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The Raven flew through the suburban streets, searching for it's next victim. It had been a while since it had taken this form, most prefer to leave this world following a tall, dark, hooded skeleton that they call Death. Well, most prefer to not leave this world at all, but Fate has other ideas.
It perched on the tree, peering into the window, observing it's next reaping. It was a man, aged 93 years, 7 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days. He had a name, but it wasn't important. The man was an artist, and had spent most of his life painting landscapes and portraits. He was never quite successful enough to amass fame or wealth, but he sold enough of his work to live comfortably. It was a sizable two story house, probably built back in the late 1950's. The white paint had begun to chip in patches, and one of the windows at the front was cracked.
The garden, on the other hand, would be considered a paradise to most. The grass was a rich, viridescent green, and assorted shrubbery was dotted across the yard. Vibrant tones of red and yellow popped throughout the green as flowers bloomed. Ornate decorations lay near the front welcoming any visitors. Compared to the shab and dreary neighbourhood that it surrounded, His house stood out like a shining star.
This street was common to be the host of the typical criminal riff raff and lowlife thugs that the authorities will often love to use as a scapegoat for their lack of policing abilities. One may come to expect that an elderly, pacifistic man would soon be drowned in this ocean of gray morality, yet the gangs had come together to respect, and protect him if necessary.
It remembered one soul it had reaped in this area, a young man in his 20s. He had tried to break into the old man's house, and steal his artworks to sell. He never made it past the front gate. He was quickly spotted, and soon was overrun by a mob of angry hoodlums. His body was not a pretty sight. The blood stained the once cheerful grass, and would not leave for months.
Yet, no amount of protection could protect the old man from The Raven.
It approached closer, sitting at the windowsill. It watched him paint his most recent, and now, final, work. It was an alluring, abstract artwork, complete with a dark, empty void composed of blacks and blues pierced with an effervescent touch of red. It would be such a shame to leave the work unfinished, yet, the clock was ticking closer, and closer.
3 days.
The old man had noticed The Raven, and his face betrayed surprise. Of course, as ravens such as Itself did not live in this area, nor did they travel through here through migration. It would be considered a rare sight, a commodity, even, to see one here. It approached the man, ready to strike. Time was ticking, after all. The man gazed at The Raven with curiosity in his eyes, his mind wondering.
What was a Raven doing here? Why had it chosen to approach him, of all people? What was its purpose? The man would learn soon enough, but It had decided to let him have one last wish. He perched on the man's shoulders, and stared at his artwork. An invitation, for one final act. One final painting. One final world to create.
Why had it decided to give the man this kindness? Had it seen his art, and decided that it would be better off complete? Did it feel pity for the mans overall empty life, and decided to give him a proper send off? We would never know, and could most likely never understand. A being like Death was beyond the thinking of mortals.
Despite his obviously perplexed feelings, the old man picked up his brush, and continued to paint. The next few nights were an amusing few for It. It watched the artistic struggles and hardships through the development of the painting, and saw as it grew more and more. It felt some sort of relation to the painting, none could describe it in its truest form.
1 minute.
The old man stared at his finished work, and smiled. It was not often he was content with his paintings. Most of them lacked a certain element, yet this one seemed to be bursting with it.
It was time.
Without warning, the man fell from standing proud. He clutched his chest, and The Raven watched as his body slowly turned lifeless. There was no grace in this death, nothing poetic about it. One moment, he was there, the next, he was gone. Another life, faded away.
