I am the harvester of souls, the destroying angel and the spectre of death.
God has his right hand and so does the devil, me. I am known to every religion and culture as a personification of death.
They couldn’t be more wrong. I’m a sentient entity that collects souls.
*****
The one known as death hovered down a dark and gloomy street. His skeletal body was cloaked in darkness. His bony hand clutched a large wooden handle. At the end of it, dragging along the bitumen was a sharp blade. It was a scythe.
His black cloak billowed in the gust of wind. The wind was so strong, his hood flew off and his face was immediately illuminated by the moonlight. His face was featureless, nothing more than a skull with evil red eyes.
He pulled his hood back over his head and hovered through the air faster, rushing to reach his destination.
He slackened his grasp on his weapon when he stopped. Laid out in front of him was a large mansion surrounded by a tall, metal picked fence.
He hovered gently towards the fence. Instead of opening it, he passed right through it, as he was an embodied being.
As he continued, he noticed movement through a window. He travelled to that particular window and looked inside.
Inside, sitting comfortably on a sofa was a young man of great importance to the human race. He was greedily drinking red wine and sucking on a big cigar.
Death tapped on the window, the man inside abruptly stood up and squinted to see what was out there. He walked over to the window, but nothing was there.
A gentle tap on his should made him swing around. Hovering in front of him was the one he knew as the grim reaper. Shocked, he dropped his glass. It shattered immediately, spraying the carpet with red wine. He couldn’t breath, he was petrified.
Death spoke with a deep booming voice, “do you know who I am?”
The man couldn’t muster any words, he nodded.
“Then you will know that I’ve some to take your soul,” his voice boomed.
The man’s eyes widened with shock. He whispered, almost inaudibly, “why?”
“That is something I cannot answer with words, let me show you.”
Death thrust his hand inside the man and pulled out his soul. The body fell unconsciously to the ground.
His soul was mumbling confusingly as to what had just happened. Suddenly, their surroundings were whipped away in a blur and replaced with new ones.
Death and his companion were standing in a very beat up street with run down buildings lining it. There was graffiti on the walls and rubbish in the gutters. The only sign of life was a young man sitting in the gutter, clutching a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. His clothes were worn and ripped and his skin was very dirty.
“This,” boomed death, “is a poor excuse for a life. Next year in the re-election you will lose and resort to this. I have looked into your future and it gets worse. I have come early to make you refrain from turning into such filth. Your decisions alter your future.”
They were suddenly whipped back to the plush mansion.
“Will you comply?” his voice grew louder, “or not?”
The man’s soul had re-entered his body. He stood up with a shocked look on his face, not knowing whether this was a dream or not. He nodded slowly, answering the question.
Death put his skeletal hand on the man’s forehead. After a few moments her tore it away and shouted, “You fool.”
The man shuddered as Death raised his scythe. He screamed continually as the scythe was brought down with amazing speed. It didn’t cut his skin or spill so much as a drop of blood. It passed through his head and slowly slid down to his torso.
Death reefed the scythe out after a few seconds. Something blue and very human like was impaled on the end of it.
The man’s body fell to the ground, lifeless. Death snatched the soul from his weapon and put it in a pouch concealed beneath his cloak.
Life is not to be wasted.