Becoming the Grim Reaper
Upon dying, Leyla arrived, she thought, at the place we long for even if we don’t believe it exists. She saw angels cradled in their own wings wafting peacefully around her. Then, a voice said, “You must earn your place to avoid a hell far worse than your most vivid imaginings.”
“What?” she asked, looking around to find the source of the voice until she realized it was in her head. (Wait, I’m dead. Do I still have a head?) “How do I do that?”
“You must fulfill the task of the Grim Reaper for a term of 100 of your years.”
“The Grim Reaper?? It’s real?”
“More real than the angels upon which you gaze with such longing.”
“And I have to be it? I’m the Grim Reaper? Taking souls while sporting a hooded black robe and carrying a, dare I say, deadly, scythe?” She laughed. “I must be having a nightmare.”
“That can be arranged. For eternity.”
“Woah, no humor around here, huh?”
“Death is a very serious matter.”
“Tell me about it. One second you’re shaking sheets with your spouse, the next your heart decides to stop functioning and you find yourself seeing angels and having conversations with a voice in your head about becoming a robe-wearing, scythe-wielding skeleton.”
The voice sighed audibly. “You will not be a skeleton. The robe, when necessary, allows the Reaper to have the appearance of substance. Being. You no longer exist in the realm of humanity. You are in that indeterminate space between finite existence and infinity.”
“And the angels?”
“Your perception of the desired afterlife.”
“And if I decline reaping souls for a century, I get to endure my perception of an undesirable afterlife?”
“You lose the privilege of becoming one with all that was, is and ever shall be.”
“Hey, I remember my science: Matter cannot be created nor destroyed.”
“Would you like to fulfill your destiny or take a chance on the veracity of human knowledge?”
“I’m just making conversation. Of course, I’ll take the robe. How does it work?”
99 years, 364 days, 23 hours, 50 minutes later
It wasn’t really a bad gig. No one ever saw her coming. She’d just show up when it was somebody’s time and escort their essence to the Hold. From there, she assumed it was judgement time, but she didn’t really know. She’d never gotten that far herself. Turned out her Reaper had finished serving with her so…Tag, she was it. Anyway, the robe was for those instances few and far between when someone had “the sight” and could actually see those who exist between being and non-being. Or, between physical existence and infinity as the Voice explained it to her all those years ago. So, for all intents and purposes, the Grim Reaper, Leyla, was invisible. And she didn’t carry a scythe. She carried a butterfly net. That’s what she called it. It was really just wisps of dust that collected the particles of infinity that remained when the body ceased to carry life. She kind of swept the “net” over the dead body to reap the essence. The soul, if you prefer.
At least, that’s how it had worked until tonight. Tonight, she came face to face with the biggest rock star she never knew. She saw his entire life in the moment she came to him (one of the perks or punishments of the job). He’d clearly had great success once upon a time, way too many lovers leading to a great many unfortunate illnesses, not the least of which was the disease eating his brain in tandem with the drugs and alcohol he used to forget the disease and the emptiness by which he always felt consumed. Except when he was making music on stage in front of adoring fans. But the sales dwindled, he was back to touring small venues he could no longer fill and his label was letting him go. He had hit the bottom. Almost literally: He had his head in the toilet bowl when she entered.
At which point he looked up and slurred, “…the fuck are you supposed to be? It’s not Halloween.”
She was silent. I mean, hello, no mouth. No nothing. She was thinking wildly, “Well, here we go. What do I do now? Not only is he not dead yet, he can see me! He can see me?”
“Of course, I can see you, dumbshit. I’m high not blind.”
At which point she thinks, “Oh, he can hear me, too. Like the Voice.”
“That show isn’t on anymore. More’s the pity. And yes, I can hear you.”
If she could breathe, she would have taken deep, fortifying breaths. She tried not to think but she can’t help but think, “What am I supposed to do now?”
To which he responds, “Oh, I don’t know, how about get the hell out of my bathroom? How did you get in here anyway?”
“It’s your time,” I think.
“What? The show was over an hour ago. No fans allowed in the dressing room. Especially wearing medieval monk robes. I do rock, not Gregorian chant. Now, if you don’t mind, get out!”
He tried to get up but slipped (he’d missed the toilet at some point apparently and had been kneeling in the puke). He cracked his head on the sink, then the floor.
And that was that.
She swept the net over his lifeless body to collect his essence at which point everything went dark.
“Your term is complete. His essence will be offered the same choice as you were to take your place. You, however, are now free to rejoin all that is, was and ever shall be.”
“Any chance I could just stick around here for a while? Check out the sights…”
“Not an option.”
With that, her memory slipped away as she slid into the ether.