else to say but allows the moment to run silent. Quiet as it could be with the screams echoing in the distance.

"I'm afraid, I know little about entertaining guests," Johanna tells Him, folding her hands. "I wasn't exposed to them often."

"I see," Death says.

Johanna rocks back and forth. "I'm not mad. I promise, sir." She takes a lock of her hair and twirls it between her fingers. "That makes me sound mad, but I don't think I am."

"You are not mad, child."

She chuckles to herself. It's quiet since she always laughs quietly, but audible for Death to hear. He gives a smile of his own.

"That's quite a relief to hear," Johanna says.

"I'm sure it is."

He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder with long, slender fingers. The touch is colder than the ice bath they threw Johanna in. She tries and cannot surpass her quiver. Death doesn't seem to notice.

"If I'm not mad, sir, then does that mean there's still hope for me?" Johanna asks.

Death sighs. "Putting the sane in a place meant for the insane doesn't do well."

She looks at her feet. "I was afraid so." Johanna wraps her arms around herself. "I think I'm going to continue hoping Anthony will find me. Even if he never does. Perhaps, some hope will do me good."

"Perhaps, it will."


Death is there when Sweeney looks up from his dead wife.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Sweeney states.

"I could say the same about you."

There is a pause. Death stares up at Sweeney. His expression is cold and vast. The sea he waded through on a wooden board. When he still believed he would come home to a wife and child. A family. His family.

But Sweeney is smarter now.

There is no wife and child. His wife is dead. At his own hand. Johanna is out there somewhere, he supposes. Hopefully, she's happy. Hopefully, she'll never know of the horrors her father committed. The lives Sweeney took.

Sweeney holds Lucy closer to him. But he doesn't turn away from Death.

"Benjamin Barker was a good man," He says.

"He was," Sweeney agrees, "Naive and stupid and foolish, too."

"Even with those faults, he was good." Death sighs, as he always did, "I miss that man."

"Yeah? I do, too."

Sweeney waits.

"Are you here to take me?" Sweeney asks.

Death doesn't answer.

"Take me." This time Sweeney's voice cuts. "Take me. I don't have anything to live for."

Death says nothing.

Sweeney clutches his jaw.

"Take me already!"

Death steps forward. "I am not taking Mr. Sweeney Todd."

A growl comes from the back of his throat, like the lion crawling from its cave for its next meal.

"What do you want, then? My wife is dead! My daughter is gone. Let me die."

Death glances around the room, examining the ceiling with a raised eyebrow. Slowly, he lifts a finger above. Sweeney follows His stare.

"I had to visit many men up there." Death is almost too quiet to hear. "Because of a particular barber with a particular set of razors."

He did. And then those men became Mrs. Lovett's pies and covered with a thin crust. Because of Sweeney's thirst for revenge. His thirst that drove him mad and caused him to murder his wife.

Benjamin Barker would never do such a thing.

Benjamin Barker was pure and kind and selfless. He was ignorant and stupid. But good. He didn't deserve to die.

"I'm sorry," Sweeney said.

Sorry for killing his wife and sorry for losing his family.

Death looks back at him. His gaze was less bitter. Almost kind.

Sweeney is ready to die.

Toby enters as a blessing. He slits Sweeney's throat and brings relief.

And Death finally takes a Barker.