Death. Lurking in every corner. Waiting to pounce on it's next victim. ready to cast an agonizing spell on any unlucky passerby, who dare set food in the reaper's path. Poor, poor people, having to have the most precious gift, savagely stolen away from them. Loved ones are forced to abide by the reaper's rules. Helplessly watching in distraught, as the breath of life oozes out of the crusty blood dried lips of the deceased victim. Why is he so cruel? Why must he pray on some more than others? He's like a black cat, preying on an innocent and clueless mouse. He hides in the dark depths of the shadows, cloaked from sight. He stays hidden until the clock of his instinct strikes, "Pounce!", and the unfortunate trap is sprung. He toys with the poor mouse until he gets bored of the silly game. Throwing it up in the air, watching as he contorts it into crude and unnatural shapes. Until, finally, the torture is complete, and he gives his furry savage lips one last luscious lick of complete and utter ignorance, before crunching on the brittle bones of life, hearing it crunch and crackle until there is none left. The dreadful dead is done and the self-praising cat retreats back to the deathly dark depths of the shadows.