A bitter wind swept through the air, picking up the last of the withered autumn leaves and scattering them across the bleak forest.
The dark, bare barks of the trees stood up sharply against the misty air. Their thin skeletal branches, stripped of their leaves long ago, swayed in the cruel wind, whispering dark secrets in low, scratchy tones.
A dark figure observed all this nonchalantly.
A tiny leaf landed on her satin-clad shoulder. She plucked it off.
“Summer ends soon, doesn’t it? Too soon. Your life is so fleeting.” Her long white fingers suddenly clenched as she crushed the fragile plant viciously into fine dust.
Her dark eyes returned to the distant mountains – tall and majestic, their true beauty distorted by the thick mist. Only the coal-black peaks raised above the milky-white mist.
She tore her eyes away to observe the rest of the bleak landscape. Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she plucked a dead flower from its frosty grave.
“Pah. Pathetic.” She muttered.
A sudden gust of icy wind whirled her long black cloak around her tall, bony figure. She was clad in black from head to toe, except for the bright, blood red ribbon wound around the sleeves and shoulders of her cloak.
The long sleeves fluttered violently as she raised a hand to pull back the large hood that normally kept her face hidden.
A pale face and a mass of short, dark brown curls emerged. The strong and cruel gray eyes never left the mountains, her thin lips set in a cruel smirk. Her steel-hard nature was unintentionally reflected by her strong, pronounced chin and high cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Her skin was pale, much like thin, faded papyrus found in ancient tombs.
Slowly, she walked over to the edge of the cliff. Her left hand clutched a scroll of parchment while with her right hand she leaned on her scythe.
The long gray blade curled above her head, the surface stained with crimson liquid. Dark drops dripped off the tip of the deathly metal, staining the cracked ground crimson.
People knew her as legend, as a myth, a bad horror story. Some silly superstition only old people believed in. Some made-up story to scare little children into obedience.
Yet there she stood, her black cloak swirling at her bare feet, her scythe gleaming sinisterly in the dieing sunlight.
With a careless flick of her wrist, she unrolled the parchment. It fluttered in the wind like a frenzied butterfly before unrolling itself. It came to a halt in the level of her knees.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Holy crap, this list is bloody long! What are they doing, trying to kill me?” she muttered darkly, mentally cursing her non-existent employer. She shook a persistent lock out of her eye before glancing down at the parchment.
It was a long list, written in old-fashioned, swirly writing in dark green ink. It was a list of names – a total of thirty-four names.
The gray orbs scanned the page before coming to a rest on the first name.
John Greyham. South Wales. St. Mary’s hospital.
“Right…you’re first tonight…”

The St. Mary’s hospital was a large building in an artificially built park, with the forced attempt to create the patients something nice to look at while hooked up on tubes and drained of their blood. The building itself was an old brick building, with long white corridors and big, airy rooms, crammed with machines.
At day, it was usually animated with chatter, but at night, it was dark and abandoned. The corridors were dark and deserted, the shadows stretching far.
All the nurses were down at their stations on the third floor, secretly smoking a cigarette and gossiping among themselves about the cute new cardiologist, abandoning their responsibilities without a care.
On the second floor, room eighty five was the residence of John Greyham. He was a middle aged man with short black hair and a sickly, yellow complexion. He was suffering from lung cancer, and has been in the hospital since last week. Every Sunday, his wife would beg at the church for her husband’s fast recovery.
Little did they both know his stay at the hospital would soon be over.
But not in the way they both hoped.

With her scythe softly clicking on the polished tiles, she made her way down the dark corridor. She peered into the rooms, her eyes searching the metallic tags on the door.
Gressen…Gilbert…Greyham.
Gotcha.
She pushed the door open, smiling wryly as she felt the temperature drop in the room when she set her bare feet in the room. It was just one of those unexplainable things.
She turned her attention to the man in the bed.
He was deathly pale and skinny, the outlines of his bones showing clearly through his papery skin. There were dozens of tubes running through his veins, pumping him full of God-knows what. His raspy breathing was recorded by a constantly beeping machine.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Ew…” she remarked bluntly, setting her scythe down and leaning on it. “You look like shit, man…you should consider yourself lucky you’re on my list…”
She sighed. Better hurry, she thought, placing a palm on his chest, her fingers pressing down on the clammy skin.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in several times. Then, in a deep voice, she began reciting.
The language was ancient, the words slurred for human ears. As she continued, the room seemed to come alive. The shelves rattled, the machine went mad, beeping insanely, faster and faster. She glanced at it and smiled wryly.
Greyham’s face began to twitch. The little colour he had drained out, leaving his skin gray and lifeless.
Where her fingers touched him, a fuzzy outline began to appear in the air. It began to clear, taking up the shape of a head…very similar to the one lying in the bed…
She grinned. “Just a little bit more…”
The outline grew bigger and bigger, the rest of the body taking form. When it was nearly complete, she grabbed it by its shoulders and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. She grabbed her scythe with both hands.
“A kaput bezarom ezzel!” she cried in a firm voice, slamming the end of the stick down on the floor next to the figure. A small shockwave followed her words. The fuzzy figure became crystal-clear.
It was John Greyham. He looked at himself in amazement, moving his fingers, flexing his hand. It was a while since he did anything other than wither from pain.
She glanced at him briefly before performing a set of hand seals and spells to ensure the job was completely done.
“It’s incredible!...hey! Who are you?”
She sighed.
Oh Gawd, great. Here comes the fun part. Why am I the one who has the break it to them? Why can’t they employ some Goddamn angel with a harp and a huge smile?
“I am the Grim Reaper.” She stated bluntly as she turned around to face him, her scythe in clear sight. “I am here because I have been ordered to fetch your soul for judging. Your time on this Earth has come to end.”
He stared at her in disbelief. His face began to twitch. “You’re lying!”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why would I? I claimed your soul. Look at yourself on the bed. You’re dead.”
He did so, his jaw slacking in disbelief. He ran to the figure in the bed, slapping him on the face and calling his own name out frantically, urging himself to wake up.
She watched him in silence. She had witnessed thousands of deaths. This was a very common reaction to one’s death. She leaned on her trusty weapon, waiting for Greyham to finish.
After five minutes, he gave up. He collapsed near his bed, clutching his head.
“Come on…” she called out in a soft voice, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We need to get going.”
He shook his head.
“Why me? Why do I have to die?”
She sighed, getting slightly irritated.
“Perhaps it’s the fact you have smoked about twenty cigarettes a day ever since you were sixteen? I’m actually quite surprised you have made it to this age. But it’s not personal. It happens, okay? Now come on. We need to go. You have a lot to do.”
“No.”
“Greyham…”
“Leave me! I won’t go!”
“You will” she stated, her tone growing icy. “Look, you’re not the only one I have to lead to be judged tonight. I have a lot of work. Don’t try my patience, old man.”
“I will not – “
She grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around, her scythe poised at his neck.
“You will” she whispered, her eyes hard. “And you can either come willingly or I will cause you a lot more pain than that disease ever caused you. Your choice.”
Greyham’s tear filled eyes widened in fear and shock. He gripped her hands feebly, and nodded.
“A wise choice.” She let him go and watched him get up, shaking. She opened the door.
“Death is unfair, I agree. But I only follow orders.”
She leaned closer, her tone softening slightly. “If you co-operate, you will find yourself in a better place. And from above, you can comfort your wife. Okay?”
The old man met her eyes, and nodded weakly.
“Good. Let’s move.”

She led him deep underground. The air was thick with dust and moist, as a room abandoned for years and cracked open by some unsuspecting visitor.
His eyesight was useless in the dark realms, he could only blindly stumble in the gloom, following the sound of her scythe clicking on the rough, stony path.
He questioned their destination only to receive an irritated sigh and a patronizing ‘You’ll see.’
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the air began to clear, and thin ribbons of light began to light their paths up. Greyham scuttled after the Grim Reaper eagerly, hoping to get to the surface soon. He glanced at her for any signs, but all he could see was her expressionless face, staring right ahead.
Suddenly, the road came to a winding end at an enormous gate.
It was at least seven foot high and twice as wide. Its chromed, metallic surface gleamed in the low light. Twisted bars covered the arms of the gates, plaited in intricate and ancient patterns. Greyham could make out the metal grapevines and pine cones.
He could also make out more disturbing carvings of demons and raging fires, all entwined with the symbols of paradise.
These patterns were closely weaved together, concealing the world beyond the gates from eyesight.
Beside the monstrous gate stood two guards.
They were young men, muscularly built. They were clad in heavy armour, the steel mail rippling in the dim light, blinding Greyham momentarily. One guard carried a heavy crossbow, the arrow poised, his finger on the trigger. The other guard carried a heavy spear, his grip tight and determined. Both guards had a long sword hanging on their sides, and had a symbol engraved on their armour.
It was a circle with two curved lines inside, dividing it into three. In the middle, there was a teardrop, with flames engraved inside.
Greyham studied the guards and the symbol with both awe and fear. Unconsciously, he scuttled closer to the Grim Reaper.
The soul-claimer walked up to the guards without any hesitation nor fear.
As she got closer, the guards pulled out their swords simultaneously and pointed it at her throat.
“Stop. State your name and purpose.”
She stopped, glancing down at the blades before rolling her eyes.
“Is this really necessary? Hello, Fersdan, Gilran? It’s me, Loresia. I was here yesterday, the day before and every freaking day before that. And I will be back later. You know me. Do we have to go through this every time I enter the Underworld?”
The taller guard with the crossbow cracked an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, Lor. Standard procedure. It’s our duty, and you know that.”
“Just say it once for today, for the record, and we won’t have to ask you again.” The guard with the spear suggested, lowering his blade slightly.
“Good, because I will be coming back a good forty odd times…” she sighed, then pulled herself up.
“I am Loresia, the Grim Reaper, the Claimer of Souls. My purpose is to deliver the soul requested on my list for judging on his fate in the afterlife.”
She glanced at the guards.
“Satisfied?”
They both nodded and lowered their weapons. They then grabbed the arms of the gates and began to drag it open.
With ear-shattering creaking, the doors swung open, revealing a misty path lit by hovering lights in the distant trees.
Greyham felt a slight push on his back. He turned back to see the Grim Reaper nodding towards the path.
“Go.”
“What? A-aren’t you coming?”
She shook her head.
“My duty is to deliver the souls. It’s up to you now to go through that path. It will be short. Then they will judge you, and you…you know what? Go ahead and find out for yourself.”
He took a shaky step towards the path, the lights beckoning him. He took one last look at the claimer of his soul. She nodded.
“Good luck.”
He took a wobbly breath, and started his journey into the afterlife.
Loresia watched him until he disappeared from sight. She then sighed and pulled her hood down.
“So whaddaya reckon, Lor? Heaven or Hell?” the crossbow guard asked cheerfully.
“Dunno…” she shrugged. “He has been smoking like a freakin’ chimney since he was a teen, but he has been generally pretty good…so yeah…” she stared at the misty path she has seen a thousand times before. She snorted and pulled her hood back.
“Better go. I got a lot to go for tonight.”
“See you later!” the spear wielding guard yelled after her. “Happy soul-sucking!”
He could briefly see a white fist curled up save the middle finger in the air waving towards him before she disappeared into the darkness.
  
The warm Amazonian wind fluttered the palm trees as the Sun descended for the night. The warm air was rich with the smell of the tropics and the sound of laughter from the boys playing nearby.
A mother was washing her simple rags in front of a wooden hut at the edge of the Brazilian rainforest. She wiped the sweat off her forehead as she thought of her beloved daughter in the hut. She has been very sickly for the last two weeks. Last night they have been up all night, watching helplessly as enormous coughs shook her tiny body, splattering her blanket with blood They were far too poor to afford medication.
She turned her attention back to the washing. She suddenly shivered. The air suddenly got so cold…

Oh dear God…don’t do this to me…
She gripped her scythe, staring down at the sleeping figure of a four-year old Brazilian girl, who was twisting in a nightmare, her skeletal frame shaking with fever.
She gently laid her on her back, and splayed her fingers on the shaking child’s stomach.
“At least I will take you to a better place…I hope…I’m sorry, child…you’re on my list…” she muttered before breaking into recital, her hood torn off by the wind.
Minutes later, she was putting the final seal on her now lifeless body when she heard a soft voice.
“Miss? What is this…I want my mom…why am I sleeping?”
Slowly, she turned around to face the confused child. She kneeled down to her.
“I’m the Grim reaper, sweetheart. I’m here to take you to a place.”
The child looked scared as she gripped onto the claimer of her soul. She lifted her up, the child snuggled into her embrace.
“Will it hurt anymore? Will I get to see my family?”
“Nothing will hurt anymore…” she hushed her. With one hand, she held the tiny child, with the other, she retrieved her weapon. Casting one last look at the shabby little home, she pushed the door open.

“Are you alright? You look…well…”
“Bloody terrible?”
“Yeah…”
A thick, suffocating smoke filled the room, mainly coming from the dozens of cigars and cigarettes being lazily smoked. Loud chatter mixed with glasses being slammed down on desks, drinks being poured and the clicks of bottles. Occasionally, screams from drunken arguments would rise above the commotion, only to be settled by another round of complimentary beer.
A busty waitress in her short black uniform made her way through the crowd, ignoring the chorus of wolf-whistles that followed her path. She stopped to collect the empty glasses at a table, smiling at the tall, African woman.
“Alright, Weather Witch? How’s the rainforest these days?”
“Fine…it’s so hard to make the crops grow though…” she sighed, burying her hand deep in her ivory locks. “I mean, how am I supposed to bring good weather when all they do is choke me with those fumes?”
She nodded sympathetically. “How about asking one of the Brazilian goddesses to frighten them?”
The Weather Witch snorted. “I’d rather choke in the bloody rubber fumes than suck up to those snobby bitches. Just because they have been worshipped since God-knows-when…besides, we don’t speak anymore since I told them only pagan and uneducated idiots worship them anymore…”
The waitress laughed. “Another Pina Colada?”
“Yeah…”
She nodded and moved toward the bar.
She passed a table in the corner with two solitary figures hunched over, each gripping a glass of Martini.
One was a young girl with fair skin, shoulder-length blonde hair and a pair of enormous, feathery wings growing out of her shoulder blades. They were a kaleidoscope of browns, whites and creams, reaching all the way down to her ankles. She wore a simple white dress, reaching to her knees, decorated with a gold belt. She wore sandals and on her face, a worried expression.
The other figure was clad in a black cloak, covering her entire body, save her face. Her short brown hair hung limply in her face as she gulped down her drink. Behind her chair, leaning against the wall was an enormous scythe, gleaming menacingly in the half-light, the blade crusty with dried blood.
The angel observed her friend anxiously.
“Seriously…you work too hard. Forty souls in one night isn’t good for you…”
“What else am I supposed to do, Gabriel?” her brunette friend retorted, pushing her fringe out of her face. “I’m the fucking Grim Reaper. It’s my job to claim the souls and bring them to be judged. What else can I do?”
The ark angel nodded at her friend’s words, taking a small sip herself. She has learned not to question that statement quite a while ago – simply because she couldn’t think of a way to retort her friend.
The dark soul-stealer’s and the ark angel’s friendship was unexpected, but surprisingly strong. Maybe it was because of their clashing personalities, maybe the fact that they had such different tasks entrusted on them.
Gabriel had a relatively pleasant job, keeping order in the realms of Heaven and overlooking small areas of Earth. She dealt with any major troublemakers. Her methods were mainly communication, magic with words. She was the symbol of patience and tolerance.  
Loresia, however, had the pleasure of collecting the souls of those not considered worthy to walk the Earth anymore. Her methods were entirely different – her theory was if words didn’t persuade them, a good punch or cut with her scythe will.
She set her glass down, smiling bitterly.
“And trust me, if I could quit, I would have long ago. I like my job…sorta…but when I have to drag some nineteen year old alcoholic all the way from Amsterdam while he kicks me and curses me in some goddamn language, it gets a little…irritating…”
Gabriel glanced at her, her fine, porcelain features wrinkled in concern.
She was so pale – so much like herself, yet so different – Loresia noted with a wry smirk.
Gabriel – appropriately enough – looked innocent, angelic and fragilely beautiful.
She, however, looked like some zombie who has just risen from the graveyard.
At that thought, she chuckled, taking another large sip.
“But, I mean, surely if you ask them the right way, they come quietly…”
At that, the soul-claimer started choking on her Martini. She hurriedly slammed her glass down and coughed the burning spirit out of her lungs before collapsing into dark laughter.
“ ‘Come quietly’?” she echoed, chortling.
:Gabriel, hun, no offense, but that’s the most naïve thing I’ve heard in a long time – ever since that heroin addict asked me if he promised to lay off the shit, would I seal his soul back and give him a new life.” She chuckled, fingering her glass.
“As fucking if.” She swirled her drink around in the cup, her eyes fixed on the mini vortex.
“They don’t come quietly, Gabe. No matter how nice or gentle I am. They refuse to accept the fact their lives has come to an end. They cry, mourn and blame me. The last guy on my list even attacked me.” She took a large gulp.
“I swear, half the souls have to be dragged from Earth to be judged, and the guards have to pull them off the end of my scythe first.”
“Surely you don’t…”
“Course I do. It’s the only freaking way if they keep bitching to me. I’ve tried other ‘non-violent’ methods, but I’ve stopped at soul #1120.” She smiled bitterly, taking another sip.
Gabriel shook her head, her eyes slightly disapproving.
“This sort of violence aint going to get you anywhere, Loresia.”
“No offense, but which world do ya live in, Gabe?” the Grim Reaper retorted.
A sudden rustling cut the conversation short. Both women turned to see a small raven hovering beside them on the table. It cocked its head to the side, its small beady eyes shining wickedly. It cawed, ruffling its feathers.
Gabriel wrinkled her nose with distaste. Loresia noted this with a smirk.
“Are you still mad at him for plucking your dove’s eyes out last century?”
“Hell yeah…” the ark angel sniffed.
The soul-claimer shook her head before turning back to her bird.
“What now? I thought I had the rest of the evening off.”
The raven cawed and lifted his leg. A scroll of parchment hung from it. Loresia paled.
“ANOTHER one?! You’re kidding me!”
The raven ruffled its feathers and hopped on one leg impatiently. The brunette sighed and untied the scroll. Once free, the bird took off, circling above the heads of the supernaturals gathered in the bar, crying loudly.
With slight disgust, the Grim Reaper unrolled the scroll. She rolled her eyes in desperation.
“Another fifty-nine souls? Why does everyone choose to fucking die tonight?!” she cursed, finishing off her drink in a single gulp. She slammed her glass down.
“You go, I’ll pay” Gabriel said suddenly. Loresia muttered a thanks before grabbing her scythe. She patted the angel on her shoulders.
“Thanks, Gabe. Have fun in Heaven…”
“Anytime. Good luck. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah…you find some supernatural counselor, tell her to give me a call.” She smiled wryly at her own joke, and started pushing through the crowd towards the exit.
Gabriel stared after her friend. She fingered her glass, thinking about how lucky she really was. She spent all her time in Heaven, occasionally on Earth, helping and reassuring souls. She only knew those who have accepted their fate and have been rewarded for their good behavior and faith in life.
She knew nothing of the vicious souls that have just been stripped of their lives.
She took a gulp, the spirit burning her throat.
Yes. She was very lucky.

Once finally outside, the Grim Reaper gulped in the cool night air greedily, a welcome change after the smoky bar. She leaned on her scythe, inwardly groaning at the thought of another work-filled night.
But that’s just the way it is, she thought. As long as Earth and humans will be around, death will be here as well. Death will always be part of everyday life.
And as long as death will be here, so will she.
She pulled her hood on, and rubbed the blade of the scythe dry. Her stormy gray eyes momentarily lingered on the mountains once again.
It’s just about accepting it and moving on.
Crying and putting yourself in denial will not solve anything, in fact it will just worsen everything. The problem was with the human attitude of either ignoring the problem completely or trying to fight anything that’s different.
She sighed. If only those souls understood that.
If only people learned to let go.
If only people learned that not everything was against them, and this creepy black figure with the scythe was actually here to help.
If only.
The steel eyes were invaded by moisture. She closed her eyes, and a single tear dripped down her cheek.
A single tear, mourning for the blindness of humanity.
A tear for the souls she lead, the souls she tore away from loving families.
A tear for her eternal curse.
After a moment, she opened her eyes, her steely complexion regained. Her lips twitched into her usual apathetic smirk a she glanced down on her list.
Tom Reinsenre. Romania. Blacksmith Street 12.
She tucked the list into her pocket. Casting one last look at the mountains, she turned around and began her journey down the hill. Around her, the long grass swayed in the wind, the trees rattled and lighting danced across the sky. She glanced up.
It was going to rain.
Perfect.
Hugging her cloak closer, she grew smaller and smaller as she disappeared into the horizon, her scythe clicking softly on the rough ground.