Empty Soul

One More Glance

I wonder, can I die? How is it possible? I bring death- to the old man on the rocking chair, to the baby born not quite right, to the patient in the hospital room waiting for the doctor. Everyone waits for something. I wait for death.
A baby died. Pure and innocent, and by then I had demons as workers, at least to take souls up to heaven. But it was my job to take the soul, even with a lieutenant demon next to me. I ventured back to the village, now clean. No cavemen, but mud huts were everywhere. And the house. Still that perfect home, aged not a day. I quickly took the young soul and headed to the house. I entered and saw a beautiful woman. Before you judge her, you need to know she was beautiful. But she was also old. Older than the grass grown 80 years. I knew, this was her. That young baby, ancient. Then she parted her lips
and spoke. "You haven't come for me, have you?" It was soft, but seemingly too good for her time. "Well, if you're here, you might as well know why I know. You know I know you're here. For the baby." "Yes," I whispered. She sighed. "I have a blessing... And a curse. I can see things.. Ahead... I saw houses.. And c-i-t-i-e-s. Things I shouldn't have seen." " I have to go," I fumbled, nervous for once. "Ok." "Thank you." And I flew away.
I visited her again and again, learning her human troubles and hardships. People alternately feared and hated her, for her ability and intelligence. She had a gift. No one else saw it. So one night, like the previous time, they took her. And tortured her. Asking her who gave her her power. And called her a witch, a demon, a denizen of the Underworld. But she was not. I was. And the worst thing was that they had heard her talking. To me. And knew everything. And it was my fault. And I hated myself.
When I took her soul, I didn't break it. It was perfect, but at the same time scratched and scarred from pain. And I took the table on the which she was murdered, but also where we "had tea," when she poured herself Earl Grey and told me stories. I never told her any of mine, they were too dark. She said she didn't mind the dark, the pain. That she didn't care about the agony. It fit.

Her name was Misery.

And I was Death.