PROJECT MORTUUS: Killer In Silence

Chapter 12: Dear Old Me,

As he watched the frost on the window slowly cover his view, Mortuus took long drags of the cannabis pen in his hand. "You know, Death... Sometimes, I hate having morals." Mortuus coughed through puffs.

Death looked at him, shocked by his statement, "You have morals?!" Death asked, completely surprised by the fact that this man whom he'd witnessed pointing a gun at a child actually had morals.

Mortuus nodded, slightly annoyed by Death's reaction. "Yes, I have morals, you ass!" He shouted, and yet he still had a relatively relaxed feel to his composure. Even when angered, Mortuus never really screamed at anyone. Maybe it was the weed, or perhaps he just had a very relaxed manner. Whatever the reason was, he never seemed to raise his voice to the point that anyone felt threatened.

"Does one such as you truly have morals?" Death asked with an amused expression that seemed to hint at disbelief. The face was eerie and yet held the warmth of a caregiver within it. Something that was extremely common with Death's expressions.

Mortuus nodded, "I do, even though it doesn't appear like it." He sighed and left the room, powering down the huge industrial lights above. Sure, he was annoyed, but he wasn't angry with Death for something that was rather hard to see.

Even though he portrayed a blank expression towards it, Mortuus hated it when people questioned his morality deep down. Mortuus had very strict morals that he refused to cross, and even if they weren't clear morals, they were still his morals.

As he left the room and headed to his bed, Mortuus wondered if this was his purpose. Was his true and only aim to end Project MORTUUS? It definitely wasn't the thing that drove him to keep 'living.' Life simply ceased to have meaning when it became endless.

He sat on the edge of the bed, taking long drags of the pen. He had done the right thing, but the ethical thing was to kill Kassandra, just like he killed Micheal. That's what he should have done, but there was just something about that he couldn't do it. He looked over and pulled open his rickety drawer.

He rifled through the drawer a second and pulled out a gold locket. He clicked the top, and it popped open. There she was, Maria Morris, in all her beauty: her beautiful shining eyes, wavy hair, and a smile beyond perfection. "Why do I hurt for you, Maria?" He sighed, "I don't know you."

Mortuus always seemed to come back to locket in troubled times. For some reason that he couldn't explain, the picture made him feel warmth. It was like the picture was a warm embrace from the woman he lost before losing himself.

Death waltzed into the room with a heavy presence that filled the air with a contemplative feel, "Because Peter loved her, and you are Mr. Morgan. Whether you see that or not." He answered with a certain amount of frustration as if he had some sort of anger for what had been lost.

"Maybe so, but I feel less like him every day," Mortuus replied coldly. He and Peter Morgan really weren't different people. It just didn't feel like he was both Peter and Mortuus. For starters, Peter hated marijuana and would never touch it, but Mortuus loved it. He just felt too disconnected from his former self to consider Peter as being him.

Maybe they were the same, but there were more differences now than similarities. "I'm just a husk with emotions, Death," Mortuus stated as it were obvious, his eyes still focused on the picture within the locket. Death watched him as he sat down next to Mortuus, who didn't even glance at him.

Death nodded; he could understand why Mortuus would think that of himself. "Sometimes losing yourself is part of finding out whom you are." Death said as he placed a gentle hand on Mortuus's back. This was something Death was not known for.

Mortuus was the first person that Death was capable of touching. Most living things either died when he felt them or his hand would pass through them. It made things so much more lonely for the spirit, but at the same time, it was for the best. It was easier to be disconnected from others than have to be there for their death. Being the Angel of Death was simply a curse in the guise of a gift.

"I guess that's true, Death." Mortuus nodded in agreement before turning to him and asking a question. "Have you found yourself yet?" The question seemed to hit the spirit like a rock on a frozen lake's surface. For the very first time in almost a century, Death was left speechless by the question of a mortal.

"I... I... No..." Death responded, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He could only remember a fuzzy image of a family and the hazy feeling of the name Todd. Maybe it was him, or perhaps it was someone he knew, but it was one of the few memories he still had after centuries of being the Grim Reaper.

What was once a family man was now just a raggedy skeleton in vanta black robes that draped loosely over the disheveled figure below them. What used to be a back that carried wheat and held up giggling children was now a spiky and dust-laden spine. What were strong arms that harvested crops were now thin sticks of cream-colored bone. And what was once a kind smile that gave meaning to holy messages expelled from it was now a crooked, cracked heap of white bone that framed the hollow sockets that lay beneath.

Mortuus stood and began to leave the room, "Understand who you are before coming for who I was." Death stood in the center of the room, shocked by how forward Mortuus was about it. His words were stinging and unexpected. The words that Mortuus expelled made Death question his own morals.