I collect souls. Doesn't matter if they're the souls of those on the list, off the list, or those so young that they have yet to be put on the list. In my eyes, they were all going to die, just a matter of time. If I do my job poorly enough, will The One Upstairs finally get rid of me? No matter what I do, good, bad, something in between, I'm still here. What's the point? Wouldn't it have been just as well to have a robot do my job? Why give me a personality in the first place?
I sit perched on my scythe, looking at the mortals from the top of a high building. Eyeing the crowds of people going about their daily lives, tapping fingers against the scythe's blade, my gaze drifting from person to person. I'm searching like a wolf on the prowl for its prey. Who will fall victim to my touch? Who will live another day? Was this what you wanted? Was this why I was born? Should I reduce myself to an animal? This is a favorite spot for me, this building, being up high, and if I recall correctly, Life showed up here once...
YOU ARE READING
The Journals of Death.
FantasiHi, I am Death. Everyone knows who I am so I'm not going to bother with introducing myself further. Let's get to the point. This is my journal. Mine. So back off if you don't want to risk knowing the unknowable.
