I think that...
I think that I am Death.
I am the Grim Reaper. My cloak is in for dry cleaning (some of those stains are murder to get out) and my scythe is in the shop being sharpened. Still, though, I am Death.
I wander the world, plucking souls from the living like feathers from a chicken. Not that I've ever plucked a chicken, nor would I consider doing so. When I eat said deceased poultry, it no longer looks like it did when it was running around laying eggs. Well. I would assume they didn't drop eggs as they ran around, but you get my point. I can feel the pull as the soul desperately tries to keep hold of the body that has been its vessel throughout its life.
Would it be so endeared if the body was instead, perhaps, a kettle, or a bean can, or a Salt and Vinegar crisp packet? I doubt it. Something about a body, though, makes people want to stay wrapped up in the flesh. To feel the heart within beating. To know there's blood pulsing through the veins. And when they trip or they cut themselves shaving or they fight, and blood is spilled, at least they know they're alive.
Until I come along, of course. Until I make them the equal of a certain finger licking chicken.
Until I suck out their soul like the Saturday night Lottery Double Rollover Jackpot. Except, there's no six numbers. There's no bonus ball. There's no car, cruise or cottage by a lake.
There's simply me. Death. Screw that ticket up and toss it in the bin. It doesn't matter what numbers you had. You're not going to win.
Hey, that rhymed. I'm a poet. Who knew. Maybe I should bring out a book. Odes of the Reaper. A best seller in all the dungeons and dark back alleys and places no-one dares to go.
The Consequence of Life
To live is to die
To smile is to cry
To hope is to fear
To speak is to hear
To laugh is to taste
The bitterest waste
To lose is to win
To do good is to sin
To cheer is to sigh
To know is to ask why
To live is to die
Maybe I should stick to my day job, eh? Leave the poetry to those that have a heart and have a... well... a soul. A heart that still beats and a soul which still feels that beat. I'd have a hell of a time finding a publisher anyway. Most people can't see me until it's too late. Not the best idea, is it, to talk to a publisher or agent in the moments before I take their soul and watch their beloved body crumple?
I think I'll leave it. I hardly have time anyway. Being Death is a busy job. It takes up almost all my time. People need to die at all hours of the day and night. If it wasn't for Sky +, I'd never catch an episode of Coronation Street or Doctor Who.
Really, you'd think that dying could be timed better. A sign on the door of my non-existent door:
Business Hours
Mon - Thur
08:30 - 16:30
Fri
08:30 - 19:00
That'd give me my evenings free and, hey, I don't mind a bit of overtime on a Friday. Dedication and all that. But no. It's Flexi-time in the worst way. Midnight to midnight if I'm lucky. There's an interminable period of time between the end of one day and the beginning of another - at true Mid Night - when forever fits neatly into a heartbeat. The Null. Any stragglers, those I didn't get around to in the meagre twenty four hours that I had in the previous day, I have to bag then. It's like my buffer. I often wear myself out in that Null. I dash about like a headless chicken, unplucked. I can't let the Null go on for too long because...
Well... the last time that happened...
Anywho.
I think that I am Death.
Why do I think it? Why do I not know? I feel the pain of the dead as I take their souls. I see the instant that their skin pales a fraction as the blush of pumping blood ceases. But...
Does this make me a devil? Does this mean I'm a demon? I don't feel that I am. I do not feel either devilish or demonic. I just feel... normal. I do the things I do because I must. I turn Living into Lived because it is the way of things. I could, I suppose, be asking if you want fries or to Go Large. I could be telling you the groceries I have just scanned and bagged for you will be £87.36. More than that. They are only jobs. Means to pay your bills and so on.
I could be breathing. I could be eating. I could be sleeping. I could be doing things which must be done but take no thought. Things done because they just are.
I am Death because I am. You breathe because you don't know how not to.
But...
I was once a man. I was once a person. I breathed and ate and slept. I paid for groceries and said no, I don't want to Go Large, thank you very much.
I was not always the taker of souls. I, once, had one of my very own.
Michael Connery. No, not me. The man whose bed I stand at the foot of. 34 years old. His wife of five years sleeps beside him. They've been trying for a baby for the past four years. They've been unsuccessful. It's neither's fault and they know this. Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has deemed that they should not have children together. Man, in his finite wisdom, has deemed that they should ignore Nature and take things into their own hands.
Not always a good idea.
In this case, however, Man wins. She will find out in two days that the very first session of IVF they had, and the only one they can afford, has worked. She will - she is now - pregnant. She will have a boy and he will live a long life. She will not live such a long life, but it will still be more than short. A happy medium, I would say.
Michael Connery, 34 and father to a child he won't meet, will die tonight. In a moment, to be precise. He hasn't done anything wrong. There's an undetected irregularity in his heartbeat. He has, sort of, noticed it on occasion. A sharp intake of breath, a kick in his chest. Indigestion, surely. He likes his fry ups. The bacon butty. Food of the Gods.
Actually, I've never met a god who has eaten a bacon butty. Not that I've ever met a god. That I'm aware of.
I do this often. Stand before the soon-to-be-departed. I wait for a moment. Not too long, of course - I have my constraints. The Null ever waits for me to miss my quota. But I take the time to regard my intended... I hesitate to say 'victim'; it implies a vulturistic aspect. A cruelty veined with malicious intent. Such is not the case.
Michael Connery is simply the next.
Why? Why do I stand, silently looking down? Because I want to feel. I want to see if there's anything left of the soul I once had. I want to taste the acridity of remorse. I want to take the hand of the loss that Mrs. Connery will feel when she awakes at 7:30 to the beeping of her alarm. I want to embrace it and drink of it and feel it.
I know I won't. I know I can't. Such is not the way. Such just is.
I reach out and Michael's heart does its little dance in his chest, a Lambada to Life.
His soul is sucked towards me, ethereal tendrils stretching back, not willing to release its hold. Naturally, it is a pointless attempt. My hand glows by the same percentage that the pallor of Michael's husk fades.
I wait no longer. What must be done has been. I leave the room. Mrs. Connery murmurs in her sleep. I don't catch the words. The cells divide in her uterus. Did I mention it will be a boy?
Michael Junior.
Nice.
I am Death.
I know who you are.