It's really too bad to know what I know. It's too hard to see what I see. You'd never want my job. They say it's a coveted position, but they say a lot of things. Everyone wants to play God, but for me, it's a full time job. They want to play, but they don't believe. It's easiest when I'm not me.

Some believe that life is as a movie, an end is already written. They'd be wrong. Life is like a bored game, only no one loses. The object is not to be the first one done, but the last to finish.Life is a series of chanses, and the ones you choose will effect you until the end.

The hardest part of the job is being in control of consequences. It's worst attribute is knowing that these things could kill them, and knowing their true intent is clearly that. All I can do is prolong their life, or take it away. The hardest part is that it isn't a game - it's real life, and I can't go down there and wrap my arms around them and give them false hopes and broken promises.

It's really too bad to know what I know. I hear the screams, and I had to end it. She screams cut into the thick air, "How could a just God do this?", and I have to live with the anguish ten times worse than the disgruntled woman. For I am the one she curses, and this is no game.

The woman cries for help, as she holds her own daughter's body in her arms. She screams for me to save her, and she pleads for me to come, but I can't. She is gone, and she is mine. It is no longer fair for her to suffer in their world.

I hear the shrilling screams, asking, pleading, where am I, and if I even cared. The answers were simple for me, but hard for her to conjure in this time of need. They were always staring her right in the face.

I remembered something that the daughter once said in a prayer. I had given her vast knowledge when I had given her away to Earth, and she had asked me to give her the strength to agree to plans she'll never see through. She knew she was going to die soon. Her prayer rushed back to me like a thousand hidden memories. I had given her that strength.

She had made plans. Within that week, she was to carry through many things, and she always wore a smile. Only three people knew she would be face to face with death soon; only herself, the killer and me. She made plans, anyway. She decided to sing in the choir and go to prom. She knew she wouldn't make it. She would never perform that solo, but she sang as if she would.

Being in my position, and knowing everything, I knew it would be hard. It was hard on her, it would be hard on her family and cohorts, but as sadistic as people portray me, it was hard on me. It was hard to take anyone's life, because down inside, they're all good people.

Letting this girl go was hard, because she was alive but never lived. She'd never go to prom, or get her first kiss; she'd never get married or have kids. She'd never go to college, and she'd never get a job. She'd never get to smile without first hiding her tears.

Anyone who didn't know her cursed me, but others who knew her well thanked me. She was only a girl, merely a teenager, but inside she was a woman. Many would argue she was "too young," and others will argue, sympathetically, she needed to. Letting her live was only killing her - letting her die was letting her live.

Those who knew her, knew that day after day she battled abuse. Night after night she fought tears. All I did was save her. No one else knew that all the scars on her wrists were from the help she didn't need.

Nobody wants to play God. Not when they have to call shots. Not when they have to take the pain away. Not when they have to see someone suffer. No one wants to be me. (It's easiest when we don't have to believe I'm here.)