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All that is born will die and that’s where I chime in. I smile, a warm and welcoming smile, at every passing soul I encounter. And in all my immortal years I have noticed that only humans ask why. Only humans, and they always expect an answer, which I deny them. Not because I don’t know, but because they don’t need to know. A true magician never reveals their tricks. I think that’s why they think I’m so cruel and evil. Because they hate not knowing. They hate feeling so small and stupid. And of course, only humans are the assholes that spread foul-mouthed rumors about me like I’m not right there. Telling each other that I am that cause of pain and/or misery. But I know those two sadistic little shits personally. They work for me, so you people aren’t completely wrong, but you still aren’t right. What you guys are and have been way off about is what I look like.
First things first, I have no sex. So I have no gender. Secondly, I have no body. I don’t have a physical vessel; what you see when you see me is what your subconscious has materialized over time; it forms a phantom that I then control when we finally meet face to face. I am a reflection of you. Most of the time anyway, but some people are either really creative or really fucked up. When you do see me though, I will be a beauty without eyes and you will know me. You have always known me.
I am universally renowned. I am Death. I am Yeomra, Osiris, Hades, Mors, and the Grim Reaper. I am any and all personifications or symbols of dying. There is no one or thing that doesn’t know me. No one who doesn’t think of me sometimes- no, I reside in the back of every living creature’s mind, where I wait patiently.
I am bliss, truly. When it’s all said and done there is nothing but you and I, and we don’t feel anything but the warmth I bring to the situation. How you respond to me is up to you, so if you choose to kill the moment that’s your fault, but even then, you won’t sense anything from it. You won’t have skin anymore. And you won’t have any religion to save you either. Not from me. Your religion brought me to take you.
Also, just because you won’t feel doesn’t mean that I don’t. I may not show it, but I’ve been frustrated before. I’ve been sad, too, when I have to take away someone before their time or someone innocent. Murders make my existence tedious and sometimes it’s hard to keep my composure in front of an undeserving soul. There have been a few times where I just couldn’t, but there has been only once where I cried.
“Who are you?” She is so small, “Are you a new imaginary friend, ‘cause that’s ok. My name is Micca.” And so sweet.
I look down at myself to see what I look like to her. I’m a canvas doll of a narwhal mermaid. My face is hers, but older- the age she should have actually died at had her mother not drowned her. I have pixie cut silver hair with a dull spiral horn extending from my forehead, bright teal eyes, and freckles that rain down from the base of the horn. She was supposed to make it to forty-five so when I speak it’s in her voice, but after the puberty she was robbed of. “Yes, I’m your friend. Do you know where you are?”
She smiles slightly and says, “I’m sleeping.” Mona Lisa herself would have demanded this child be painted instead of herself had she been able to see this little girl smirk. She knew where she was and who I was. Still she extended her hand towards me and after a moment of hesitation that I had never experienced before, I held it. She then began to lead me out of her house making sure to point out any obstacle I could, if I were anyone else, trip over and as we walked she talked about her mother. How she was pretty and nice and took such good care of her. “My mommy has imaginary friends too, but hers are mean to her. They would make her cry and friends aren’t ‘spose to do that. They make her do things she doesn’t want to do. They made her give me that hair cut that made me look like a boy and they made her give me that bath even though I was clean already. It’s not her fault.”
I stop mid step, unknowingly squeezing her hand. It’s not her fault. The figure she built for me grew heavy and hot as tears streamed down my face because it was her fault. Her mom wasn’t sick, she was greedy. She killed her daughter because she just didn’t want to deal with her anymore in any way and after maybe five minutes of intense contemplation she decided that murder was the best route out of parenthood.
I turn to her and watch her stare at her now fading hands. Her soul disappearing and transcending into a different world, out of this in-between. She looks up at me, beaming and says, “Thank you Grimmie.” Then she was gone.