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Death, a Memoir

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My name is Death. 

Well, that's my favorite name, anyway, and what you'll call me for now. You humans have heard of me, and the reason I'm writing this, or one of the reasons, is you mortals always seem to depict me wrong. I'll admit the “Grim Reaper” is slightly offensive.
I wear a black trench coat, not a torn charcoal robe, I'm not  a skeleton, I look just like any of you, and, I don't carry a scythe. When someone dies, I simply run a finger over their forehead, and they fall asleep under my touch. My favorite part is the souls—all different colors, all different shades of light, young and old. I cradle them in my arms and carry them with me. They're soft, too, like a warm blanket.
If you think I'm evil, you're wrong. I'm not evil, but I am clumsy, and sometimes I touch the wrong soul. Sometimes I take a child's soul when I was supposed to take their uncle's, but it doesn't matter to the child. They fall asleep like the rest, and are happy to come with me.
I know I cause a lot of suffering, but I can't really help it. It's always what I've done, since the beginning of time—I don't really have a choice. I mean, a lot of you must understand that—stuck in a job or a place you don't like, but you have to stay.
I don't always hate my job, though. Sometimes, people are in pain. They cry out for me, and when I take them, when they fall asleep in my arms, they finally fall into a peaceful rest. I'm happy to help them.
One thing I do hate about my job is slow deaths. I can't choose how someone dies, all I can do is touch their forehead when it's their time. I'm not responsible for disease, famine, or war. Humans often choose that sort of thing, consciously or not. But I hate war and disease and famine. It makes my job so much harder—all those broken souls to pick up over bloodied and bruised landscapes of smoke and metal and dust.
I've watched thousands of years of suffering, but I never grow used to it. I still feel it. I could tell you about the horrors of the wars I've seen, I could tell you the consequences of famine, the punishments of plague, but you wouldn't feel a thing. But I'll tell you something I did see:
Down a dusty, busted road, there, in the ashes, nothing survived except one thing:
A baby doll.
With no owner.
One thing I've learned over thousands of years—no one really changes their nature. Not even I. I'll always be clumsy and curious, and naturally suck at my job. And everyone will have to meet me sooner or later.
So just remember, as you read this, I'll come to meet you as well. 




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NimWallace said...
today at 1:20 pm
Please comment! I'm looking for feedback, thanks!
 
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