"Your time is up."
The full moon's luminosity pierces through the curtains and slightly brightens up my dark room. I take a better look at the now-not-so-dark figure standing in front of me.
It didn't turn out to be the phantom-like figure I thought it was--in fact, he would have looked like a normal person if it weren't for the ghostly robe and hood he's wearing.
He's got dark wavy hair and high cheekbones with a square jaw. He silently keeps his gaze on me, almost like he's forcing me to look at him. But he looks like he'll murder me if I look away, so I maintain eye contact.
He waves his hand in the air and a purple fog forms then flows around us. When it finally clears, I notice that a scroll is in his hand. He finally breaks eye contact and turns to look at the scroll. His eyes drop to the middle of the long scroll, then he pulls out a feather pen and crosses something on the scroll.
His eyes then lock mine once again.
"Any last words, Pamela Johnson?" He asks in his rich, British accent.
"Uhh...yeah. I have a few. Like, my last name is Jamison--not Johnson."
For a slight moment his eyes seemed to widen in surprise. He immediately looks at the scroll and evaluates it thoroughly. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and then looks at me with a concentrated gaze. Then looks back at the scroll and after a few seconds he mutters something like "that can't be".
Then he makes the scroll fade away into thin air with a wave of his hand and--he comes a little closer to my face?!
I immediately stiffen up and stare at him, afraid of what was going to happen next. He closes his eyes...
And for some reason, I do too.
Then he deeply inhales.
Huh? I was confused.
This dude is smelling my shoulder...?
I'm a little more than creeped out now.
Then he pulls away quickly and sharply exhales.
I open my eyes again and see the disdain written all over this guy's face.
Right then I had a million things to say but couldn't get myself to say a word--except squeak quietly on accident and continue to stare at him like an idiot.
"Sooo...you're like, what, the Grim Reaper?" It was a pretty stupid question to ask because the answer was pretty clear--this guy literally is the Grim Reaper.
"I'm a Grim Reaper--not the Grim Reaper," he responds coldly, as if his miserable situation is all my fault.
"So, does that mean I get to die?" I ask (a little too excitedly).
He narrows his eyes at me and then clicked his tongue. "No," he sounded exasperated. "You do not get to die. Lucky you are indeed."
"Not really."
He looks at me in surprise. "You don't mean that, do you?"
"Why wouldn't I? I'd love to die."
"You do realize that there are so many others that would give anything to live like you do?"
I hesitated and thought about that for a bit. "You mean people would want to be belittled everyday and left alone in the house all the time because their parents neglected them and refuses to bat an eye to their situation?"
He rubs his temples as if he has a massive headache. "Bloody hell." He glares at me and walks over to the window, looking at the crescent, glowing moon. My mind was starting to clear up at bit at that point. I walk slowly over to the edge of my bed and sat on it, then turned my head to look solemnly at the cloaked guy. He mutters something under his breath that I didn't quite catch--although, it may have been a swear word.
"So, what's your name?" I ask him.
He doesn't answer me.
Awkward, I think to myself. How am I supposed to sleep when this scary dude is just standing there in my room?
But, I try to sleep anyway. I crawl across my bed to my pillows and rest my head on them, then I pull the covers over me and face myself away from Mr. Reaper.
Yeah, I decided to give him a name because I couldn't just keep calling him "scary dude" or "cloaked guy" in my head.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, I decide to turn my head (just a little bit) toward Mr. Reaper. And to my surprise, he's not there. In fact, he's not anywhere. I spring out of my bed and look around my room.
I check the walk-in closet. Not here.
I check the bathroom. Not here.
I check the hallways. Not there either.
I look out the window. Nowhere in sight.
Strange.
YOU ARE READING
My Answer is You
General Fiction~description~ 15-year-old Pamela Jamison has a tough life. She's currently enduring the worst year of her life thus far; sophomore year. She's constantly being pushed around by people; her parents, her older sister, her classmates, her bullies. But...
