The Soul in Snow

This is a short story about Life, Death, and the Collector of Souls. I plan to do a lot more of these!

    The bitter wind clung to her as she stood outside, watching as her breath fogged up and dissolved into the cold winter air. Snow fell around her tiny frame and held onto her for dear life, sucking whatever warmth she had from her tiny body. I could only watch from afar. I knew what was to happen to her, it was all laid out just like everybody else except this time it hurt more. Such a fragile young heart and life being stolen. A shame. Hair that fell down in soft golden ringlets with eyes the color of the oceans froth that churned softly as they licked and lapped at the shore. She was marvelous. Her soul reflected it as well, it oozing innocence and a virtuous nature. It felt wrong to take her, she deserved a longer time, I unfortunately could not make that choice, it was up to death and life to decide who stayed and went and I was only the the bearer of souls, reaping the unlucky ones that got a kiss from lady death.

    She couldn't see me, most humans could not and if they did it was in their final moments. Sometimes I hated myself for the job I had taken. 'Collector of souls for all eternity'. The pain from the job was tremendous. Watching the cruel way people could be taken out of the world and slipped into the beyond. I knew where they could be going was better than what they faced here, but it was however not up to me to take them out. Her time was running out, I could feel it. But the thing was, I couldn't watch her die. A child involuntarily stripped of life for the pettiest of reasons.

    There had been a many time in which I wish I could rewrite death and change the decision of who stayed. It haunted me that I couldn't. I could only watch and clean up the aftermath. Regret. A feeling I was all to familiar with. Along with the guilt that was constantly looming over me. I could save those souls who didn't deserve to die. I could be the force that rescued them. It hurt, knowing that people hurt and I could do nothing about it. How could death claim such pure heart with so much to offer. It baffled me. Filled me with regret.

Crippling regret.

It was her time, the scene of what was supposed to happen to her playing out as I had been told it would. Imprints in soft snow trailed to the girl, followed by the shedding of blood. Her eyes, darkening, all the crime and violence for what? A material object. She was a rose petal, crumpling to the ground delicately and silently as death leaned over her body, kissing her gently.

I could've saved her. But it was not my job to. I am only to clean the aftermath. And that is what I regret most.