FAITH AND DEATH ARE BOTH CHARACTERS OF THE CREATION OF KATROCKS247, AS ARE THE MENTIONED PLOT POINTS, AND THE IMPORTANCE OF STRAWBERRY FROSTED CUPCAKES. THIS IS A FAN FICTION OF HER DEATH IS MY BFF SERIES.
“The truth? Lucifer, we all know I’m no good at that. I don’t face the truth, I hide from it. What do you think the cloak’s for? Scytherella to cut down anyone who comes near me threatening to come too close, to break the wall. Black hood to hide my face, to prevent anyone from wanting to come close.
“No one likes the truth, and maybe that’s because I, most of the time, am the truth. What’s truer than Death? We all die, right? It’s the honest to devil ending that everyone lies to themselves about.
“But, me . . . Why do I have to believe in the truth? I’m not going to die, unless the Elders find some new form of punishment that involves one of my millions of forms reaping my body over and over and over and . . .
“I’m sorry. I’m rambling.
“Again, I guess it’s because I’m avoiding the truth. The real, core problem. And, no, it’s not a teddy bear, or a feisty scythe, or the fact that my cloak likes taking the form of a cat, and I’m allergic to the hair.” I pause for a moment, collecting myself. My tongue hits the roof of my mouth, slowly caressing its metal piercing. I look down at my hands. The image covers up the man’s view of my markings, but I can still see them. Bizarre and foreign on my body, even after all those years. How can she really take looking at me like this? So . . . ruined? A cat’s sitting on the ground. A black cat. How its on both my body, and in the form of a cat, is beyond me. But I’ve taken to ignore it. After all, sometimes clothing has a mind of its own. That’s normal, right? Taking a breath, I continue, eyes still tracing my hands’ black designs. “Oh, Lucifer, it’s actually painful to even say it. That’s why I don’t open up much, you know. I mean, it’s embarrassing to talk about the said core problem.
“The truth is, I gave a piece of my soul to a little blonde girl so that she wouldn’t die. Her hair turned black, we had tea parties, I erased her memories of me, she became smoking hot, I turned her into a reaper . . . Maybe I should stop there. You look confused.” I finally turn my gaze to the small, little man at the desk. His white hair is in the air, like some sort of Einstein personality. It fluffs up in small tufts. I smirk at him, at his frail arms, shaking slightly in the too-large dress shirt and pants. He hastily clicks a pen open, preparing to write something. I notice he’s avoiding my eyes. Too sharp for him, I suppose. He’s lucky, though. At least I put on some cover so he didn’t get the full blast. And at least they’re not blue, anymore, a little voice adds. I hate that voice. It’s the one that told me to take pity on the dying girl. To restore her to life. To give her a chance. The smirk becomes a scowl, and the man practically drops his pen in fright.
“Sir, I think-”
“Did I give you permission to speak?” I growl at him, sliding the chair back so that I can rise. Immediately, the cloak fills out, returning to its true form. All black, and all covering. I smile wide, flashing the man a view of my teeth. He seems positively alarmed, although I just can’t imagine why. Waving, quite politely on my part, I exit the room. “Be back in a few months, Mr. Willis,” I assure him. “A few days if you keep eating those Cheetos,” I glance pointedly at the tub of the orange snack, which he quickly shoves beneath his desk and out of my sight.
“Have a g-good day, Mr . . .”
“You’ll know my name soon enough,” I wink at him, even though he can’t see it beneath the cloak. But I’m sure he gets the gist. After all, there’s really only one expression that suits a parting sentence like that. I mentally congratulate myself for it as I walk through the door, letting it slam closed behind me. If nothing else, Death has style.
