The Journals of Death.

Part Two

I tossed the letter to the floor. Life had a way of making sure I got one every time there was a graduation, likely out of guilt, or to gloat, not to mention the fact that there were always more angels than reapers making it to graduation. I had no interest in fraternizing with the people Upstairs. Why would I? The balls are half-baked, stuffy, crowded, overly pompous, and everyone and their cousin's uncle was going to wear white. Not my color. Not in the slightest.

The only way I would ever attend, and I do mean only, would be in an attempt to fool the entire angelic population into believing I was someone else. Would they recognize me? All dolled up? Who says a reaper can't look stunning occasionally?

Hm, maybe I should go.

I could test Life's recognition skills—by caring about my appearance for once. I'll dub this an experiment. One for the records. A lovely little prank. Should be entertaining, in the very least, at such a dreary occasion.

My hair was usually a disheveled rat's nest, all over the place, more unkempt knots than a tangled bundle of string a cat had been playing with. I kept my hood up and figured no one would bother to see it anyway, what was the point in brushing? It would just get messed up again soon.

I kicked the wall of my cave. Nothing happened. Kicked again. Still nothing. I grabbed the side of the dirty wall and kicked one final time for it to spin around and reveal my vanity. Filthy. Covered in dust. Webs. Spiders. They skittered off, disappointed in the fact they'd been disturbed, but not wanting to face my wrath for crawling into the corners of my furniture. I coughed, swatting the dirt out of my face, and swatted enough of the dirt off the vanity to find my brush. Complete with spider eggs. Lovely. I threw the thing behind me and sighed. I'd be better off going to the Aboveworld to try and get my hair done.

I decided to switch gears and move to my wardrobe. I grasped the faded and dust-covered handles and attempted to tug it open. Attempted. I should've expected resistance. I hadn't touched the thing in so long that the doors were jammed shut with who knows what. After a few more tugs, the use of my feet, and some elbow grease, the hinges gave way to my will. Dust flew everywhere (once again) and turned the air hazy as the old doors creaked open.

I let out a hefty sigh through my nostrils. This was taking too much effort already, but I had already made the decision to attend, and I would follow through with that choice. I continued swatting dust away with my hand as I moved through the lineup of ancient outfits with the other. Oh, the nostalgia. Most of these clothing pieces were so old that they withered away with just a touch. Some were too ragged to wear to a ball, or centuries outdated, and others were nice enough but riddled with moth-eaten holes. At least this was the perfect excuse to go through my things and get rid of what I couldn't use. I suppose. The motivation to clean was always a good thing. Even though once something was clean down here it was soon to be dirtied again.

Time passed as I went through each item, carefully looking over the pieces that were still intact enough not to fall apart when I grabbed them and threw the clothes that weren't wearable into a heap behind my feet. Old dresses, pantsuits, tuxedos, peacoats, petticoats, and all assortments of clothes from the mortal realm's different eras. The pile got bigger and bigger but the clothes in front of me dwindled still, to nearly nothing.

"This project is a nightmare," I sighed, plopping onto the pile of rejects and staring up at the ceiling of my office's cave-like interior. These fabrics were aligned ever so elegantly to be the perfect napping area. Nay, I should continue. I struggled to stand once again facing the last object in my wardrobe. I stared it down, hoping, that it might be suitable.