• Chapter 1

    Chapter 2


    The pinprick summoned me to duty once more, of course just as I was getting into my book.

    “Owen, duty calls, we're off to see the wizard.”

    “'Kay”

    “Did you ever consider becoming a public speaker?”

    “Nope.”

    “Thank whatever force of nature made that decision.” (There is nothing I could possibly add to make that statement any more inane. I'm stunned really, I didn't think you could be so mentally deficient and still operate a keyboard. Also, More big words!)

    I knew where we were going before I even Projected. Moses H. Cone Memorial Hospital was one of my usual spots, not surprising since it had over 500 beds. It used to be I'd have to head there half a dozen times a day, but in recent years Mortals had improved their medicine enough to fight death for quite a while. (I might have been flattered that they were so adamant to ward me off, had I not felt so detached from Mortal struggles. Being death for 16 decades will do that to a guy, though I suppose I've exemplified my morbidity enough for you to get the gist of my nature. Also MORE big words!)

    This time it seemed I was finally taking care of one of the gomers that had been holding on for the past few weeks. As I entered the room, I saw the doctors and nurses still working to get his heart started again. I would have rooted them on, had I not been sure of the finality. (Once a Reaper is summoned, it's completely assured that the person's dead for good. It wouldn't be efficient for us to be summoned every time there's a false alarm.)

    After another minute or 2 of different attempts at bring him back the doctors finally pronounced him dead, called the time of death, and walked out. In a way I suppose I could sympathize with them. They dealt with death nearly as much as I do, and they have to get right back to work when their done. Only real difference was the Immortality issue, and the fact that I rather enjoyed my job. (Great Dental benefits.)

    I was about to begin the procedure of removing his spirit when Owen Projected in. I'd been in such a hurry to get through with the old man and return to my book that I'd left him behind in his corner. (This time he was re-reading Plath. Did I mention how cheery he is? Really, he's a big bag of candy coated sunshine dipped in chocolate and laced with ecstasy. True Story.)

    “Oh, there you are. Did you park the car close? You know how my feet hurt when I have to walk all the way back.”

    “Whatever.” (Perpetual teenagers, what can you do with 'em? I'll tell you what. Gut 'em, dry the skins out, and make yourself a nice new rug. Drastic you say? Don't care, I'm Death remember. Also, anyone notice how morbid I am? Because the author Really, Really, Really, wants you to get that. I think he's planning on having chapter 3 be nothing but me throwing flaming cats at school children while Beethoven plays in the background. Won't that be fun?)

    “So, Since I took the last one, It's your turn Mr. Peppy,” I told him, gesturing towards the old gomer. “And do be quick about it, eternity won't last forever after all.”

    “Alright,” He responded, as happy-go-lucky as ever. (Seriously, his pluckiness was infectious.)

    Owen approached the old man's frail body, a metal gauntlet taking shape on his right hand. He reached out, took the body's hand, and pulled. There was a flash of light. Light which retracted into itself, until the old man stood before Owen.

    “Eh?” The man's wrinkled, pallid face contorted into a look of confusion. He obviously had no idea where he was. (Not surprising, it's not as if people really expect to be dead. Let alone see a teenager greeting them on their way to the afterlife.) “Who are ya'?”

    “I'm here to take you beyond.” Said Owen. This time around he actually seemed to show emotion (Le gasp!), with a soothing element in his tone. It was the same way he always with the dead. He tried to be the sympathetic Reaper, making them feel comfortable with dying. The whole thing was rather disadvantageous. It was this way of working, and his despondent attitude while not, that had kept him with me for so long. Any other trainee would have been ready to go after a few years at the most, but he had been working with me for 97 years and showed no signs of independence, potential, or even basic skill in his work. Perhaps I wasn't the best teacher, but trying to instruct him and mold him into proper form was like trying to reach the horizon, every step just moved the goal further away. (Crappy simile time boys and girls!)

    Another gauntlet formed upon his Owen's left hand, and he traced a large circle in the air next to him with his index finger. When his arm completed 3 counterclockwise circles (Unnecessary, of course, with the Gauntlets he could have simply pointed.) a Hole opened.

    The old man was, understandably, taken by surprise. Even when you've met a pubescent Grim Reaper, and been told you're dead, you don't exactly expect a big rip in reality to show up and open into a vortex of non-existence. Not so understandable, was what Owen did. As I said, he was always gentle with the dead, so usually when he opened a Hole he would pat them on the back and gently coax them into moving on. It was slow, stupid, and an extreme irritant, but he was always calm.

    Except for just then, with the old man next to him, when Owen froze. He had been raising his hand, most likely to place it on the man's shoulder as a sign of comfort, but his hand stopped in midair like it was caught on a fishing hook (More crappy similes kiddies! Let's all sing the theme song! But in all seriousness, it seems like the Author is getting really lazy with the analogies today.). His eyes bugged out. His whole body tensed. He looked like someone who'd just gotten soul-raped (Wait. What? I know I was complaining about the similes, but that one was less lazy and more just plain weird.)

    “Owen?” I called to him. No response. His head turned slowly, until his eyes rested on the Hole, and he mumbled something.

    “Owen? What happened? Did the hamster wheel in your head stop turning?”

    No response. Just him staring at the Hole.

    Losing my patience, I rushed over to him, grabbed hold of the dead man's shoulders, and flung the old b*****d through the Hole and into Death. I turned to Owen as the Hole disappeared. I gripped Owen's throat (Don't worry! He's already dead, not like I could do any more damage.) to snap him out of his little reverie.

    “What in all hell happened to you? It's not as if you've never opened a Hole before. Why in the name of our unspecified and for all intents and purposes non-existent deity did you act like a rabbit that crawled into the sights of a fox?”(Why does the Author keep using the whole 'rabbit-fox' analogy with Owen?)

    “I heard them! They were in there!”

    “The bloody ******** are you talking about?” (Bloody 'ell! Why am I talkin' like a drunk Englishman? The Author got 'is ol' 'hob knob in a twist, now? Pip pip, cheerio and all that what for.)

    “My mother! My sister! They're behind the veil! They were calling to me!”

    “That makes perfect sense!” I shouted, squeezing tighter. “And you know what? My name's really Anne-Marie, and I love to put roses in my hair.” (That's purely sarcasm, mind you. As you can most certainly tell by now I prefer posies, and my name is most definitely not Anne-Marie. It's...wait a minute, the Author never gave me a name! This is a great load of bull! We're nearly 6,000 words into this story and I don't have a name? That's it, I'm going on strike. Hand me my picket sign, I'm starting the “Fictional Characters for Competent Authors” association, and inviting anyone in the Teen section of the library to come and join me. This just sucks, I mean come on. I'm the main character and I don't get a name? Does the Author think he's Chuck Palahnuik or something? God Damn it.)

    (If you made it through that gigantic filibuster of a paragraph, then congratulations, you get a cookie. Anyway, back to the story.)

    “It's true! Their voices were coming from the Hole! They whispered to me earlier. At the auditorium!”

    “You're family is long dead Owen,” I told him, glaring, tightening my hold once more. His delusions were getting annoying. “You've known that since the night on the ship. 97 years is way too long to be in the denial stage.”(Look up the Five stages of grief to get this. That is all.)

    “They. Were. There!” He said, struggling for breath. (Melodrama at it's most blatant. Do I still need to point out we were ethereal meaning we weren't even physically existent. Actions like breathing, eating, and sleeping were for familiarity's sake, rather than essential for life.) “I could hear them! They were clear as day! They wanted me to come to them!”

    “Owen, you grime eating dreg, you have been working with me for nearly a century! You have been dead longer than most can be alive! Grow up! Move on!”

    The fist struck me out of nowhere (Well, nowhere from my perspective. The fist was still attached to him.). If it had just been his hand, it would have meant nothing. The concept of physical pain had disappeared from my mind long ago. But he still had his Gauntlet-scythe on, a manifestation of his own consciousness.

    It's an unwritten rule among the Grims to never touch another with your Scythe. This was made far easier as we just about never interacted with others if we weren't training a newbie. To my knowledge nobody ever broke it before then. The concept of fighting each other was completely alien to us, with no bodies and no way of dying, our fights could very well go on forever, leaving those in our sectors to rot inside their shells. Thus we always kept our calm, no matter what.

    Until Owen struck me with his gauntlets. It was unprecedented. It was treason. But most of all, it was painful.

    It didn't feel like a normal punch, it felt as if a red hot brand had been stabbed into my cheek. I didn't know it then, but that was the feeling of my very soul being harmed. I was disoriented, the world spun and swam around me. My vision flickered.

    “You...” I looked at Owen, shock and fear reflected on every inch of my face. The pain had brought back something I thought I'd lost long ago. The most primal, instinctive feeling I'd ever experienced.

    Fear.

    But the fear didn't last, as I saw him standing in front of me, looking like a school kid who'd just punched a bully, scared out of his wits but still with a look of pride in his eyes, it receded back into the depths of my mind. It was replaced with a no-less archaic feeling, but this one was like an old friend.

    Rage.

    The knife was in my hand before I could even think. I lunged at him,aiming for his neck. The shock left my face, and was replaced with a look of pure, unrestrained hatred.

    He got scared quick. He backed away and stumbled aside, trying to avoid my knife. I barely missed him, but instinct told me what to do. My left hand blurred as it took a swipe towards him. He'd kept his eyes on the knife, and was taken by surprise as when I clutched his head and flung him to the ground.

    I drove my knee into his chest, to ensure he stayed there. I raised my knife above my head. It changed, the handle grew rounder, the blade shortened and thinned, until I held in my hand a sharp, cold, merciless ice pick.

    I stabbed down, aiming for his eye. I couldn't kill him, but I could torture him for the affront he'd paid me. I was going to mutilate his spirit in as terrible way as I could imagine.

    I never got the chance. Instinct must have driven him too, in that moment, because there was no other way he could have done it so quickly.

    Just as I was about to drive the ice pick through his cornea, he Projected. The Ice pick stabbed into the floor.

    I yelled out, a sound of uncontrollable fury burst from my throat, so vicious and unnatural that it would have driven fear permanently into the hearts of any human.

    I wouldn't let him get away. I was going to rip him limb from limp, tear every organ from his gut. I was going to make him wish he had never met me.

    But so, soon, would I.