Reaper

Left for dead by his comrades, the Russian soldier coughed up blood, painting the snow bright red. Gunfire barked somewhere nearby. Explosions thudded across a battered and torn field of snow. German panzer divisions trundled close at hand. He looked up at a figure looming above him, cloak oddly still in the tundra wind and wondered how the Germans did not see this figure. The figure gazed back at him with haunted eyes. Struggling for breath, the man muttered a name. Most likely of a loved one. The dark figure knelt in the snow, strangely, he did not leave any marks in it. The dying man struggled to say the name again and reached for the figure. A German soldier walked up as the figure stood and seemed to inhabit the same space as the figure. The figured lifted a hand at the exact moment the German lifted his STG-44 rifle and pulled the trigger.

As the shot echoed, the Russian soldier slumped over, more blood tainting the snow, eyes opaque and empty of all life. The German kicked the foot of the Russian and moved on. The figure stayed. He looked at the corpse and felt the pain and horror the dying man had felt. The exact pain-and a little more. The energy of the man slid from his body like a death shroud and flew into the figures' chest. The wind picked up and the figure jerked, and collapsed on one knee. Only now, the snow crumpled and gave way to the weight. Slumped over, the figure shivered, but not from the cold.

For a few seconds, the figured knelt at the feet of a dead man, experiencing his every memory, every sensation, every emotion. Looking up to the gray sky, the figure unleashed a howl of agony that rippled with energy-and time froze. Soldiers in mid stride, bullets hovering in midair, men falling but never hitting the snow, as bullets that were moments before shredding their bodies froze within their hapless victims. He stood. Another ripple, dissolved the world. He stood not on an open, snowy, ravaged field of war, but by a quiet pond surrounded by emptiness.

He turned and looked at his reflection in the unnaturally still water. His scarred face stared back at him. He turned away quickly and walked away from the pond into the emptiness that was the rest of this realm. Soon, his feet stopped at the pond again. As always, despite his attempt to walk away from it, he found himself standing on its edge- but he had known this would happen. Again and again, he had tried. Every time, the same result. The same reflection in the water.

A sigh escaped him as he walked along the ponds' edge. When he reached the opposite side, he crouched and reached one hand out, almost touching the surface. Closing his eyes, a low hum began to emanate from the surrounding black. Fog began to pour from the water and spread low across the ground, reaching into the black. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved, making one word: Chaos. From the middle of the pond, a blue light appeared. It shot both directions, creating a line that stretched past his sight. It rose, changing half of the pond and showing another realm. The Chaos Realm stretched beyond.

Free roaming energy with no corporeal form or individual thought, just energy pulsating and swirling amongst itself hummed, roared and clashed in brilliantly vibrant colors beyond a thin blue line that bisected the pond. The half of the pond that was in the Chaos Realm boiled and hissed with wild abandon. The roiling fury ended abruptly at the blue line, where the water immediately returned to its calm state, as if they were two separate pools.

He stood and walked to the edge of the two worlds. Taking a deep breath, he took the last step forward. His body convulsed, twitched and vibrated. The rampant energy pierced him, buffeted him and pulled him. The agony was indescribable. He felt the energy of the Russian soldier rip from his body and join in the erratic dance of energy all around him. For a brief moment, he watched in fascination as the energy with a slight blue tinge hung in the air before being swept away. It was like watching smoke.

He could feel the energy about to pull him apart, so he quickly backed out into the Space Between. His legs gave out and he sat at the edge of chaos, breathing heavily. As he stared down, into the water, he saw a small scar appear on his cheek. He reached up with two fingers and lightly touched his flesh. Only a ghost of the memories of the Russian remained.

The gateway sealed itself and the entire pond was once again calm. Laying on his back, he felt his body relaxing. An indeterminable amount of time passed, not that time mattered in the Space Between. Once his body was sufficiently recovered from the ordeal, he stood again. Suddenly, he felt the all too familiar tug. A beacon of yellow lit in the darkness, he walked to it and stood at the edge of another gateway, one with an outline of yellow. This one was smaller by far than the other, the size of a regular door. The pull grew stronger as he drew closer to it.

A thought made him pause. Soon he would be thrust back into the realm he could only describe as Existence. The world of conscious, independent beings. A world that he both yearned for and detested. He wasn't sure why this thought stopped him now, he always had it when he entered that world, but he never paused. The compulsion drove him over the border without giving him a choice. So why? Why did he pause now? What time, what place, what death was on the other side of that door? He took an involuntary step back. Then another. He tried taking a third, but the compulsion grew stronger and he found himself physically incapable of withdrawing further. A creeping fear seized his soul. He could not step back, but every fiber of his being reeled at taking a step forward.

He supposed it must have to do with his nearly non-existent conscience. He shook himself and forced his feet to move towards the door. The feeling of unease never left him, but he shook it off, he was a murderer now. A monster. With that in mind he stepped through.

As always, a tingle was associated with his passing. Not painful, but then, not pleasant. He found himself in bright silence.

He looked around and took in details. He was in a clean two story home, judging by the bright sunlight, it was in the morning, just after full sunrise. The walls were white and unblemished, the floor was a light wood paneling that turned to carpet to his left that led to a community room but remained wood into an archway a little to the right but in front of him. Immediately in front of him was a stair case that went up and turned 90 degrees to the right and out of sight with a balcony that came around the corner and to the left and ended at a corridor.

From the archway, came the sounds of activity. He could see a woman with blonde hair and an apron bustling about, humming happily to herself. He could hear the sound of pots and pans clanking together, the sound of glass plates clacking, of silverware clattering, and bacon sizzling and popping. The smell of it wafted to him, in the entry of the house. Filling the air with a warm, slightly burnt smell. He shuddered.

He felt the compulsion turn his head toward the stairs. It was time.

He stepped towards it, but stopped before mounting the first step. He looked again at the archway. The woman wouldn't see him. Nobody ever did before a reaping. But he couldn't keep the thought from his mind. This happy woman was about to have her life shattered as someone she loved would not partake of the meal she was lovingly preparing. He felt bile rise in his throat along with a bitter, self hatred that threatened to make him scream aloud. He suppressed both and, with a grimace, took the fist step up.

He didn't hurry, he had no reason to. He took the stairs one at a time and with each step, his disgust increased. By the time he reached the top, he could barely bring himself to look around.

The landing was simple. A small table sat against the adjacent wall, big enough for the vase of colorful flowers and a few books on a tiny wooden slab at the bottom. The balcony wrapped around the stairs and went to the left as he had seen before. What he hadn't seen was the double doors immediately to his right. His head stopped moving when he saw the doors, and he knew.

He took a breath and opened the door. Inside was brightly lit by the open window on the opposite wall, letting in the cheery morning sun. A bed sat in the middle of the left wall, with two end tables on either side, each bearing a lamp, a clock and other objects. On one, sat a book and a pair of reading glasses, the other, against the far wall, held a clutter of various objects. Keys, some pocket change, another book (at a glance it looked to be the same book), a single white sock and a shirt draped over the lamp shade bearing the words Got Books? and a picture of a container similar to old style milk carriers with books instead of milk bottles.

The bed drew his eye as well, for there was an elongated lump that moved steadily as the person beneath snored softly. At the head, he could see the covers were drawn high, but a shock of ruffled black hair that needed a trim poked out. He felt it then. The certainty. He felt his expression become a mask as he stepped forward to the side of the bed by the neat table. He reached out but, noticing his hand was shaking, stopped. He didn't draw back, though; instead he focused until his hand stopped shaking, then continued the motion. He gingerly pinched the covers and pulled them away.

Beneath, the man turned his head towards him, but remained asleep. He stood straight and examined the man. His face was thin, not alarmingly, but noticeable. His nose was somewhat too wide compared to the rest of his face, and his eyes flickered beneath closed eyelids. Dreaming.

He sighed heavily and reached out again, touching the mans' temple with his index and middle fingers. The mans' eyes flew open, but they were unseeing. His mouth opened slightly as a vapor began to rise from it. At first it was just a wisp, but it soon became a cloud that built up about a foot above his face before it suddenly launched forward and smashed into his chest, almost dislodging his fingers from the man. He jerked and convulsed, but maintained contact.

Then, it was over. No more vapor rose. He stumbled back, then and gasped for air. He stood, bent at the waist for a time, before he looked up again. Another death at my hand. He thought to himself, disgust again building inside of him. During the process, he could only focus on his actions, but afterward, his mind went over what he had done. As willing as any sociopath to kill, he thought, bitterly. He reach forward once more, but this time, cupping his hand over the dead mans' face and slid it down, closing his eyes.

Stepping back, he stared at the body. No more snoring came from it. Nothing would ever again come from him. He shook his head violently, trying to shake the memories he had received to the back of his mind and turned to leave.

There, in the doorway, was a little girl. He froze. For a long second, he panicked. Until he remembered she couldn't see him, she was just watching the man. She must have only been about eight years old; she had long black hair, like the mans', and her nose was remarkable similar to his just smaller and a little pointed, but where his face was thin, hers was a little more rounded with youth. Her hair was rumpled and stuck out in every direction, so she must have just woken up. To support this, she was wearing a small nightgown with a cartoon characters scattered over it. He was about to move, when she spoke, “Who are you?”

It wasn’t a scared tone, only a curious one. But it made him freeze again. The inexplicable terror seized him again. He couldn't speak as he stared down at her in shock, horror and dismay. She repeated her question. He felt himself stumble back, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He shook his head in disbelief. She shouldn't- no, she can't see him! No one has ever seen him reap! The girl didn't move, but he could see her eyes were moving slowly back and forth between her father on the bed and him.

“I-I-I,” he stammered, his voice hoarse from rare use. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “How can you see me?” He heard himself ask. She turned her head to one side, hair spilling over, confused, “Why wouldn't I be able to see you?” She giggled. “You're weird!” She walked over to him and put out her hand to shake, “My name is Emily, and I am eight and a half years old. What's your name?” He reached out numbly, still in shock, to shake her hand, which was delicate and warm. “I don't know my name,” She giggled again, “How do you not know your own name? You are weird!” He couldn't respond to that.

“You're funny. I like you!” She declared. “If you don't have a name, then I will name you....” She thought for a moment. “Ted! That is my teddy bear's name, but you can share it! You should be proud, my teddy bear is nice! Even though you are weird, I think you are still nice too.

“My mommy is making breakfast and you are invited! Let me just wake my daddy and they can meet you, Ted.” She walked past him to her father's side, when he realized where she was going, he reached out to stop her, but was to late, “No, wait- !” He started. Emily shook her father. “Wake up daddy, mommy made bacon- mmmmmm, bacon! She even made you some extra bacon 'cause she knows how much you love it. But don't tell mommy I told you, it's a surprise!” Her voice had reduced to a conspiratorial whisper by the end. Her shaking yielded nothing, so she tried again, “Daddy, c'mon! Bacon!” When she still got no response, her smile faded. “Daddy?”

He couldn't keep his silence anymore; his voice was hoarse for a different reason, “He won't wake.” She looked up at him, eyes wide, “What are you talking about? What did you do to my daddy?” He question was not angry, just confused. And it pained him all the more for that. He looked away, not able to make eye contact with the little girl, his voice came out flat, toneless “I killed him.” He didn't see her face, but her voice was tearful yet still not accusing, “Why?” He turned his back to her, “Because I had to. If I didn't, more people would die. I had to.” He repeated. Her voice came from directly behind him, “But why? My daddy would never hurt anyone, he liked everyone and everyone liked him.”

He shook his head, “He wouldn't, but if he was allowed to live, the world would start to fall apart.” Again she refuted him, “But my daddy loved the world, and me, and my mommy. And bacon!” Her last word came out as little more than a whisper, choked out. He couldn't bring himself to turn around. “I had to or everyone would die. I had to save everyone else.” He felt the bitterness roiling in his gut and disgust with himself crashing through his soul. He reminded himself he was a monster. “I am a monster.” He whispered back, more for his benefit than hers.

Suddenly he felt a tug.

His head snapped up in alarm. In all the activity and surprise he hadn't realized the compulsion growing. He realized that there were two beacons in this house.

He turned slowly, eyes wide and stared at the little girl with tears pouring down her face and hands kneading her gown nervously.

“No.” He whispered.

The girl stared at him, still confused. “What?” She asked, wiping tears away. He stumbled back, staring at her in horror. But there was no denying it, the beacon was coming from her.

“NO!!” He cried out, dropping to his knees. “No, no, no, nonononononono!! Not her, no!” She stepped forward, “What's the matter, Ted?” He shook his head violently even as the compulsion grew inside him, he felt his body stop retreating. She stepped forward again, “I don't blame you, Ted. I just want to understand why.”

He stopped, and stared at her. And felt something on his face he had not felt in a long time.

Tears.

His tears.

He cupped his hands and sobbed into them uncontrollably. He could cope with being a murderer and take the lives of adults, but a child who still had her whole life ahead of her....he shuddered with renewed vigor. Suddenly, he felt her hands on his face, lifting it up. He pulled back, “No! My touch is-” Then it struck him. His touch was death. Yet she touched his face. He shook her hand. Yet she lived and stared into his eyes with concern. Concern? Why?

His world crumbled around him. He tossed his head back and bellowed, “WHY!? WHY MUST I BE A MONSTER!?” His head dropped and he wept in helpless rage.

Again he felt her hands on his face, this time, he didn't pull away. He even met her eyes. Her eyes were still watery, but they were sympathetic; and brown, like melted chocolate. “You are not a monster. You said so yourself, to save everyone else, you did what you had to do. My daddy would not have been mad, and I won't be either.” She unexpectedly leaned forward and hugged him. This was just as foreign as the handshake and his tears, yet they came as an impulse from somewhere within him. So he hugged and cried into the shoulder of his next victim.