Death isn't something many feared as they should. It's daunting, unforgiving, taking, greedy for souls that must be taken away from the living boundary of the world.

The world after life is dull in comparison to the former vibrant life of the living, one of restless discomfort in a body that was weary and used through its use.

I see hundreds of souls a day. Thousands, if not more. All of them are the same- nothing that catches my attention. The work that had fascinated me so dearly at one point has become a flat line in terms of excitement.

Having found others to pull souls from their body, I reside in the realm of the dead instead, and they gave me a title based off my work.

Death.

I am not Death itself. I am a taker, one that reaps with absolute control. I am someone of selfish garnering, who severs something short.

But that doesn't matter. People hail me the ruler of when a life cuts short, Death itself. My memories run blurry, together, a blend of things from dreams and things from reality.

I remember skulls, I remember darkness, I remember mist creeping in on all sides.

I do not remember sunshine.

My fingers claw deep into the throne made of gnarled vines, of plant life long dead and gone. A remembrance of what I did. What I do. All I will ever do.

The room is barren, walls transparent and shimmering in the layers of this world. Through them, I catch glimpse of a lost soul, translucent against the grey background, hurrying by with their hair flying out gracefully behind them.

But the walls flicker and become rigid in form. My gaze shifts from the wall to stare ahead, at the figure dressed in black. Their form is outlined in gold, fabrics of the color on their clothes and lining their hair.

"Death," they speak, and the hood is peeled back from their face. The triangle, orange, pressed against the skin below the corner of the man's right eye, dissolves as the reaper unravels the reality of the tattoo. "There's a soul with a question."

I tap a grey fingernail against my throne, letting my gaze bear into him. "Can you not answer it yourself?"

What happens after death?

Am I ever going to disappear?

Can I see my family?

Basic, squandering questions. Typical.

The reaper shakes his head, and threads, shimmering in the air with the width barely that of an ant, appear, looping from his hands until they pile in his palm like rope.

It glows a hazy green, and he lets it run through his fingers.

"They said they would only ask it in front of you."

I inhale deeply, lifting skeletal fingers to touch the bridge of my nose.

"Describe them."

"Harmless, Death," the reaper said. Now that his hair has been brushed away from his neck, I can see the clear barcode and his name on his neck- Rivel.

Rivel pulls the thread into a knot, then lets it drift into the air. It's certainly not a heavy little thing, it floats with the weight that's lighter than a feather.

Around us, threads glitter. Rivel catches my shift of attention towards them and raises an eyebrow, crinkling laughter with the frost of a winter bell in the back of his throat.

"This entire world is made out of threads, Death. Threads of energy- anything and everything has them. Even in this world where life doesn't exist."

As if on cue, he lets a finger slide across a red thread that had appeared into view. With a cool curve of his lips, he snaps the thread in half by twisting his finger, and the color dissolves.

"Would you like to see the soul?"

I stare at the spot where the red thread had been. "Yes. Send them in."

With that, Rivel's form dissipates in an instant, particles of black fabric left in his wake. It's only when my eyes move elsewhere do I notice that the room is still full of threads, strings hanging from every imaginable surface and even across the air, attached to nothing.

Minutes tick by before the pulsing in my ears start. It's alive, much more alive than anyone here, whenever it be the lost souls or myself.

There's a dull thump, muffled as if by cloth.

The walls flicker again, and I see skulls through its transparency. Then Rivel, standing, fingernails digging deep into the shoulder of a smaller figure.

His hand moves to press into the small of the figure's back, guiding them forward with a cool touch.

I can't read his lips, but he's amused. Amused in a way that hints that he finds the others' actions laughable- all obvious by the cock of his eyebrow and slight distaste pressed into his lips.

With that, the walls all around us disappear. We're in a throne room, and for a moment, my shadow falls with light surrounding it- until the source is shut off by a snap of Rivel's fingers. We're embraced by darkness.

It's all created by Rivel's manipulation of his threads of energy- he reigns control over them, guiding them carefully and bending them to his will. But the soul doesn't realize that.

They glide forward, with a hesitance to their gait.

I watch them with a careful eye, watching every moment, every detail being noted. The way their eyes dart from tile to tile, observing their design. The jaggedness of their fingernails, hinting to anxiety due to tearing them off. Everything.

"I'm not asking with you here," they say, and it takes me a moment to realize they're addressing Rivel.

Despite their small stature and thin frame, their voice carries across the room with steadiness.

Rivel's eyes twinkle for a moment, but in the fire of his amber irises, I can see the careful reflection of threads changing and moving mid-air.

Red threads fasten themselves over the soul's throat, ready to slice through skin and render them a headless soul for all eternity.

But the reaper bows his head, letting his voice, sharp as broken glass, take control.

"If I'm not needed, then I won't be here."

In a click, Rivel is gone.

With only the two of us alone, left in his lingering illusion, I turn my full attention to the soul.

A sigh rests at the back of my throat, waiting to be exhaled at the ask of a basic question.

But, no. They don't ask a basic question.

They tilt their head with childlike innocence.

"Death? What do you remember?"

It always starts with color.

Colors, shimmering, glittering, bleeding into the sky that had previously been painted of grey. Grey becomes charcoal until red starts to boil in, veins of orange stretching across the sky.

I wake up every time to color.

This time, it's red, orange, and yellow, fire painted across the sky. It's like God has let an artist use the sky as their canvas one final time before their death.

Around me, things start to highlight. There is no one here, no one but the organisms that crawl around rocks. If any animal looks my way, all they will see is an open area, void of anything but the air and the sun's rays.

This is the start of this world.

This is where it all begins.

That is all I can remember.

You are Death. You are the ruler a world beyond life.

That is what I'm supposed to be.

But, when I touch onto the world where life exists, all I can feel is absolute fascination towards it. A blossoming flower. A fluttering, delicate and dainty butterfly letting itself fly over the fields.

I kneel, letting my fingers ghost over the petals. Underneath my hands, tendrils of color etch themselves into the petal's surface, black against baby pink.

Standing one more, I cast my gaze out to the field.

"This world shall be mine to control."

-

"Life," I croon, letting my form shimmer to take on the imprint of an eternal woman. For a moment, Life's eyes waver and I continue. "You're anything but innocent."

"And why is that?"

I change my form once more, bending the threads of reality around me.

"Do you really think I am the one to take this soul from you?"

Both of our eyes crane downwards, at the broken and twisted form of a human that lay upon the concrete, blood smeared messily across their cut, white-blond hair.

"I am old. I have seen too much War. Death. Murder. Things never change, and my routines remain stationary and unchanging. No, I was not the one to do this. You flaunt your powers, Life, throw conflicts into someone's life to hamper them. You love little games. Yes, you really are a child. Not a child who is innocent, but one that enjoys games, no matter the dangers."

I walk over to Life, taking a strand of silvery-white hair that had fallen in front of his face and pinning it behind his ear.

"You mustn't play with the threads of their lives, my dear. It isn't civil."

Life flinches away from me, but all I can do is smile, the expression pressed cold to my lips. Practiced. Rehearsed. Life is young, he hasn't experienced like I have.

"You're the only one who could have done it," he bites back. "You're Death itself- the embodiment of Death- you were the only one who could have done it!"

"And did I choose to become Death?"

A pause.

"That's right. I didn't. I'm not heartless- I've just learned to use my heart less. After all..."

In his eyes, I can see the glass shatter, the glass break. He takes a step away from me, one that's filled to the brim with fear and negative emotions, emotions that'll be projected onto some poor soul soon enough.

"No one expects an angel to set the world on fire. But the devil? That's an entirely different story."

Eyes pierce mine for a single, freezing moment until white wings burst from his back, and for a moment, I see the spiteful person behind Life's friendliness.

He isn't the type to take pity or mercy, no. He finds everything amusing up until it affects him himself, then he turns into a monster that most, if not all, people see.

They see their life as a mess.

Life is the representation of all lives, not just a particular one. There are no exceptions.

Life curls his life at him, a snarling beast in his eyes at the bumps I had thrown into his road of perfection.

Death, too, must be earned.

A smile flits across my face.

I lift a hand to pinch at the bridge of my nose, a muscle in my face starting to twitch as the thoughts of Life flicker in my head.

The soul beams at me, clasping their hands above their chest. "Wow..."

Something is different to them. There's no defiance in their body or words in comparison to when they had spoken to Rivel.

"Is that enough for you? I don't have the time to speak of this. I have something to do," I sigh.

They dismiss my words wit a wave of their hand. "Tell me more! Tell me more!"

"I just said-"

I'm caught off-guard by the light in their eyes. A spark has been lit in their eyes, one of curiosity and interest.

"Tell me more stories."

I can feel the presence of someone else in the room. Craning my eyes downwards, I tilt my head.

"What do you wish to hear?"

They pause, words pressed tight on their lips. "Tell me about the world."

The world isn't a pretty place.

I know that more than anyone. It's a place where you must struggle, must fight. If you don't, I'll take your weak soul up in my arms and flit away from the world Life reigns over.

I remember souls that have blue on their body, with their lungs bruised and their heart bloody. I remember souls that have no body, and the edges of their mind are charred and burnt. I remember souls whose breaths are filled with smoke and whispers. Only whispers.

"You don't want to know about the world," I say. "The world is not beautiful. It never will be a place of happiness or prosperity. It is selfish, and in turn, has changed humankind to be selfish as well. They take what they want."

Lifting a finger, I stare at the weathered skin for a moment. "It's a place of shattered glass, glinting in the light, pretty, even with touches of blood on them.

This world is not beautiful in any way, shape, or form except when it's edged in blood and war.

Too young.

The mother wept and pulled her deceased child to her chest, tears spilling over on her cheeks, into the young child's hair.

She wasn't even a child, more-so a baby born at the wrong time, a baby born when I was in the room.

What an unfortunate roll of luck.

My fingers came to rest upon the baby's forehead, letting the cool skin rest underneath my fingertips. The skin immediately started to darken and grey, as if the color of my own hands was affecting the world around me.

The mother's tears were streaking across the skin, the tears of loss, the tears of letting go something so fleeting yet so special.

Life is held by the strings. It's dainty. A single strike can split it in half and throw it into a mess.

I sweep my fingers across the body, and white gathers at my fingertips. The soul is not a color, but rather an entity itself. Its color is something of nothingness, but everything.

The soul is an entity that cannot be described.

It may be a young child, but death does not pick its victims. I'm in no place to be picky, in no place to choose.

It's the youngest life I had ever taken, early into the stages of human civilization.

"Yes," I find myself saying. "This world is cruel. I am cruel. Life is cruel. But we would not be who we are had challenges not sharpened us into blades."

They tilt their head. Clearly, their interest is not yet quenched.

"What gender are you?"

"I don't believe it matters. Alas, if gender is erased, multiple problems would disappear as well. That being said, there is eternal gender here, in the afterlife- you are neither male nor female, but male and female at the same time. You are male, but not female. You are female, but not male. That is the summary of everyone here."

I stand. Behind me, the throne of vines and roots hiss and shift, a deep rumble rippling through the room.

As if he knows what I wish for, Rivel appears. The setting twitches around him as he bends it to his will.

Upon seeing the soul, his attention snaps. Everything falls into place once more.

"Tell me more!" They beg. "More, more, more! Tell me how you became Death!"

Death, too, must be earned.

Closing my eyes, I allow my attention to drift.

I did not choose to be Death. But now it is a part of me, now I have no choice but to be Death.

I have no identity aside from the entity that takes lives from one place into my own realm.