When the Rain Falls

debitum naturae

1.

 {for zoe because she writes beautiful poetry}

Delia is not fond of the rain. It's not so much the fact that rain is wet and dark and cold and it seeps through her cloak and wets her hair until it's dripping down her back, leaving her shivering in the cold winter air until she just wants to storm upstairs and give Brenna a nice, lovely shove - off a building. Or maybe it is, but whatever.

            The truth still stands that Delia hates the rain. It makes her job seem overly cliché and ridiculous and she hates cliché things. It's right up there next to rain. But that hardly matters; people die in rain or sunshine and wherever death strikes, Delia's there moments later.

            As she walks down the street, dark, black boots clicking against the pavement, Delia examines her list.

Pearce, James. Four years of age. 1524 Maple Ct.

            Lovely, she thinks, just what I need- a bratty toddler. Delia arrives on the front porch of the house, just in time to watch the medics wheeling a small boy out on a gurney. Hysterical parents follow closely behind, clutching at each other, desperately hoping for a miracle. Disgusted, Delia almost laughs. Humans are pathetic. Mid-laugh, she pauses, noticing the small, frightened boy in the doorway staring sadly at his parents.

            "Mommy!" he calls, "Daddy!" he notices Delia looking at him. "Who are you? Why won't Mommy talk to me?"

            Delia barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Had it been anyone over the age of ten, she would've rolled them but she's learned from experience that you need to be gentle with children. They don't respond well when you tell them to just fucking follow you because you're so done with this shit. As gently as she can, Delia tells the kid the truth. "You're dead, okay? And you need to come with me. I'll take you somewhere safe and fun with lots of..." What's that thing human kids like? "Toys?" A question, she's unsure, but the way the kid's eyes almost brighten signals she's right. "Yeah," glance at the list, "James, right?" a small, meek nod. "James, do you like toys?"

            A squeak barely audible, "Yes."

            Delia smiles, or at least attempts a smile; though she probably looks somewhat demonic. She hasn't had much experience with smiling. "Well, James, if you come with me, where we're going there'll be lots of toys." An outstretched hand, a softer, subtler smile, and the little boy's fingers wrap around her own.

The childlike innocence and trust of the boy doesn't make Delia feel even a tiny bit bad for taking his life from him so young. She doesn't think about how she'll never see the boy again once she's done with this job and she doesn't think that's a bad thing because really? Who even likes toddlers? Certainly not her. She doesn't regret taking him from his family at all. It's simply her job. Rule Number One in her family business: No regrets. So Delia never regrets a thing.

 Not even as he clutches her hand tightly and asks if his mommy and daddy will be there and if they aren't will she love him?

half-edited bc im half lazy

xoxo, stay gold (idc if its cliche its here 2 stay. eh? eh? rhyming, anyone?)

jules