Metamorphosis

Gifted from birth, the reaper held the scythe in its bony hands. Twirling it to see the etched surname it was given long ago, sometime between cuneiform writing was invented and the present-day where those with a pulse feared it. The symbols only it could read were taught to it long ago by a father as a mother held it in her arms, radiating love through her flesh. No one would think that Death had a family, except the last one who looked up at him with bruised hazel eyes and asked softly what it was like to have a family that loved them. The reaper had not answered, for the utterance of a voice would have scared the little soul, but tried to show him by taking the little hand and gently helping it out of the body that had never known a day without pain.

How the reaper had wished this was not its job. There had been thousands just like this little one in its century and a half since assuming the robe and family scythe, but if it had ever had a heart, the hazel-eyed victim would have been the one that stuck to this reaper's. The reaper had taken the long way to try to show him love. They passed parks where dogs played with their owners and cats slinked, watching the reaper with fearful eyes. They went past schools where mothers and fathers embraced their children after a long day and held their warm hands as they took them home. The reaper watched the boy clutching his phalanges, and wondered if it made a difference. It never occurred to it before that day that reaping could make a difference for someone.

Upon the pearly gates, the child was welcomed home. The pain was erased and the child was gone, but the reaper remained, perplexed by the encounter. Images of the child being embraced by others, kissed and loved for the very first time flashed through the reaper's cranium. The child smiling without forcing it, waving back at the reaper, his first and only friend.