i hate how humans picture us.

the grim reaper—

we’re not grim. you think dead souls would willingly come with us if we were the dark, cloaked figure you make us out to be? no, we’re the opposite of grim. we take the form of what you find the most comfortable; the most attractive. we lure you to the other side.

we don’t reap. we don’t get anything; we don’t receive profit or pleasure. this is our punishment; to seduce souls. to convince naïve, trusting innocents that death isn’t all that bad. to bring them to the other side and dump them into the infinite depths of purgatory, or whatever lies after life. to live, and watch everyone else die.

those who cannot be forgiven even through the trial of death…

… become death.

for this one, i am 27, male. black hair and brown eyes. i am tall, lean-muscled and i’m wearing jeans. i am a generic handsome. i am in a hospital; but this is not what surprises me. most people die in the cold whiteness of a hospital; so much so that it is difficult to walk five steps in a clinic without running into one of my brethren.

no, the hospital does not surprise me.

what surprises me is that i am not in oncology, or in geriatrics. i am in the maternity ward. i have never been here before. not in life, not in death. i expect a mother dying in labour. i expect a stillborn.

again, i am surprised.

the person whose eyes lock in on me is male.

the father.

he is still alive, still breathing. but i can see the time-bomb of a clot tucked away deep in his brain. tick-tock-tick, it says. he squints, most likely wondering what i am doing here; a strange man in his wife’s maternity ward.

the wife is minutes away from labour. a nurse holds her hand, at her hair. another is between her legs, announcing that she’s almost there. the man, the father, is still looking at me.

i smile.

his eyes widen. he opens his mouth to say something, but i shake my head, bringing a finger to my lips. hush, i mouth at him. he nods, mirroring my smile. humans are so easy. i amble up to him, thumbs hooked in my pockets. his wife screams; her baby’s head is just out. but the father’s attention is on me. our foreheads brush, my knees knock at his. another smile, and his turns to jelly. follow me? i ask, and he nods, beautiful brown eyes wide.

done.

his eyes roll back into his head, legs buckle, and his body falls right through me, but i hold on to him. i hold on tight, because this is when they’re most scared.

the nurses have turned, their attention torn from life to death, and they are unsure. save a dying man, or risk killing a new life? the mother is screaming for her husband— wake up, she screams. i need you. but his eyes are still locked on me. i offer him another warm smile. trust me, i say. he can still choose to go back. he can still rip away from me and kiss himself back to life, and nobody will know the better.

the body is strong, but the soul is weak.

he holds on to me, tight. i hold back, tighter.

the nurses look at each other, and i can smell the panic. one of them, the one who’d been chanting push, push, push, she rushes to the man’s side, falling to her knees and pressing a thumb at his jugular. she gasps, relief flooding her system, because his heart is still beating.

his heart beats, yes; but his brain is dead.

he shakes in my arms, watching as the other nurse manages to birth the baby.

and death watches life.

the baby is ugly, wrinkled and small. the man looks away, looks at me, because death is beautiful. death is comfort. death is…

…a trap.

the nurse is yelling for help, and the room fills. doctors, other nurses, relatives. people expect a miscarriage, a still-born, a dead mother. but the baby’s cries fill the room, and the mother sobs into her baby’s hair. the father’s body is laid down on a stretcher, taken away to be declared brain dead.

i love how humans picture us.

painful and to be feared. i love how they hate the idea of giving up on life. death is beautiful. death is dangerous.

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hurrah for 2 am spurts of inspiration