Reaping Me Softly

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DEATH SAT AT HIS DESK wearing on his androgynous face a scowl that could level a whole mountain range. Not many thought of him as breathtaking. Well, not many lived long enough to see his true face: one surrounded by golden locks that reached his chin. If they did, maybe they’d die smiling. But, with the human population swelling to six billion and counting, Death barely had time to think about the triviality of beauty. Keeping his Reapers in line already consumed a majority of his attention.

His voluminous midnight robes spread out around him as if the fabric were alive. With his slate-colored eyes he skimmed the latest status reports. Numbers in neat columns jumped off the page at him. He tossed the yellowing parchment onto the table and leaned into his high-backed chair made of human bones. The numbers added up. People died on a daily basis.

He closed his eyes and longed for the days when he escorted the dead to the afterlife himself. He gripped and released the skulls at the ends of his chair’s armrests, searching in vain for some sort of release from the tension building behind his eyelids. He grimaced. Death—one of the most powerful entities the universe had ever given birth to—experienced migraines. Who would have thought? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but he didn’t.

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