Waiting

(includes depictions of death and loss, somewhat graphic)

They had always thought that the way humans viewed them was odd. A human skeleton with a black cloak and some sort of gardening tool? They thought the image was rather strange, especially seeing as they literally could not be described, but they also acknowledged how incredible mortal imaginations could be. They turned to the middle-aged woman. She had long brown hair tied into a ponytail and soft features. Her skin crinkled around her hazel eyes, evidence of joy throughout her fifty-three years on the planet. She was sweeping her kitchen, pausing from time to time to watch the winter snow fall against the frozen earth outside her house. Their hand, shimmering silver, reached out and gently tapped her shoulder. She turned, confused, but she did not see them standing there. She scanned the room, perplexed. And then she dropped the broom. It clattered to the ground as she sank to her knees on the tile floor. She reached for her chest desperately, her hands closing around empty air. Tears sprang into the woman’s eyes, and they rested their hand on her shoulder, silently comforting her. They could feel her pulse weakening as she took her final breath. Her body collapsed to the floor, leaving behind a pale blue wisp of a smoke-like substance. 

“You have a beautiful soul, Miss.” They spoke kindly, with an almost imperceptible twinge of sadness in their voice that always seemed to be there. The woman’s soul floated toward them, disoriented.

“Who’s there? Who are you? What’s going on? I’m… I’m so warm…” 

“My true name has long been forgotten by all of humanity and all mortals, although I have been given many others. The Greeks called me Thanatos, the Romans named me Mors. Yama, Mot, Hel. You may call me what you wish, but now… many call me Grim.” The woman’s soul seemed to exhale shakily.

“The… Grim reaper… am I… dead?”

Grim had led many different souls of many different creatures to the stars when it was their time. A young dog whose fur couldn’t keep out the cold. A cat who had run out of time. A whale, trapped as she sank, unable to surface in order to breathe. Gray souls. Souls that were yellow. Purple souls. But there was a common misconception. Grim did not control death, and neither were they dead. They did not end things, nor did they begin them. They did not regret, but they also never forgot. If it wasn’t the soul’s turn, Grim would lead them back. If it was, Grim would beckon them forward. Grim was not cruel. They were not cold. They weren’t evil. Grim was like your most nostalgic memory, one that made you smile while your eyes cried. The thing you loved most. Grim was comfort. They were warm. And they were alone. So completely alone. 

Grim had first tried to make a friend in the year 1348, in the countryside of France, where they were called Mort. It was a young man named Pierre that Grim had taken an interest in. Pierre was of a modest French family and had mid-length blonde hair that was kept tied up, as well as tangible skin, unlike Grim. Pierre laughed and danced and sang. He had a mother and a father and three siblings and someone he loved. But like all mortals, he only had so much time. And Pierre couldn’t see Grim, although millions of others could. Pierre’s mother got sick first. Then his father and one of his younger sisters. And the person he loved. They could see Grim. Pierre no longer laughed or danced or sang. He began to cough. Grim watched as Pierre sank to his knees and coughed into his hand, catching scarlet mucus. The red stained his clothes after only one day. And Grim knew what was happening. It ended as quickly as it had begun. The one-sided friendship came to an end the moment Pierre saw Grim for the first time. 

Grim remembered. They remembered everything. They could recall exactly what a tyrannosaurus sounded like. They knew how the pyramids were really built. They could reflect on the truth of the Donner Party. Grim knew the past. And Grim knew the future. But they could only see what it held if they really searched for it. And they were content to wait. And wait. Grim could wait forever. They could wait alone. So they did.

They were leading away a thirteen-year-old girl’s pastel orange soul, who hadn’t gotten the antidote soon enough. She asked them for a story, to calm her. Grim obliged, having heard this request many times before from other souls. They began with that middle-aged woman in winter. They told the girl about the variety of beings they had led away, what species they were, what happened, what their soul looked like. Grim continued to talk of their memories. The girl hung on to every word, entranced by Grim’s calm, melodic voice, with that twinge of sadness behind everything. When the story was finished, the girl was ready to leave. She turned for a moment, before stopping and telling Grim something they had only ever heard one other soul say before, back in 1348. Pierre. Grim's first one-sided friend.

“It must be so… lonely to be Death.”

And with that, the girl's soul left.

Grim stared after her for a few seconds, surprised, before they softened sadly.

“...It is,” they murmured to themself, as the pastel orange soul left for its home in the stars. 

And then Grim returned to the mortal realm to guide another soul. And another. And another. Over and over. And they waited for the day when someone would arrive, someone who could stay, and then they wouldn’t be so lonely anymore. But it was an idealistic dream. They waited. And they waited alone forevermore, always hoping, never once realizing, no matter how long they waited, that salvation

 would never

 arrive.

The End.