Barely Dead

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Moments like these made him wish he were able to kill himself.

Pathetic - all of them. Humans were the most pathetic species Quietus ever had the displeasure to murder. In the last moments of one's life, nobody sees what they usually saw on a daily basis. They saw who the victims really were: pitiful creatures who were willing to do anything to try and change the inevitable, offering sex, money, labor-anything that other humans might consider "worthwhile." And it was sickening. Pull up a gun on someone who was usually strong, and fed off of other's fear, and suddenly he was introduced to a weak, pitiful, worthless person begging for mercy at your feet, kissing them in hopes that you might just spare their lives.

Why, oh why, couldn't they smile at the face of Death? Why couldn't they just realize they were doomed to die? That there was no hope when he was in the equation?

Well, that'd be too easy for him. No, humans either get their way or they make it damn hard for someone else to get theirs.

Selfish, that's what they were.

"YOU CAN'T JUST DO THAT," she cried over her tears, holding up the phone with trembling hands. He chuckled humorlessly, holding the scythe closer to her, so the blade was just under her chin. More pathetic tears stream her ruby cheeks, and he just shook his head at her weak and fragile frame. The way she trembled in fear resembled that of a Chihuahua, which he found very amusing.

However, amusing wouldn't save her life.

"Sorry, dear, this is what has to be done," he sighed, ruffling his black hair to the side so that his pale face was completely visible. He let her stare; let her see from his cold irises into his icy soul that there was no. Way. Out. 

She should've protested. She should've looked away, and fought back. He knew he would've, but no. She was pathetically hoping that someone would save her. Someone would stop him. Someone would merely do it for her.

Instead of fighting back for the slim chance of escape, she was willing to give up. He had no problem with this, considering it was his job, but there was no fun in merely reaping her soul. He wanted a challenge. He wanted to have a fight. He wanted her to grin in his face and then punch him square in the jaw, trying to take the scythe away from him, not curling up into a little ball in the corner and rocking herself as she wept for her life.

Ironic how she decided to play victim for once.

"If you have to do it, at least tell me who you are," she whispered softly, gazing up to him and automatically avoiding his harsh gaze. He sighed once again, but obeyed her will anyway. Pitiful moron.

"I'm Quietus Massacre," he responded, before grinning wickedly at the terrified expression on her face.

"What?" she barely managed to scream in fright, nestling further into the gate, the fear clear in her eyes.

"I'm Death," he laughed maniacally before swinging the blade over her body, slicing her body into two halves. The separate sides fell on different spots on the concrete. He grazed his fingers over the corpse. It began to melt into dust before dissolving in the air.

He tossed the blade behind his back, which transforms back into the small key chain he had on his keys. Most days, he would use a gun to make it less obvious, but he had nothing to lose. Her body would end up as dust anyway; it's not like any one would find her body.

Hee sighed, looking around the dark alley.

Is this what I've come to? he thought. Killing his targets in dark alleyways? I just may be as pathetic as my victims.