Thanatophobia

Summer is many things– thick air, a blindingly bright sun, dewy blades of grass, and beautiful.

Summer is not considered my season, I think, yet here is a man, body flat against the asphalt. His sandy curls pool from his head like a halo. His thin shirt is wet with sweat and blood. Sirens blare, flashing red and blue. Bystanders gather, a murmur passing through them. Some shriek in horror.

Death is dreary like the bitter winter. Death is the dark fog in the backgrounds of portraits, the snowstorm in films, the whisper in an otherwise loud song. 

Death is not brilliant like summer.

Even still, this twitching man is still for me. I crouch down, brushing the pads of my fingers on his bronze skin. I expel his soul from his corpse, like sucking in a sharp breath. The crowd does not see me; it is simply not their time to meet my golden gaze.

I rise. The man’s soul hovers above my palm in the shape of a butterfly. It is done. His pain is relieved. I tuck him away in my satchel and wade my way through the crowd, already ready to pass over the ocean. 

Ah, forgive me for being rude and not introducing myself.

I go by many names, and each one of them shapes me like a skeleton. Thanatos. Santa Muerte. Azrael. Yama. Osiris. You most likely know me as the dread Grim Reaper, that cloaked figure in your horror stories, wielding a scythe.

Here are nine simple truths:

I have no scythe, and no cloak. I am not gentle, or kind, or cruel. I am simply fair, and I demand an answer from every living being in the end. When I complete my harvest, I lock the door to the universe, throw away the key, and rest. 

Until that time, however, I must work.

I have no friends and family to accompany me. My long life, I confess, does get lonely, so for one day out of a year, I wander the planet. I visit Paris to lick love off my chocolate-stained fingers; I visit Athens to sit high atop the Acropolis, dangling my feet and unfurling my black wings. I visit every curve of the Earth.

Now, I am beneath the gray skies of London, a city where the sun never seems to peek out from behind the swollen clouds. I’m stretched out on a wooden bench, plucking petals off a bouquet I have found. Another story to tell, to keep. A man was waiting for his love who stood him up, and in a fit of fury, he tossed the bundle of flowers aside and stormed out of the park. 

Love is devastating, I muse to myself. Love is a war on its own, and I’m quite tired of war.

I continue my mindless task until only the stems remain. I always described life as leaves. They are sturdy, but they still fall away at some point. 

My train of thought is interrupted by a tolling bell. A soul calls for its shepherd. 

I sit up, shaking the exhaustion from my limbs, my face splitting into a yawn. A crystal clear image of my destination paints itself in my head: a rosy street in New Orleans, Louisiana.

The corner of my lips tug into a smile.

I’ve always had a peculiar taste for the lively states.

Vi Erisha ‘28

This is a brief excerpt from something larger I'm working on. I like the idea of Death being an actual person, not this looming entity, but a friend during your final moments.