The Grim Life
It was a dark and stormy night and I loathed it. It made my descent onto earth all the more dramatic. As I glided down the dark alleyway, the rain licked my midnight black cloak, while the wind whirled through my bare rib cage. Oh how I hated that hollow feeling! I shrouded my hood over my skull. Those gooey, icky drops of rain sliding down my pale, white bones reminded me of blood drooping out of flesh. I remembered when I was a fleshy. I remembered every little detail of it. That was the life I longed for—not this cursed existence. The wind quickly blew these thoughts out of the hollow of my skull, while bringing in new, repulsive ones. I thought of the downright dirty job that awaited me and groaned. I hated fleshies that hated their jobs. Boo-hoo! I would not mind going to a redundant job day after day. Fleshies had nothing on me. After all, I believe I was going through more than a mid-life crisis.
As I neared the end of my destination, I slowed my pace and halted before the apartment entrance. Reluctantly hovering before the battered door, I heard snatches of a redundant soap opera seeping into the alley. Oh how I wished to live a redundant life! Sighing, I prepared to do my job. I was bound by contract after all. There would be no messing with the “Big Guy”. With one thump of my glossy, black scythe, the weak door creaked itself open as I dragged my unwilling skeleton across the threshold. My unfortunate “fleshy sense” automatically led me into a dingy, disheveled living room lit only by the blue glow of a tiny television set.
I crept up behind an old, mended couch and leaned over it. The old couple seated in it looked more than calm and serene in their sleep. I had no right to deprave them of sleep. I had spent enough sleepless nights on everyone’s behalf. An eternity of sleep depravation stared me in the face with unsympathetic, burning eyes. Suddenly, notes of horror music bounced around the hollow of my skull. It was times like this my boss really irked me. I bet he thought I would find the unexpected music he zapped into my skull funny. He was above and beyond wrong. Amongst all my bones, I was dead sure I had no funny one. I drowned out the unwanted music with the rhythmic breathing of the fleshies before me. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The job could be prolonged no further.
I cracked my knuckles and watched pieces of cartilage get lost amongst the strewn junk on the carpet. Lifting my scythe, the blade caught the blue light at just the wrong angle at just the wrong time. My victim’s wife’s eyes suddenly flew open. The poor, old woman froze in horror before the “soul-snatching” demon poised to kill her husband. Judging from her grimace, I could tell every fiber of her being hated me for existing—for being real. I did not blame her—I hated myself. I was death. I was destruction. I was a bad omen. I was the Grim Reaper. Two lives would have to be taken tonight. There could be no “tell-tale” hearts left behind.
