Death Without Memory

Death isn't something many feared as they should. It's daunting, unforgiving, taking, greedy for souls that must be taken away from the living boundary of the world.

The world after life is dull in comparison to the former vibrant life of the living, one of restless discomfort in a body that was weary and used through its use.

I see hundreds of souls a day. Thousands, if not more. All of them are the same- nothing that catches my attention. The work that had fascinated me so dearly at one point has become a flat line in terms of excitement.

Having found others to pull souls from their body, I reside in the realm of the dead instead, and they gave me a title based off my work.

Death.

I am not Death itself. I am a taker, one that reaps with absolute control. I am someone of selfish garnering, who severs something short.

But that doesn't matter. People hail me the ruler of when a life cuts short, Death itself. My memories run blurry, together, a blend of things from dreams and things from reality.

I remember skulls, I remember darkness, I remember mist creeping in on all sides.

I do not remember sunshine.

My fingers claw deep into the throne made of gnarled vines, of plant life long dead and gone. A remembrance of what I did. What I do. All I will ever do.

The room is barren, walls transparent and shimmering in the layers of this world. Through them, I catch glimpse of a lost soul, translucent against the grey background, hurrying by with their hair flying out gracefully behind them.

But the walls flicker and become rigid in form. My gaze shifts from the wall to stare ahead, at the figure dressed in black. Their form is outlined in gold, fabrics of the color on their clothes and lining their hair.

"Death," they speak, and the hood is peeled back from their face. The triangle, orange, pressed against the skin below the corner of the man's right eye, dissolves as the reaper unravels the reality of the tattoo. "There's a soul with a question."

I tap a grey fingernail against my throne, letting my gaze bear into him. "Can you not answer it yourself?"

What happens after death?

Am I ever going to disappear?

Can I see my family?

Basic, squandering questions. Typical.

The reaper shakes his head, and threads, shimmering in the air with the width barely that of an ant, appear, looping from his hands until they pile in his palm like rope.

It glows a hazy green, and he lets it run through his fingers.

"They said they would only ask it in front of you."

I inhale deeply, lifting skeletal fingers to touch the bridge of my nose.

"Describe them."

"Harmless, Death," the reaper said. Now that his hair has been brushed away from his neck, I can see the clear barcode and his name on his neck- Rivel.

Rivel pulls the thread into a knot, then lets it drift into the air. It's certainly not a heavy little thing, it floats with the weight that's lighter than a feather.

Around us, threads glitter. Rivel catches my shift of attention towards them and raises an eyebrow, crinkling laughter with the frost of a winter bell in the back of his throat.

"This entire world is made out of threads, Death. Threads of energy- anything and everything has them. Even in this world where life doesn't exist."