Something that was absolutely wrong about this world was how easily death was delivered.
Just a swift arc of a blade, a clean spray of blood, the rapid gasping of the damned. There were messier options, of course, and the public...well, the public just simply loved that. No, even a simple gunshot would no longer do the trick.
What a tragedy it was that gunshots were now considered simple, mundane.
Reaper Kaprice shook her head at the thoughts, at the masses gathering at her doorstep for more death, blood, decapitated heads rolling on the arena floors.
They were growing bored, and that was no longer an option.
The fake-oil portraits, occupants of the Grim House before her, loomed down at her messy robes, unfinished hair, scowling their scowls, reeking of doom. One day she would join them, gold framed, ugly smirk. The works.
She heard clangs of metal at her door--pitchforks, she thought with disdain, really, in this day and age.
Though she looked down on their desperate ways, she was still worried if they managed to break in, somehow, her daughter--she'd be in danger. Her fingers tingled with the power that lay in their bones, the ropes of rainbow light that would wrap around and strangle the mob like playful, whimsical children--it lived up to her name, thought Kaprice grimly.
"DEATH," they chanted, "DEATH, DEATH, DEATH."
Bloodthirsty gremlins, she considered, stupid, ugly. Knowing nothing at all about how hard it is.
She stretched out her arms, and the light shot out from her hands, grabbing the door handles, and thrusting them open into the grey morning sun.
The crowd fell silent.
Then their chants begun again.
"DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!"
"SHUT UP!" Someone roared. "SHUT UP."
A gray man strode up her steps, a pitchfork in one hand, a piece of paper in the other.
"Reaper Kaprice." He bowed deep, yet there was an air of sarcasm lacing his tone.
"Who are you?" She asked rudely. She was the one with the upper hand here. A pitchfork would do basically nothing to her, a weapon wielded by a crop would do nothing but harm for an instant.
"That is of no concern. What I, we, have come to ask of you, your grace, is why hasn't there been a Reaping in weeks. We, this community, are getting bored."
"I apologize." Said Kaprice shortly. "The Reapers of this region are out of comission, and I myself was looking after my daughter. We Reapers are human, you must understand."
She knew there were news cameras, paparazzi, somewhere in the crowd hungry for something to fuel their stations.
At the word human, the grey man scoffed. "Right, of course."
"Can I make it up to you?" Kaprice asked. She didn't mean it. But living in the Grim House meant you had to hold your public image up to a certain standard.
"You can indeed!" A random woman yelled. She looked like a soccer mom. Kaprice despised those.
How? She thought--
A child was pushed forward from the crowd, a little girl, probably around the same age as Kaprice's daughter. She was wearing pink overalls, a white shirt underneath, and was gripping onto a stuffed bear like it was her last lifeline.
Kaprice saw a couple howling for their child, likely the girl's parents, and despite the horrible situation she assumed this to be, she smiled. Humanity was not yet gone.
"Reap her."
YOU ARE READING
Reap What You Sow
Подростковая литература"The Reapers are gods, for they have conquered what we could not; the human conscience." --------------- Long in the distant future, death can only be delivered by those with the Touch. Such people are called Reapers. Only allowed to exist under a...
