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Reaper doesn’t like hospital rooms, or hospitals in particular. They were too bright, too white, too clean, too bland, too quiet and too many other things. Dirt is constantly scrubbed off to prevent the spreading of bacteria and invisible things. Even in operation rooms, blood is almost always washed off. If it isn’t cleaned off, it’s kept in little bags and freezers. The rooms are given minimal décor, most of which are only plain curtains. Sometimes the walls are colored with another equally tasteless color to give it a less monochromatic aura. They’re all the same though.
They hold the weak, the sick and the dying, but that, Reaper doesn’t really have any qualms with. If anything, he can say he also liked hospitals. They make his job easier. One trip for a handful of the things he needed: souls.
Mortals have multiple titles for him: Thanatos, angel of death, the grim reaper, et cetera. He doesn’t have a name for himself, can’t bring himself to care for one. He’d lost that when he lost his rank, lost his privileges along with it. He’d really rather not let mortals label him, however the need to call himself something arose multiple times so he had reluctantly settled with the title Reaper. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d grown rather fond of the name after some time.
True to mortal understanding, his task is to accompany souls into the afterlife. Today’s soul from Talon General Hospital is of a dying husband’s, one that has suffered from his troubled wife’s distress. Both victims of a schizophrenic mind whose symptoms hadn’t become evident until it was far too late to save her.
Reaper waited in the emergency room. Within a few seconds, they’d rushed him in. Nurses and doctors struggled to help this man cling onto life. It’s futile. The man’s wife had hit critical organs when she’d shot at him. They wouldn’t be able to save him and they knew it.
In a couple of minutes, the man was dead from bleeding out and organ failure. Reaper stepped closer to the gurney then and raised a hand. Wisps came forth from the corpse and formed into a bright blue sphere on his outstretched palm. Reaper then placed the soul in his pocket and disappeared into black mist.
His job here is done.
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In a monastery in the mountains of Nepal, monks died from an attacked by an anti-religious group. Unbeknownst to the assailants, the monks had a means for their own self-defense. Not guns, not knives, but the know-how in several martial arts. Reaper arrived there to claim many peaceful souls as well as some very wicked ones.
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In a private estate in Japan, two brothers quarreled about duty and freedom. The older of the two, who upheld duty above all else, struck down the younger. When he had realized what he’d done, he crumbled to his knees and fell into tearful apologies. Reaper watched the scene unfold before him as he stood over them both, hand outstretched where a confused, angry soul was forming into a dark sphere. Then Reaper left, knowing that within months, he’ll find the thin, ghastly body of a runaway heir under a bridge, dead from starvation, illness and grief.
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On Mount Everest, a group of campers strayed from the path to ensure privacy and security as they took to rest. Far too many have made that mistake and far too many have been buried or frozen to death without proper aid. Reaper is all but a stranger to these customers. The view is the same as always: white, bland and cold. He did however enjoy the short relief from deliberate killings.
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Reaper doesn’t rest simply because people die every second of the day and he must collect each soul individually. He feels no hunger or fatigue. He however felt the tedium in the monotonous cycle of visit-collect-leave-repeat. He doesn’t complain, can’t.
He has no respite and never will, that much he knows he deserves. He doesn’t know why, can’t remember what he had done to deserve this but he accomplishes his tasks nonetheless. It’s not his place to question divine orders. He is merely a fallen angel atoning for a mistake he’d done centuries ago.
Knowing himself enough to acknowledge he is one to follow the rules to the letter, Reaper can’t help but grow curious of his sin, although it had always been just a passing thought. He would find himself standing over a corpse and thinking about what the temptation had been as he waited for a soul to materialize into an orb. What could’ve caused him to sin?
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Reaper was given the gift to see into a mortal’s lifetime, as well as what would have been had their deaths been suspended. It was an unnecessary blessing as he was meant to look at all objectively and he wondered if it had only been given to test to his impartiality. With time, he learned that it was a necessity. It gave him the chance to understand the soul he was to reap. To understand, but not to empathize with. It also kept him busy in the few short moments he’d had to wait before the exact times of their deaths.
There are times however when it only serves to tire him out. He would look at a soul, see all the human experiences and the choices it’d made, would’ve made, and he would find himself disheartened by the amount of pain or anger he’d see. A person can only carry so much weight on their shoulders, in their hearts, on their minds, before they eventually break.
Hana Song had as little weight as imaginable in her chest when she died. She lived a happy life. It was her stalker—deranged and desperate—who had been discontented. The sphere that formed on Reaper’s palm was the brightest he’d seen in quite a long time. He doubted he’ll find another so soon.
But she would have become such an idolized persona in both her country and the world. A champion. She’d have traveled the continents, met many others and been wed with a man who would have cherished her very much. She would have gone through so much more pain however, and her heart would have been weighed down a lot more. In the end, her soul would only be dimmed slightly had she died at a later time.
He caught himself wondering about the sin that caused his fall, yet again. Once the sphere disappeared, he disappeared into tendrils of shadowy smoke, off to the next soul to collect.
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Wars were waged, plagues and diseases spread, catastrophes devastated nations, and the violent nature of human beings kept Reaper busy through time; as did accidents, careless mistakes, unprecedented negligence and the now-lessening claim of old age.
Time simply did not exist in Reaper’s plane. It was how he is able to collect a thousand souls within a second, a thousand more the next. Sometimes he reposed within the implausible plane, simply contemplating on the still unknown sin and vowing to never repeat it, whatever it was.
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The answer came after three and a half centuries since he’d begun. It was the age of information where almost nothing in the universe was left hidden in the dark, except for what time continued to shroud. Technology was invented and almost every other field advanced because of it—medicine, the arts, science, education, and warfare, to name a few. The society changed along with the times. Women were no longer the inferior sex, the link between race and status was now closer to void, and religion did not need to be a necessity for a good life.
Humanity was freer, in a sense. Unbeknownst to them, it was the very thing that chained them to less stable lives because now there were new sexes, ideas and philosophies. They’d become so liberal, so distinctive, that they had also become lost. So lost they were that they still discriminated for elitism, stole and murdered for power, and waged war to ensure ‘security’—behaving much like those who dwelled in this earth three and a half centuries ago.
All that only proved to Reaper that they would always be weak against wickedness. No one is spared from it. All had demons residing within them, waiting for the perfect moment to tempt, to make them stumble, to help them fall.
Much like how one man was destined to fall one August day. He was a leader among indoctrinated soldiers, brave, loyal to a fault, strong and smart—a superior human being. Rare as they are, they are also likely to suffer most in their short lifetimes. This one would be shot in the battlefield, he’d bleed to death, and would never come home to see his homeland with his own eyes again.
When Reaper first saw him in the chaos of gunfire, shouts, and spilled blood, he had stopped and felt something ignite inside him. Suddenly monotony became chaos and the chaos before him had stopped to a picture-perfect freeze frame of a man in fierce defense of his land.
Even without looking at the blond’s identification tags, Reaper knew his name was Jack Morrison. He knew Jack was from Indiana and thus a farm boy. He knew Jack had always possessed integrity and willpower and had only joined the military to have a reason to leave home. In time, Jack’s sense of duty grew into passion and despite three traumatic tours overseas, Jack was recommended into the U.S. Navy Seals.
And so Reaper always found him in the battlefield in the many times he had to collect the souls of Jack’s comrades and enemies. Jack was radiance in the midst of sorrow, even when he himself was holding the hand of the dying man. Many times, Reaper watched Jack close the eyes of his comrades after they ceased to see, or make the sign of the cross after the battle has run its course and he has emerged victorious over his foes and seen its consequences. Jack spared lives when he could, standing firmly by the unwritten rule of war for those who chose to surrender even when his comrades did not. He was good. He was honorable.
When he was tasked to lead a team to infiltrate and destroy a Russian warship, Jack accepted. Now here he was, squeezed behind missile crates within the dark armory, bleeding. Dying. He’d been shot in the chest. His right lung is punctured through by two bullets and another has lodged itself into his pericardium. Any closer and it would’ve made contact with his heart. Without immediate help, Jack would die. Reaper would hold his beautiful, willful soul within a cold palm and that would be the end of him.
Reaper found himself uninterested in looking at Jack’s past. Instead he lowered himself to Jack’s level, crouched. He watched, stared at the remarkable man, unaffected by the lack of light. Reaper did not need light to see that dirt and sweat had danced on Jack’s skin and face and were finally settling, making patterns that only accentuated piercing blue eyes. Blue, with little specks of green by the pupil. His breathing was labored, but controlled to be as silent as possible. A gloved hand gripped tightly onto the sidearm equipped with a silencer while the other rose to a communication device, shaking.
In the far end of the room, a man strode in slowly with a flashlight attached on his machine gun. He inspected the corners, behind crates, and jumped at every sound, alert. Jack’s fingers abandoned the device and braced the floor next to him instead.
Reaper watched the man take deep and quiet breaths as the strobe of light flicked over to the corner closest to him, its source edging closer. Jack was ready, vigilant, unafraid. Reaper’s eyes drank in the scene as Jack pushed himself up without so much as a groan under the pain, aimed, then shot.
Within a moment, an orb had formed in Reaper’s palm. It glowed a grey shade, dim. Reaper quickly placed it into the pocket that will deliver it and pushed away the memories of a Serbian hitman from his vision.
No. He wanted to watch Jack Morrison.
The mortal had collapsed onto a knee. This time, he groaned as he forced himself to lean back into his prior position, teeth gritting, brow sweating, body protesting. Reaper doesn’t know pain, but a faint memory of it awoke from looking at Jack Morrison’s like it’d been the first he’s actually seen. It felt distant and almost unreachable, much like his life before reaping, but now that he was looking with intent, he felt heavy. Like there might be a physical body that tingled with the echoes of pain if he cared to look at himself—
Traces of another orb was starting to form in his palm. This one was brilliant, almost had a bluish hue to it.
Jack Morrison was dying.
Reaper took this time to look at him again. Look into his past, then his future.
From a foot soldier to fleet commander, Jack Morrison would break through the ranks using his skills, dedication, time and sheer will. He would become a fine leader, an inspiration, a champion for his country. Even in old age, he would still enthuse. He’d become a symbol. However, he would not live a happy life. He would not find a compatible woman to settle with. His friends would die long before him. He would be lonely and he would grow senile in his old age
…if Reaper chose not to collect his soul today.
Reaper stared at the light in his palm. With a wave of the hand, the light disappeared. “You will not die today,” Reaper decided. He glanced at Jack’s face, froze when blue eyes met his. The gaze was fleeting, almost accidental. Then Jack’s eyes continued upwards. His lips moved in prayer as his hand reached for the device again.
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Mortals had denied him for so long that Reaper had never really thought about denying them. As with everything, Reaper’s actions had consequences. He was given another punishment for meddling. Reaper was not told what it would be, when it would come. He could not ask, not when it was not offered.
He did not need to because after five decades, he was summoned in front of a weak, elderly Jack Morrison. The balding man was lying in a large bed in his estate, asleep. Reaper watched him, studied the scar that sloped diagonally down his forehead to his cheek, almost cutting his eye, then the many others that marked his face.
It would be easy to recall a younger face, a fitter figure, a stern but deep voice, but Reaper did not dwell so much in the aesthetics of age as he did with the fact that this was his mortal, his soul. The only soul he saved, the only one he craved for. His. He was surprised upon the realization that he’d grown attached to this one. And then many more followed.
A beam of light. A bright face. Piercing blue eyes. An intense smile, ringing laughter. Illicit promises. Forbidden kisses. Forbidden love.
Forbidden man.
The memories returned to Reaper, drowned him with their intensity. He brought his hands to his head just as his eyes started to ache, then his throat. Pain returned to his body, to his head, to his heart, to ghost wings, and to the scars on his back. And still, images flashed into his mind, a voice whispered assurances and confessions into his ear, gentle touches traced his body. Everything burned. Everything hurt. He reeled back at the pain and at the recollection of the sin.
Reaper felt nothing but shame. Not for sinning, but for forgetting. How could he ever forget the man who showed him love? How could he not have recognized the face of Jack the first time? How had his memories stayed buried?
‘This is your sin.’ The words rang from inside his head, deafening him. He knew who it belonged to, what it belonged to. The divine entity that created and controlled him and all that existed. He knew that was the answer to his questions. ‘And this is your punishment.’
The body that lied in front of him started to spasm. First a finger, two more, the whole hand, then the forearm, and afterwards, the whole of the arm. The other arm followed suit and then Jack’s chest was rising up and down in unnatural jerks. Reaper stepped closer to Jack. He started to see Jack’s life play out in front of him, as he did with all the other souls he collected from the moment they started to truly die. Something else however surged through him. Something new.
He felt Jack’s emotions as if they were his own. All the moments he felt happiness, sorrow, confusion, anger, determination, everything in between and more. He also saw dreams. All the dreams Jack saw throughout his lifetime. The childish nightmares, the nonsensical sequences, the fantasies, the good ones, the best ones. Dreams of a man named Gabriel. A man who had wings, a man he labeled an angel. Who then much later was stripped of his wings and fell. And still Jack saw Gabriel with such adoration. Still Jack yearned for one called Gabriel, chased after the fantasy even in lucid dreams, wanted to know more but never could make up scenarios. Only memories from another lifetime ago.
Reaper saw light seeping from Jack’s form, now growing still again after the neurotic attack. The bright ribbons shifted towards his open palm and began forming a radiant sphere. Jack was dying again and Reaper cannot defy what was tasked unto him.
The pain that was flowing throughout his body seemed to intensify. Reaper ignored it and shifted ever closer to Jack. Something within him was aching to touch the aged face, to brush fingers across pale, thin lips, to trace those scars, to feel the warmth only mortals carried in both their bodies and souls. Warmth only Reaper had a taste of whenever he collected the brightest ones.
He stood over the bed, next to Jack. He was watching Jack die, feeling helpless. Then, slowly, Jack’s lids opened and his head turned towards Reaper. Their eyes met again. Blue on red, red on blue. Had Reaper needed to breathe, he reckoned he’d have gasped in that moment.
This time he was certain Jack saw him because their gazes held. The corners of Jack’s lips rose up in a weak smile. Reaper didn’t know what that meant. He couldn’t read Jack, couldn’t tell if Jack was glad to finally die or if that smile was meant for him. Jack was a mystery to him now, as he had been when he denied him his death, as he had been when they had been lovers.
“Gabriel,” Jack croaked, pulling Reaper out of his head and plunging him into a new turmoil of emotions. Reaper had frozen in place, unknowing of what to do or say. That isn’t his name. He has no name, lost it when he lost his rank, his privileges with it—“Finally.”
Jack’s words were calm and relieved—and happy?—despite the fact that he was dying. Certainly, he knew his body was failing him. Certainly, Jack was—Jack was senile, seeing him only because he was still in between worlds, and was surely mistaking him for the man he saw in his dreams. At least that’s what Reaper told himself, the orb in his hand halfway done materializing.
“I missed you. You were always—” Jack’s unhurried words were interrupted by coughing. When he had calmed, he was still staring at Reaper with bright blues and slight greens that displayed such a large mix of emotion that Reaper wanted to deny, wanted to ignore because he himself was drowning in a pit of his own. “You were always in my mind and my dreams. I always wondered when I was going to meet you…”
Jack laughed, his voice raspy and weaker now. He did not seem to mind that Reaper was rendered silent by his words. In fact, he even seemed smug, as if he knew something Reaper didn’t.
“I didn’t think my soul mate was the Grim Reaper,” he chuckled, closing his eyes and turning his head heavenwards. “I hope—definitely, in the next lifetime, I’ll meet you differently.”
It was ridiculous for Jack to believe that, but Reaper found himself sinking to his knees to grasp at Jack’s hand, only to find it intangible. No, he knew he was the intangible being, so it shouldn’t have surprised him when he tried this, but it frustrated him all the same. So many questions and thoughts span his head. A blooming sense of long-forgotten longing added into it.
He was spending so much time in his head—impossible, given that time did not affect Reaper— that he had managed to only watch Jack spend his last breath without doing much else. Still something about the way Jack said his preferred name had brought about an anger from deep within him. Powerful, white-hot anger that confused him as much as it was empowering him. He needed answers. He needed to blame. He needed to destroy. He needed more power. He needed Jack. He needed Jack Morrison alive.
Reaper didn’t scream because he can’t, but the deafening roar that filled the neighborhood could have been mistaken with rolling thunder from up close. It confused the humans in the area because the skies were bright, albeit a little cloudy. No lightning had been seen either and there definitely was no storm in the area. Ultimately, they chose to forget about it because it made no sense.
What they thought or did, Reaper didn’t care. He clutched onto Jack’s precious soul and disappeared. What was his purpose? Was this the punishment? This pain, this longing, this… need. Did he really deserve this? What was so wrong with loving a mortal? Why was it so taboo?
Reaper reappeared in a court of light, seething and fuming. The divine one already knew he was going to arrive, of course.
“You let me watch him die,” Reaper growled.
“As I said, it was your punishment.”
“You knew I still loved him,” Reaper said, surprising himself. He earned a nod and silence. He could feel eyes boring into him from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The boon of omniscience, no doubt. “It was a test.”
“Yes. I wanted to know what you would do if I let him live once more.”
“You already knew what would happen.”
“I do. I knew you would come here.” Was that disappointment in the disembodied voice? Reaper could not be sure, couldn’t care much even if he were.
“Then you know what I came to ask for.”
The light around the court shifted. Reaper felt a sense of dismay from it, however that was possible.
“Gabriel, you know I cannot allow this.”
“I don’t care,” Reaper said with finality in his tone.
“Very well.”
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Sometimes Gabriel wondered what would have happened if their places were switched. If Jack were the holy angel, would he have fallen so low as Gabriel did? Would he have fallen for Gabriel as he did for Jack?
Would he have disobeyed the holy law?
Gabriel always found human beings so contradictory. They prayed and they sinned. They have churches and barracks. They honored sanctified leaders and soldiers the same. They waged war, killed and stole in the name of peace and still they pray that they enter paradise when they fall.
What they don’t know is that when they fall, they fall. Never mind what they believe—that they are forgiven because they were faithful, or because of a sacred son who sacrificed himself for their sakes, or whatever else. The fallen have only one chance for redemption.
Jack botched his chance, as Gabriel had just done.
They would both rot and burn in a plane of ice and fire. Pain will overcome their consciousness until they know of nothing else but the pain. It will not dull over time nor would they adapt to it. They are damned.
Nevertheless, they are together. It’s all that really mattered.
Cause baby this love, I’ll come down to hell to keep you company
- The Simplest Thing by Hey Rosetta