*******Sana is in the process of writing a book, the first chapter is posted below. If you want to read more of it, you will have to wait for it to be published.

Chronicles of Life and Death

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 monotonous 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 deprive 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—no joke intended. 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. Damn me for neglecting my invisibility charm! My victim’s wife’s eyes suddenly flew open. The poor, old woman froze in horror before the “soul-snatching” demon poised to reap 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. My boss wouldn’t be pleased with this err on my part.

Quickly, I silenced the rising shriek of horror seeping through the withered lips of the crinkled woman with one resounding thump of my scythe and mechanically, separated souls from bodies with a single swipe of my deadly weapon. I was a master scythe wielder and had learned from my ancient predecessor. Somewhere in the Golden Dining Hall above, he sat robed in white as an archangel, loved and accepted by all as he consumed the victuals of the celestial. He was no longer the Grim Reaper. He was no longer cursed. He was no longer hated. Unfortunately, he had blessed his heir with all those dreadful attributes. Oh how I did not want to think at all.

Slowly, I floated up towards the heavens with the freshly spliced souls of the old lovers tucked within the folds of my swaying cloak. I felt them grope for each other in the billowing fabric floating away from my skeletal figure. The woman was sobbing and I shuddered as she blew her nose on a fistful of my cloak. Yet, she could do whatever she wanted with me. I owed her that much—she deserved that much. If only she could find somewhere in the chasm of her heart to forgive me. Instantly, I knew I was asking for too much. Who ever forgave a murderer? Lost in my own thoughts, I finally heard the faint exchange of whispers between my prisoners. Gently, the old man murmured, “I once promised I wouldn’t leave you till Death himself did us apart. Love, I intend to keep that promise.”

As I spiraled upwards, a clammy, wispy cloud brushed the soles of my bony feet. I wedged my scythe down into it and decided to hitch a ride to the Golden Gates. Squatting down with my hidden prey, pain coursed through my creaking joints. I was getting too old to be an assassin. Centuries did that to an old pile of bones like me. There were so many deaths and so many souls to reap, but only one Grim Reaper. I watched the remnants of fleshy life disappear through the translucent mist of my ride and tried my best to ignore the soft, caressing voices emanating out of the black folds of my cloak.
“Till Death himself did us apart,” I thought to myself. Why did not fleshies understand? I did not plan to do them apart. I did not even plan to end their mortal lives. Only the Big Guy could do that. Along with the birth of the fleshy, the death of the fleshy was also written into the Big Guy’s Preserved Tablet. He predestined both life and death—the Grim Reaper had nothing to do with it. My job was simply to reap the souls of those fleshies whose time on Earth was up and fare them to the Judgment Desk before the Golden Gates. Yet, the blame would always lie in Death himself. I was a murderer in the eyes of all fleshies. Who was I trying to deceive? I was a murderer in my own eyes and no amount of reasoning could change that.

Sighing, I leapt off the cloud and flew forth towards the glinting Golden Gates. The Angel of Judgment threw a malevolent smirk in my direction as I approached her desk. Her fiery red hair and fitted suit immediately drew in the attention of anyone that passed near the Golden Gates. Personally, as one acquainted with her obnoxious voice, the very sight of her made me shudder.
“Azriel, I heard your creaking joints miles from here. When was the last time you oiled yourself… Anyway, how did the assignment go?” She ruffled her wings expectantly and I could not keep my eyes off the pure, white feathers that covered every inch of them. The wings, the fleshy appearances, and the acceptance…everything about the other angels made envy boil the marrow in my bones. Why was I the only angel to look like a skeleton? Was it simply because I was Death? What a pun.

“Well, the thing is Willow… I had to reap another soul before its time. The old man’s wife caught me red handed… and well the rule is to never leave one who has seen me behind.”

“Actually, Azriel, the rule is to never be seen in the first place. He’s not going to be happy with you,” she retorted in a tone spiked with anticipation.

With a cold smile and an icy voice I replied, “Thanks for the concern. I am sure I will hear more of it at dinner.”

With that I smoothed out the front of my cloak and watched the intertwined lovers roll out as one. Whimpering, they crawled away from my dark shadow towards the enticing aura of light radiating from Willow.

“It has been a pleasure,” I muttered to them. Realizing I could not endure their cold, questioning stares, I slowly backed away.

Before I had even turned around, Willow’s crisp, clear voice announced, “Why hello! Welcome to the Judgment Desk! You are standing inches away from Paradise! Now, all I have to do is check your books of good and bad deeds and you’ll be on your way to either Heaven or Hell! Yes, Satan is as bad as all your legends portray—well, to fleshykind anyway—and God is as magnificent as you believe.”

“Why, aren’t you the cutest couple ever! …And don’t mind the Grim Reaper. As Death, he’s forever brooding about something. The rest of us angels and the saved souls do our best to avoid him… God seems to like him though. I can’t imagine why, but God is God. In any case, if you do get admitted into Heaven, I promise you won’t be seeing much of the Grim Reaper.”

Oh how I loathed Willow and the rest of her cronies. Without another word, I swept off towards escape. Even though I was an angel, I did not actually live in Heaven. When I did venture into it, the only places I was really to be found were the Hall of Records and—with much force from the Big Guy—the Golden Dining Hall. I took up residence about a mile away from the Golden Gates, which unfortunately meant frequent encounters with Willow both on duty and off. The Big Guy had wanted me to lodge with the rest of the angels, but I could not possibly live amongst such hate. Willow was the more congenial one of the lot. I guess the angels and the saved souls had never forgotten their reaping.

I touched down on the cloud that held my castle afloat and sighed with relief as I leaned on my scythe. Immediately, I gazed towards the colossal birch tree covering the left side of my dwelling. Its branches stretched out all over the cloud and over my castle—forever reaching towards the light emanating from Heaven. The Big Guy had planted it centuries and centuries ago when he had created fleshykind—and with it the first Grim Reaper. To Him, fleshykind’s main goal was to achieve salvation—so with life came death. Drifting over to the great Tree of Life, I examined a few newly grown leaves sprouting off the long, healthy, immortal branches. Each leaf represented a fleshy’s lifespan—the Big Guy was very creative. Quickly, I scraped my bony fingers over the Preserved Tablet hovering before the Tree. A few withered, brown leaves were sprawled on top of it and I carefully read the names scrawled on each of them.

“Oh what a joy. More souls to reap,” I thought to myself. My job for today was done, but my “to-do” list for tomorrow was extensive. Every day was the same. Guilt. Reap. Guilt. Reap. Guilt. Reap. Guilt. Eagerly, I stuck my scythe into the lock of the elongated, metal gateway of the castle and entered my haven away from Heaven.

God Himself had forged the Castle of Death for me. With one turn of my scythe, an innumerable amount of metal gears began grating against each other as the gateway slowly scraped open against the ground. As I lugged myself into the darkness, I found a young angel bowing at my feet—his nose nearly level with the ground. As if I really needed this… as if I was worthy enough.
Realizing I was glaring at him with utmost repulsion, the teenage angel launched himself at me while still in the bowing position and began defiling the hem of my cloak with kisses of servitude. Hmm… a slave with a slave… how ironic… how hypocritical… how truly repugnant …

“Welcome, master! Your servant lies at your feet!”

“Nikko… How many times must I tell you? We are all but servants of God. We have no other master,” I droned for the umpteenth time since the young angel had entered the graveyard of my existence.

“But… but… God demanded that I serve you. Does that not put you in a position of power over me then, sir?”

God that boy really irked me at times. Teenagers of the twenty-first century were simply too much for my hollow skull to comprehend.

“Do you not understand that I reaped your soul merely six months ago? Does my being Death himself have no effect upon you? The moment you saw me was the last moment you lived! Does not the very sight of me make you cringe? I killed you! You were so young… I am your murderer… and here you are groveling at my feet! Please, do not burden me with any more guilt. You might as well tear me apart—limb-by-limb…”

“But you are not a murderer, sir. You are an angel with a task—a task God would trust with no one else. You are a farer of souls… not a killer. With life comes death… I do not hold you responsible for the end of my fleshy life. You simply carry out the word of fate.”

Exasperatedly, I cried, “God has been feeding you this nonsense about me hasn’t He! He is too merciful in His outlook of me. You must realize that He would never speak ill of His own beloved angels… even the Angel of Death. He is far too benevolent for that. But I see now, I cannot fight the word of God with a stubborn, young angel. How very foolish of me. Can you at the very least stand up and stop picking at the frayed edges of my cloak?”
Hurriedly straightening himself, Nikko flapped out his fresh, luscious wings and somehow managed to get the corner of one of them caught in my eye socket. Why did God have to force this young, clumsy, overenthusiastic, freshly reaped angel upon me? It was because I was a self-pitying, worthless pile of bones. Story of my “life”.

I honestly pitied Nikko for his unlucky streak with me. He had been handpicked by God Himself to join the limited group of lower-level angels. Yet, unlike the rest of them, he had been thrust upon the worst archangel to exist—me. I was to teach him the ways of the archangels and then God would deem him to be an archangel when He thought appropriate. The poor angel would never be truly ready with me as his mentor. The mere sight of me caused visible spasms amongst the others. Nikko would be hated by association.

“I am so very sorry, sir,” he blubbered as he yanked his wing out of my eye socket.

“It is no problem, Nikko. Relax. I am a skeleton… unusual things happen to me all the time.” I cracked my knuckles and chuckled as Nikko attentively watched a few loose pieces of cartilage float down to the black marble floors.
“You must be exhausted. I’ve drawn you a bath upstairs, sir.”

“Thank you, but you really do not need to worry so much about me, Nikko. What you do need to do is change that shirt of yours before I burn it to smithereens with my scythe.” He smiled sheepishly as I cringed at his “I’m with Death” t-shirt. Of all the entities to idolize…

“Yes, sir. Right away.” With that, he hurried off towards his quarters as I slowly ambled up the large, twisting staircase that led towards my own sanctuary. Step. Drag. Thump. Step. Drag. Thump. Step. Drag. Thump. I lazily zapped my chamber door open with a simple wave of my scythe.
Slowly, I propped my scythe against the wall, sauntered towards my lion claw-foot bath, unrobed myself, and averted my eye sockets from staring down at my repulsive skeletal form. I groaned with relief as I submerged myself into the colorless liquid that threatened to pour over the rim of the bath. The Big Guy had been clever enough to “accidentally” slip a few contented sighs and some essence of anti-remorse into the water tank hovering somewhere behind my castle. I had been clever enough—or ravenous enough—to pretend I did not have an inkling. That was the kind of relationship He and I had always shared—a need-to-know basis one. During my time in the bath, I felt absolutely weightless… I had no burden to swallow… I knew no guilt… I saw no lost souls… I bore no theoretical bloodstains.

Yet, Death could not stop forever… I clambered out of the illusion of my bath and stalked over to the large, circular bed in the middle of my chamber. Drying myself, I hastily slipped on the crisp, black cloak Nikko had laid atop the dark, satin sheets. It did me the courtesy of veiling the fiend within—the fiend I wished would vanish.

Fatigued, I spread myself across my bed and… did absolutely nothing. It was more there for comfort than for actual rest. Death did not sleep for anyone—even himself. It has been said that the sleep of reason breeds monsters. I wished I could find out what the sleep of a monster like me would breed. Strange thoughts bounced around the hollow of my skull and inevitably I was hit by the memory of how it had all started—how I had come to be the Angel of Death…

Like the Grim Reapers before me, I had once upon a long time ago been a fleshy. Ask not the names or faces of my mother, my father, or me for I cannot recall them no matter how much effort I expend. The Big Guy had zapped the more horrifying aspects of my fleshy life right out of my skull, but I had pathetically begged Him for the gift of memory. He was forever giving… I could recall every detail that He allowed me to recall. However, I could only imagine the more gruesome details He had kept from me…

Heat had been rising to unbearable levels in the cotton mill that ill-fated day. As a fleshy boy of merely fourteen, I had been dragged out of the orphan ward in the far corner of the mill.

“Up! Up… You filthy little wretch!” Mr. Barker had barked into my swollen ears. “To think I took you in at the request of those lazy, paupers you called parents! I regret that decision each and every damned day! Now, here stuff your face with the fruit of my labor before that government official comes snooping around here again and accuses me of maltreatment! Of all the absurdities… Get to work you ungrateful boy!”

Stark naked with sleep in my eyes and dust clogging my lungs, I had been thrust in front of my work with ragged clothes clutched in one calloused fist and a meager piece of stale bread in the other—the fruit of Mr. Barker’s labor. I had learned not to speak… not to cry… not to whine… not to complain… not to resist. Speaking had only led to thorough beatings and beatings had only led to unbearable pain and pain had led to nothingness. I had loved life too much to be reduced to that nothingness.

Had I really been that burdensome to my parents? Had they really not been able to support me? Had a future with Mr. Barker seemed that bright to them? Had I fetched them a hefty enough sum? Whatever the answers and wherever they were, I had prayed to God that my parents were happy. They had blessed me with the gift of life after all…

Rough crumbs intact with my lips, I had slipped into my trousers and had began pulling the many levers surrounding me this way and that out of habit—preparing for the onrush of petty workers that would be pouring into the mill soon enough. All this trouble for a mere fifteen shillings… I had become very habituated to my environment during my six years in the Barker Mill of nineteenth century Manchester, New Hampshire. That was my very mistake.

I had hummed along the aisles—content with my lot in life. I probably should have paid more attention to my actions… to my surroundings. But fate will work its way—no matter what. Death cannot be outwitted or tricked… with games of chess or any other endeavors really. It just is not done. Whatever God has neatly inscribed into the Preserved Tablet will inevitably come to pass.

A single malfunctioning lever with a single loose bolt had thrust me face forward into one of the innumerable pieces of grating equipment lining the walls. My head had been irretrievably caught in the machinery. There had been no one and no way to stop the piston from crushing my head. All I could have done was wait for Death to come to me.

Those few seconds I had waited for the thing to come crashing down on my head had been oddly slow. I can remember staring at the dusty shafts of sunlight shining through the dirty windows. I can remember finding beauty in the warmth as the piston smashed my skull. I can remember regretting not getting to live life to an old, ripe age. I can remember the warm blood spurting out through random openings in my head. But I cannot remember the pain… God will not let me remember it. He says there are some things He just cannot let me bare. He says He loves me too much. I do not know why He cares so much for me. God is truly benevolent.

The Angel of Death had been waiting for me the moment I died. Neatly and without a word, he had slit my soul from my body with his mythic scythe. I had tried to cling to my body as he had tucked me into the folds of his gothic, black cloak. For the first time in years, I had opened my mouth… I had tried to beg for life…

And then, he had opened his.
“I am Muerto the Angel of Death, young soul. Fear me not. I am here to fare you to the Judgment Desk above. If you have lived a life without sin, then come without dread friend,” he had whispered into my ear.

“But, sir. If you would be so kind enough… May I have some more moments of life? May you give me the gift of feeling blood coursing through my veins again… of feeling my heart beat within my bare chest?”

“I am not the giver of life. Oh no, the master of us all resides in Heaven.”

He had stared at me with utmost compassion as I watched Mr. Barker examine my gory body. Mr. Barker had truly been an unrepentant man. He had one thing to say about my death.

“What a waste of effort. Hopefully, God can get better use out of that filth.” And with that, he had simply thrown my day’s earnings upon my body—three pence. Then, Muerto had placed his bony hand on my shoulder.

“Time is up, young one.”

Just like that, I was flown up to the Judgment Desk. Just like that, Maryam—the then secretary—had admitted me to Heaven. Just like that, Muerto had become my archangel trainer. Just like that, I had become the Grim Reaper-to-be. Just like that, I had hauled in hate with my very entrance into Heaven.

I shivered out of my little reverie as I heard a faint knock on my chamber door.

“Sir? The dinner bells will be ringing soon…” Nikko hesitantly announced. The boy probably thought I was going mad—all locked up in my room and what not.

I wished with all my might I could save him from the path he had embarked upon. As I grudgingly opened my door, the said bells rang every arduous thought out of my fractured skull for the moment. Right now it was just archangel and trainee headed out for a flight to Heaven. Nothing abnormal about that… Right?