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It takes a special kind of man to not fear death. It is simple enough to say you don't subscribe to that jazz. Simple to open your mouth and not move your feet. To talk the talk, no walk, your shoes on the ground. Simple to wind your tongue around a sentence so loaded as, "I am not afraid to die" without moving an inch in the direction that would show your commitment. Many people claim to. Not fear death, that is.
And perhaps they do not; if you stare the lion in the mouth day after day in the stadium and walk away with nothing more than a bit more bravery or ego before, it is simple enough. Simply because you have never seen the contrary. You have never claimed to not fear death and then died. You went on to boast again. Pilots do it every day. Race car drivers do it everyday. Firefighters. Cops. Drug dealers, assassins, spies, people only present in fiction do it every day.
So, easier to say you do not fear death because it has eluded you thus far. Part of this notion, this non-fear, is bravery, valiantly going to a valley of shadows. Cops do this. Firefighters do this. To them, brushes with death are necessity and part of the day. Brave not is the man who touches Death's hands with a limp grasp and shakes, fingers crossed behind back. This is ego. You are so very on par, you think. You are Death because you control Death. You control Death, you do not fear Death.
And this is stupid. This is for fools. You tease something enough and it will come out. You throw a lure in a dark lake and one day you will get a bite. Always respect your own mortality because life does not and Death is indiscriminate. It doesn't care if you fear it or if you don't. Ere on the side of caution and always remember that as surely as you awoke this morning, you could die two steps before you reach the coffee.
Death sharpens his blade with a smile equally as killer and watches us all. It doesn't care who stares in it the eye or what manner of staring it is.
Johnathon James Albert Lancaster III wasn't afraid of Death until he actually died; and what is eerily remarkable is that when he came to life again, he still didn't fear it. Respected it, yes. And as he should because it could've gone two ways with him: he could've walked away with his wounds and a smug smile or he could've bowed, accepted, moved on, realized that this would forever change him. Brushes with Death, of course, can make or break a man. If you survive you can go on to tease until you use up your cat lives, or you can back away slowly, the rapier of your ego lowered and say of the duel that you have not exactly won, but there was a forfeit and a forced rematch is out of the question.
Or, third choice, he realized, gasping for air on the hospital bed, his breath a labored tattoo so unlike the long flatline that had come before it. You could've died. There was always that.
He chose to respect his own mortality. He chose wisely.
In the months leading up to Johnathon's (hereon known as Johnnie) "demise", his showdown with the reaper, none of these thoughts crossed his mind. He was young, health robust, body durable, mind equal with physical capabilities. He never considered the fact that one bullet, a stray bullet, a bullet from a freak shot, from an accident could spear all nine of his lives in one go and leave them hanging bloody, by a single vein being his will to survive.
He is a caution tale for anyone who believes in things like nine lives. We only have one and respect for what can toss it aside so casually is the secret to longevity.
This is why Johnnie gave up smoking, this is why Johnnie doesn't drink.
It takes a special kind of man to actually talk the talk and walk the walk of not fearing Death. Johnnie died, Johnnie came back, Johnnie subscribes to all that jazz, all that crap now because he has to believe in it.
This is Johnnie's story, which begins before he gave up lives and vices, starting at the narrative tack point of 12 years previously.
Johnnie has learned a hard lesson. Let's learn it with him.