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Clocks and Reapers

I never liked clocks. They make me nervous.

My nails clicked against the rough oak table that had so many different indents and cuts in it that it looked like a mauled cat scratching post. Noise blended words out into discernible hums, dim lights swing precariously by thin cords above the heads of a dozen regulars and yet the room had an ominous cloud of black smoke tapping on the door. The Runed were oblivious to the reaper waiting by the door.

It is said that the only people who could see death were the ones about to die. A smile stretched across my pale features as I lifted my hand to wave at the hated reaper.

It is said reapers are born with both runes and natural magic. The chilling night air rushed into the room as he entered the premises.

It is said reapers are soulless creatures without the ability to save. I offered my hand out to the reaper and invited him to sit down.

The whole room was on edge because of the death seeping into every nook and crack, pouring in from the closed windows as if the glass was nothing more than a wisp of smoke from a burnt out cigar. The infernal hum died down along with my impatient nail tapping. The reaper's features hadn't changed since the last time I saw him. Same pale complexion, same permanent smile, same skin pulled taught around his bones. The copper pocket watch hanging out of reaper's cloak grated on my nerves as it's ticking counted down to another death.

"Who is it tonight?" My question brought an amused twinkle to his eyes. Curiosity clawed at my guts when he stood and raised his left hand. Black smoke swirled in from floorboards and began to form a weapon in the reaper's hand. A scream rippled through the slightly quieter hum and cut the peace like a knife. The bartender had stumbled backwards into the many bottles of strong alcohol stored out of reach of even the tallest man. His face was the picture of helpless terror. I gave a small sigh and rose from my seat, tonight wasn't going to be much fun with the stench of an alcohol covered corpse. He was running on borrowed time now but Grim liked to put on a good show. His smoke had finally formed into his signature scythe wielded in his left hand.

One cut. All you had to do as a reaper was make a small cut on the victim and their soul would slowly slip out. Grim liked to put on a good show. The scythe was raised up above his head, his grin made the poor runed bartender shake but most strangely of all was that a smile was also plastered onto his face.

Grim liked to give his victims a happy memory to die with so they could die in peace. This bartender would be no different. A rebellious tear rolled down my cheek as I left the building into the dark of the night.

I could cry in the darkness. No clocks to tell me who might die, no clocks to count your seconds, no clocks to count your tears.

I never liked clocks. They make me nervous.