A Final Task

His eyes glimmer with hope as silver droplets trickle down his cheeks and soak the powder lining his nostrils. Dripping hair falls past his ears and dangles over the lip of the toilet seat.

"Is... it r-r-eally you?" His speech is slurred as his eyes glaze over and he tips his head over the seat. He spews, then straightens up once more, taking his final puff of white dust. Pathetic for someone known to be the king of rock and roll.

"Let's get this over with. Do you want the scythe or do you have another method in mind?"

It has been almost a century since I was forced into the role of reaper, but all I need to do is glean this last soul and I will be free to live peacefully in heaven.

"Scythe."

Usually, they beg or ask for mercy, sometimes even going as far as to try and glean me. I hesitate, but very well, he will have his chosen death. As he blinks, I neatly pry the soul out of the fleshy casing and watch as the carcass slumps forward, head now fully submerged in the bowl of the toilet.

"Thank you," I hear as his soft light slowly fades - up or down, I do not know.

"What do you mean, 'thank you'?" I reach to pull the glow back, but it is too late, it has already gone.

My final task is completed and I feel myself being tugged upwards, yet an ache is anchoring me to this world. Why did he thank me?

I fight against the tug, and finally pull back hard enough that I can chain myself to the scythe. I need just a bit more time here. Why did he thank me?

My body of bones claws against the marble tiles as I creak the bathroom door open and slither out. Midnight's moon cloaks me as I stalk the shadows creeping around the mansion. There is a tang of blood coating the air before I see it. Why did he thank me?

The kitchen floor is blanketed in the maroon liquid I have come to know like a best friend. In the centre of the puddle is a corpse, a chef's knife puncturing the stomach. The tug upwards becomes stronger as I drift forward. It is a girl's body, no older than 14. Why did he thank me?

I reach in and gently lift the soul out. The glow is cautious, then slowly darkens as it realises what has happened. I try to comfort it, but it disappears too soon. Please let it go up. How much powder must he have consumed to do this, or was it done before the first snort?

The wrenching upward becomes unbearable and I give in to the deafening pull. My soul rises and I find myself facing long awaited reunions, but I cannot endure the welcome for long and start wandering - where, I do not know.

I pass countless faces, but still do not stop. I search for a being I have no idea is even here. But I do discover him, obscured in a sea of many.

His celebrity status protected him from so much, but I was the one who ultimately stopped him from having to face the consequences of his horridness. I know why he thanked me. Behind the mask of a rock and roll legend lay a self-appointed reaper. I know what I must do.

I march towards him and begin to tether him to hell.