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Girl and Scythe
My spirit wakens, and my body stretches. A gray sky, for no sun adores this cursed realm, frowns on me through the windowless hole in the wall. I hear people milling about outside, and I suppose I should get up as well.
I adorn my thick purple cloak and grasp my trusty scythe resting up against the wall. No need for primping, as my hood will cover my face. Needlessly, of course, as no one here is brave enough to look death in the face.
There is someone standing outside my door, awaiting my presence. She is young, from the looks of it, but she’s been here a long time. From the look on her face, she is about to leave. Seeing me watching her, she flings herself to her knees and offers me her clasped hands. She doesn’t need to say anything, for her eyes are screaming their message to me clearly.
“You’re sure?” I question coldly and without emotion. Others may see me as a kind person, a welcoming pair of outstretched arms, but they’re all delusional. They don’t want me, they want my scythe.
The girl’s gaze does not waver, and she continues to beg. No one deserves what she’s craving, but if I let her go now, her longing will merely spread until more people have her desire for my strength. Many people have lived here with her, not sure whether to ask or simply to leave, but she has finally decided. If it’s what she wants, so be it.
I sigh in disappointment, then clutch her neck, squeezing it until her eyes glaze over with the mist of death. She fades away until I am merely grasping air, and I know she has departed. But this land is a soul’s place to dwell, it is not a realm of flesh and blood. Her spirit is gone, and now I must finish the job.
I’ve known this girl for a long, painful while. She has come to me many times, but always turned away when I sought her commitment. I hoped that she would eventually turn away, leave this place and reenter the world of the living, as others have. Clearly, I was wrong.
I shift into the living world to take care of the girl’s empty body. It lies in her bed, still breathing, but it’s clear that the spirit has long since departed. My scythe becomes light in my hand, anticipating the blood it is about to taste.
Letting my ungodly power overtake me, I swing it above my head. Every noise it makes as it cuts through the air is the scream of the eagerly waiting blade. I focus on the girl’s lifeless body. It must be done.
My scythe arcs around my body and slices through the girl’s like butter. No true blood emerges from the girl’s body, but a knife manifests in her chest and her hands, moving on their own, hold it in place. Blood stains her t-shirt until I feel her heart stop. My scythe laughs with pleasure at taking another innocent soul.
From my place in the present, I can see her poor mother discovering her daughter’s body. She’ll doubtlessly scream, cursing my name and all I’ve done. I’ll watch her from the comfort of my own dimension of the half-dead and nod in agreement as every terrible remark passes through her lips. Yes, yes, I’m horrible and cruel, she had so much potential, I know, I know…
But she’s happy now. My father has embraced her soul and will always hold it tenderly. Many spirits come to him, whether from old age, sickness, or horrible accidents, but he loves those I send him best.
I, daughter of Death. The god of suicide.