There's Never Enough

I can hear them.

I can hear all of them.

The old. The young. The in-between.

The good. The evil. The in-between.

Every single one of them, I hear.

They all make their prayers, all of them praying for the same thing. Some ask; some beg; some demand. Some are quiet and meek, some are loud and boisterous. But they all pray to me even if they don't believe I exist. And most don't, really. Yet even among the non-believers, I have a name. Over the millennia, I have had many.

The Greeks knew me as Thanatos. The Romans; Letus. Egyptians; Anubis. Even Christians, with their One God, call me the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

The average man will know me as The Grim Reaper. Or, perhaps, just Death.

Despite being Death, few respect me. Most fear me. As I said before, few even believe I exist. Yet whether they number among only one group, all, or any combination, they all want something from me in their last moments.

Time.

Time to tell their loved ones that they love them. Time to say goodbye. Time to say the things left unsaid. Time to live a happier life. Time to do everything they wanted to do.

They all, unequivocally, ask for time. And they do not just ask for time; they bargain for time. They swear to stop old, bad habits. They make an oath to start doing things they should have been doing from the beginning. They promise to make amends with people they wronged, to make up for past sins.

Despite this, I rarely provide that which they ask for, as it's better to let things unfold naturally. Despite my power, it's best not to meddle too much in the affairs of Fate.

But sometimes, rarely, I do grant people more time.

Sometimes, people deserve more, and it's up to me to make that judgement.

Thus, here I stand, watching this woman cry in pain on the bed, doctors surrounding her.

They know, almost as assuredly as I do, that her time is up.

There is no visual representation, but I know, looking upon her face, that she has precisely 13 minutes and 27.348 seconds left.

I can perceive events by the fraction of a second; I can think a googolplex of thoughts faster than a human can perceive the passing of what they consider to be an instant.

And yet, I cannot decide if this woman deserves more.

She asks for time, as does everyone else. But she does not ask for time for herself like everyone else does.

She asks for time for her unborn son.

13 minutes and 27.259 seconds.

Does she, then, deserve time? Because of the selflessness of her request? Because of the life that would never be lived if I allow her time to run out now?

These thoughts I think in less than a tenth of a second.

10 minutes.

After all these years, why do I never know what to do?

6 minutes.

Why am I still unable to decide if they deserve more time or not?

2 minutes.

Why must I be the one cursed with this existence?

10 seconds.

Because I am the one that can make the right decision.

0 seconds.

I am the only one, for I am Death.

1 hour.

And I grant time to those to whom it is needed.

The doctors who were sure that she was about to die watch her breath return to normal.

They rush about to continue with the procedure, with high hopes for the child's life for the first time since she was admitted into the hospital.

30 minutes, and the baby is born.

20 minutes, and she holds him in her arms, smiling, with her husband now in the room.

10 minutes, and they are glad she pulled through and that the baby was born safely.

5 minutes, and she hands their son to her husband, undoubtedly thinking that she would see her son grow up and experience childhood with both his parents beside him.

1 minute, and she tells him the hard labor has tired her and she needs to rest for a bit, and he smiles, thinking when she wakes up they can begin the long, arduous, and yet worthwhile journey of raising a child together.

10 seconds, and she closes her eyes for the last time.

0 seconds, and I guide her soul to the world beyond.

Would it have been kinder of me to refuse her more time? To not raise the hopes of her, her husband, and her doctors? To not let her think she'd have a life of raising her son ahead of her? To not let her husband think he'd be able to keep his wife, despite all signs of the past several hours indicating otherwise? To not doom the baby boy to a motherless childhood?

Even as I ask myself these questions in the span of a fragment of a second beyond human perception, I prepare to go to the next person whose time is running short. Or, rather, the next hundreds of thousands of people.

I go to the next soul, and I know it will not be any easier than the last.