Gerald Michael Guglielmo was born in Chicago and spent his youth in the northwest suburbs. Although always interested in creative expression, his interest in creative writing did not emerge until 2017. He currently resides in Geneva and still walks on the edge of curbs sometimes because he never really grew up.
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Someone is about to die. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. Neither would I.
Wherever she goes, someone dies. That’s just the way it is. Their fate is to die; ours is to be there when it happens. We’re not supposed to feel any emotions, and yet I do. I feel many things. Sometimes I feel curious and sometimes profound sorrow. In this regard, I suspect she is no different than me.
Occasionally, I feel envious. They are able to live a life, be it briefly or longer than they desire. I exist eternally, but it isn’t living. Trade-offs are always present. Those who are mortal sometimes desire immortality, while the immortal sometimes wistfully dream of an end to their existence. It’s the way things have always been and the way they will always be. No one is ever truly satisfied with their fate.
I, and the others of my kind, exist outside of mortal time, immune to its relentless flow forward, and yet we can’t escape the passage of our time. We can make theirs stand still, but ours steadily ticks away like a perpetual metronome. These are the shackles of our existence, chaining us both within and outside of time, as we are watching, waiting, and finally acting.
The time to act was only a moment away in mortal time. I can sense it like the sad whisper of the wind through leafless trees in a lonely forest late at night. As I stand watching her, I can feel the unseasonably cold wind clawing at me like the icy hand of Death. I’m familiar with that hand; for well over three hundred mortal years, it was mine.
No longer having any reaper responsibilities, I forever walk among the mortals, trying to understand them. Although there’s no need to seek them out, I’m still drawn to them as they are dying. Like a siren song calling out to hapless sailors, the melancholy melody of a soul on the verge of passing on transcends time and space. It begins softly, and then it strengthens as the end of life approaches.
In the moments before their lives wink out of existence, the relentless tug of that song becomes irresistible to me. These days, I usually ignore the call for as long as possible, and then I hurry to the scene at the last moment so I can silently observe her working. Even a retired reaper can find the approaching death of a mortal almost impossible to resist. Others before me have managed to somehow do it, but so far the secret has eluded me.
So, whether I want to or not, I always find myself at the time and place of the next impending death. When I arrive, I always see her, the new Death, stoically and admirably performing her duties. None of the mortals are moving. It’s like they are frozen in time. However, they are not frozen at all. Only our perception of them is frozen. They will appear to move soon enough. For now, she is watching, waiting, and trying to decide who will pass on before letting our perception of mortal time once again flow.
For me, seeing her standing there is a welcome and reassuring sight. No incarnation of Death had ever neglected their duties before, and there is no reason to think she will do so. Still, it is comforting to see her ready and able to do what needs to be done.
As the previous holder of the role, I serve as her mentor and perhaps even her friend, observing her as she watches and attends to them. Being Death, or ever having been Death, means leading a lonely existence without complaint. For us, remaining logical and capable of performing our duties in the face of loneliness comes naturally.
We are designed to be solitary creatures, to roam the plane between life and the afterlife with nothing but our thoughts to keep us company. For some of us, however, the loneliness weighs heavily on our spirits. It’s a burden I carry in silence, as our kind has always done. Still, I believe even a modicum of companionship is a welcome solace. Although we have never discussed it, she probably feels the same way.
Companionship is something my mentor, the incarnation of Death preceding me, never understood. Thus, apart from observing and commenting on my actions, we barely interacted at all. Whether it was out of negligence or an oversight, I am convinced it was an error in judgment. My time as Death would have been so much easier, especially early on, if he had offered me even the slightest of friendly smiles. Sadly, he never smiled.
I believe she deserves to be treated better than I was, and so I am determined to avoid making the same mistake my mentor did. Thus, I approach her far more frequently than he ever approached me. My words are kind, I offer to discuss more than just reaping, and I smile when I see her. My hope is our conversations will be more friendly in nature and not solely focused on the serious work at hand. Still, when I approach her, I must do so with extreme care and only when she is ready. Doing otherwise would be dangerous.
Reaping souls is delicate work—I still vividly recall what it's like to shepherd a soul from life to the great beyond—and even a small disturbance at the wrong moment can be disastrous. Thus, there is no room for assumptions when approaching Death at work.
Outward appearances can be deceptive, and her demeanor, always calm, may be masking a troubled mind. Therefore, I always peer into her mind and assess the situation before acting. To do otherwise would be to put a soul at risk.
A soul being reaped is vulnerable and can easily be lost. When that happens, the soul is no longer under the protection of Death and quickly finds itself in a perilous situation. Lost and unprotected, a soul will draw the attention of the dark ravagers. Those cat-sized monstrous beings, vicious and single-minded, have black wings, horns, and rows of razor-sharp teeth. If left unchecked, they will devour an unprotected soul, forever altering the afterlife. It is a tragedy that defies one’s imagination.
Even if only temporarily lost, an unprotected soul also places Death in harm's way. Normally, the ravagers are afraid of Death and dare not approach. However, in a frenzy of insatiable hunger, they lose all fear and will approach and even attack a reaper when a lost soul is nearby. Although they cannot kill us, as we reapers are immortal, they can still inflict painful wounds that never fully heal. To carry those scars eternally is to be forever reminded of one's failure. No Death ever wants to experience that. Since the dawn of humanity, a few have suffered from that affliction.
So I’m vigilant as I stand here watching her, and the seductive melody of the next human death reverberates in my ears. Time is standing still for the humans, but not for us. Just outside of their reality, I can see she is working diligently to ascertain the who and the how of a life’s end.
As she teases out the truth, her delicate manipulations of the auras around us are marvelous to behold. Perhaps my mentor felt the same way when he observed me working. I don’t know because he never mentioned it. I, on the other hand, often tell her how beautifully she works. Were she human, I imagine she would blush. But she isn’t human and isn’t capable of blushing. Still, she always appreciates my compliments.
She, of course, knows I am watching her, but she ignores me as she continues sifting through the subtle clues to find the answers she seeks. That is how it should be, especially since she is relatively new to the role, having taken over when I retired in 2013. She is performing a difficult task, although she is slowly becoming more proficient as each new soul she reaps is safely escorted to its final destination.
For me, finding those answers had long ago become instinctive. I can sense who is going to die and how that will happen. It doesn’t happen immediately this time, which is troubling. Thinking she may also be struggling to determine who will die, I peer into her mind. It only takes me a moment to confirm my suspicion. Thus, she isn’t ready for me to approach her. She will be ready soon enough, but not yet. I just need to be patient for a little longer.
I don’t mind waiting for her to be ready. I have nothing else to do, and I enjoy watching her work. I am her mentor and here for her benefit and not for mine. So our interaction will be driven by her needs and desires. When those needs and desires align with my approaching her, I will know almost immediately. It is also something I can intuitively sense. But I will not act on intuition alone. Instead, I will wait for her to call to me.
So, for the moment, I wait for her signal so I can approach her and strike up a friendly conversation. I always enjoy talking to her, and she has repeatedly told me that she appreciates my efforts to do more than just mentor her. We are incapable of lying, so I have no doubt what she says is true.
Humans, however, lie to each other all the time, and I don’t understand how they remain friends. Thus, I’m grateful we are incapable of lying. Being honest makes both simple and complicated situations easier to discuss. A part of me believes honesty is vital for our mission to successfully reap souls, and maybe that is the only reason we cannot openly lie. However, I would like to believe that a longing for friendship, whether repressed or acted upon, also plays a role in our being honest.
Realizing I have lost focus and allowed my mind to wander, I turn my attention back to the current situation. I can see that the environment is unusually complicated. There are multiple false trails that need to be disentangled from the truth. Although she is close to figuring everything out, I find it puzzling that she remains standing near this sidewalk immersed in various false leads. Is she about to make a mistake? I wonder. However, deep down I know that isn’t the case. She doesn’t make mistakes.
This death is going to be more fascinating than usual, I think to myself.
There is a man on an aluminum ladder across the street. The ladder is placed precariously close to nearby power lines, and if his hand drifts just a little farther to the left, he might be electrocuted. If that doesn’t kill him, falling from the ladder would almost certainly be fatal. The risks are so obvious, and yet he appears oblivious to them. To me, his behavior is baffling given his age and his experience working on ladders.
There is also a dog running through traffic, seemingly unaware of the danger around it, as it single-mindedly chases after a squirrel that had recently descended a nearby tree. The dog is frozen in time as it races away from the sidewalk, trailing a leash behind it. I find it strange that the dog looks positively jubilant, as that isn’t even remotely how it feels.
That expression is a remnant of how it felt before it left the sidewalk. Now that the dog is in the street, it’s frightened. The sights and sounds of cars beginning to swerve, brake, and honk their horns have already reached the dog's ears. Its brain, however, hasn’t had time to relay that information to the muscles in its face.
Once Death allows mortal time to flow again, the dog's expression will change to one of terror. The chemical signs of fear are already present in its bloodstream, and I can sense it. Fear, even in animals, always leaves a copper taste in our mouths. It’s impossible for me, or any of us reapers, to not notice it.
About twenty feet away, a young boy is in the middle of stepping off the curb to chase after the dog. The boy isn’t looking at the traffic, and his risky behavior is placing him in a dangerous situation. His fear, like the dog’s fear, is leaving a copper taste in my mouth. He, however, isn’t fearing for his personal safety; he’s far too worried about the dog’s safety to realize the danger he’s putting himself in.
Neither the man on the ladder nor the boy entering the street is going to die today. That fact is immediately obvious to me. Maybe they will die someday soon, given their lax approaches to safety, but Death is here for the soul of someone else. The person she seeks is lying on the ground and is already almost dead. However, they are elsewhere and not near where we stand.
As I watch her, she slowly begins to reach her right arm out at waist level, and I see a scythe appear in her hand. The scythe is a thing of power and beauty. It has a curved blade that shimmers with an electric-blue aura around it. She has summoned the scythe, which means she knows who is about to die. Looking at her standing there, with a scythe in her hand and the stillness of a statue, I know she is waiting for me to approach. In my mind, I can hear her calling to me.
In the past, we only chatted after her work was complete. It is a pattern she has never veered from since becoming Death a dozen mortal years earlier. Now after having reaped close to seven hundred and fifty million souls, she is behaving differently. Something is on her mind. Perhaps it would be best not to keep her waiting. It is a thought I decide to act upon with little hesitation.
Smiling to myself, I carefully approach her, ever aware that she might change her mind. Stopping beside her, I focus my attention on the scene in front of us. I don’t need to look at her; I know exactly what she looks like. As always, she appears to be wearing flowing black robes under a long black cloak that puddles on the ground around her. In that regard, she looks no different than me or any reaper before me.
The cowl of her cloak, gently perched upon the top of her head, exposes a splash of her crimson locks that allude to the beauty of long, wavy hair hidden beneath the folds of cloth. For a reaper, red hair is highly unusual. Most reapers have either black hair or, like me, white hair.
Those unfamiliar with our existence might think the robes and cloak are a uniform worn by reapers, but they would be wrong. Technically, we aren’t wearing anything at all. The robes and cloak are a part of who we are and not something we wear. We can no more take them off than a cat can take off its fur.
Her marble complexion, unlike her hair, is typical for us reapers. Overall, it has a bluish tint, reminiscent of being caught out in the cold too long, with dark blue veins running through it. In a way that is impossible to accurately convey, her complexion evokes a sense of boundless sadness and loss. Perhaps humans attribute the color blue to being sad for more reasons than they realize. Maybe on a subconscious level they know that blue is the color of Death’s complexion.
Set within that bluish complexion are completely black eyes that make it impossible to guess where her gaze is directed. One might imagine she is looking at them, but that would never be entirely true. She doesn’t just look at someone or something. That isn’t the reaper way. Instead, she looks in front of, at, into, and beyond whatever has caught her attention.
In a neutral tone that conveys the proper level of respect for both her and the work she is performing, I say, “Hello, Death.” Courtesy and protocol are always important.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Pretiosus,” she replies in a soft, compassionate tone that is both intimate and distant at the same time. “I have a question.”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“Hiroshima. Am I ready for something like that?”
“Capable? Yes. Prepared? No. Let’s hope there's nothing like that for a very long time.” I was forever changed by both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and those memories remain extremely painful.
“What was it like, the moment after the detonation?”
Her question catches me by surprise. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions and memories. The moments after the blast, a time I wished I could forget, were filled with an impenetrable fog of intense light and heat.
In a fraction of a second in their time, a wave of human anguish had washed over me, and I had to stop and turn away so I could regain my composure. There were too many threads leading in every direction, and I didn’t know which to follow first. So I shut down all of my senses except the spiritual one and focused on that plane of existence.
Slowly, the light and heat began to fade, and I found myself surrounded by tiny points of light. There were so many that they almost obliterated the normal darkness of my mind while I was inhabiting the spiritual realm. Each one of those points was a life line leading back to a soul on the cusp of death. Reaping all of those souls at the same time seemed incomprehensible. Feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the tragedy all around me, I wept openly, trying to decide what to do.
As the flow of tears began to ebb, I steeled myself for the Herculean task ahead. All of these souls are depending on me, I thought to myself. I have never failed a soul before, and I will not fail a single one of them this time, no matter how difficult that might be.
Each of those souls deserved to be properly reaped and sent on to the afterlife they earned. So, as I stood there in despair, a plan slowly came to me. I would adjust mortal time to the moment of the first deaths, and then I would move from soul to soul, carefully reaping each one.
Once that first round of reaping was complete, I paused to assess the unimaginable devastation and heartbreak all around me. I had reaped so many souls, and my task was far from complete, as there was still an unimaginable number of souls left to reap. Standing there among the dead and dying, I could feel anger welling up inside me. I was angry at the humans responsible for inflicting this atrocity on their fellow human beings. I was even angrier at the Fates for allowing this monstrosity to take place.
I knew the Fates had engineered far worse calamities for humanity. Mostly, those catastrophic events were the result of nature unleashing tremendous forces and an unavoidable consequence of how the universe worked. However, this calamity wasn’t a natural disaster. It was a disaster of human making and one the Fates engineered for humanity to inflict on itself.
Unable to contain my outrage, I screamed and cursed the Fates for what they had done. I knew they were watching, listening, and reading my thoughts and emotions, but I didn’t care. I wanted them to lash out at me, or at least say something. However, they remained silent.
That was the way of the Fates. As always, they remained silent and hidden as they spun their webs detailing how lives would unfold from beginning to end. Whether or not they were forbidden to say anything to us reapers, I don’t know. What I do know is that all reapers felt a deep-seated animosity toward the Fates for the machinations they set in motion and their eternal silence.
After I had spent my emotional energy on wailing and ranting, I became considerably calmer. Standing there in silence for several hours, I was unable to feel or think anything. Finally, acceptance crept into my soul, and, sighing heavily, I resumed my work.
For a fraction of a second, I let mortal time advance. Then, slowly and carefully, one by one, I reaped a new bounty of souls. Afterwards, I paused to allow myself to cry. Although little mortal time had passed, it had been a long, anguishing experience for me. Realizing it was only the second round in a long sequence made it harder to continue. However, continuing was necessary, and I was determined to carry on until my tasks were complete. So, that’s what I did.
Once again, I repeated the cycle. When that cycle was complete, I did it again and again until I felt completely dead inside. Then, after a break to recover my physical and emotional strength, I once again returned to the seemingly endless cycles of incrementing mortal time and reaping souls.
When I had finally completed reaping all of those souls, I was exhausted, beyond outraged, and more than ready to retire. The Fates could be damned to hell for all I cared. I had seen and done more than enough and wanted nothing more to do with any of it.
However, I knew humans were still engaged in a horrific war, and attending to the resulting deaths was something I didn’t want to inflict on a novice Death. So, I retained my title and performed my duties as I struggled to cope with the atrocities I witnessed.
When that war ended, another war soon began. Thereafter, there was another and another. In time, I realized that even after all of the atrocities that took place recently, the cycle of war was never going to end. Thus, waiting for a war-free period before moving on wasn’t practical, and so I decided to continue reaping souls for as long as I could.
It wasn’t easy, and it took a long time for me to mostly heal emotionally. However, even after so long, I still haven’t fully recovered. I know that sharing my memories with her would help me cope, and I desperately want to do so. She has provided an opportunity for me to unburden my soul, and it would be easy for me to do so. However, it is my burden to carry and not hers. So I won’t.
“There are insufficient words to describe what it was like, and you don’t deserve to be burdened by a mere shadow of the truth,” I reply. While my words ring true, they don’t express the full extent of the truth. There are things I neglected to say that I know I should have said. Apparently, we reapers can commit lies of omission. It’s a revelation to me, and one I briefly contemplate before turning to look at her.
After a few seconds of silence, I decide to change the subject. “I am curious why we are standing here by this section of sidewalk. Please explain to me why we are here instead of looking at someone who is dying.”
“There’s a strange and overly complex situation taking place near where we are standing. I have identified many circumstances, decisions, and actions that on their own are of little consequence. Taken as a whole, they form an unnecessarily long and convoluted mechanism… There’s a term humans use to describe overly complex mechanisms, but I don’t recall what it is.”
I know exactly what she means, but the term seems to elude me. What is it? I ask myself. I know that it’s something they consider absurd and comically hilarious. Thinking about it for a moment longer, the term finally comes to me. “Rube Goldberg machine,” I reply quietly.
“Yes, that’s it. A Rube Goldberg machine is an apt description of this situation. However, this time the machine saves someone’s life instead of ending it.”
Her insight is intriguing. I always abandon avenues of investigation as soon as it’s clear that they’re false leads. She, however, has examined several false leads closely enough to tease out patterns. For the first time since she became Death, she has found something I didn’t. “Interesting. If you don’t mind, please elaborate.”
“Not at all. I would be delighted to explain what’s about to happen.” Smiling, she pauses for a moment and then begins pointing with her left hand at the car nearing the young boy darting out into the street.
“The driver of the car is arguing with his mother on the phone, and he didn’t initially see that the young boy was about to enter the street. However, when he sees the boy, he will slam on his brakes in a state of sheer panic. The car will slow down just enough to avoid hitting the boy, and it will slide past as the boy clears its path. A matter of inches between being hit and being safe.”
“Yes, that seems fairly straightforward.”
She nods and then continues her story. “The screeching of the tires will catch the attention of the old woman over there.” Now her hand is pointing at an old woman across the street. The woman is frozen in place as she walks next to an old man. He is her husband of fifty-three years.
“She thinks the boy is about to be hit by the approaching car. This misconception will cause her to suddenly faint. She is undergoing chemotherapy and is frail and unsteady on her feet. Her husband, fearing she is dying, will suddenly stop to catch her as she falls. He will feel a sharp pain in his chest and think it’s a heart attack, which it isn’t. The sudden pain will cause him to lose his balance, and he will step backward as he catches her to prevent the two of them from tumbling to the ground.” Pausing once again, she waits to see what I will say.
I certainly hadn’t noticed any of that before, but suddenly it all seems so obvious to me. Focusing on the old woman now, I can see that she will be fine and go on to live happily for many more years. I can also see how the rest of the story will play out, but I want to let Death finish her story. “Go on. Tell me what happens next.”
“See the young woman across the street approaching the old couple?”
“Yes.”
“She is looking down at her cell phone, and she is unaware that the old man is about to step backward into her path. She will bump into his shoulder and drop her phone. The sudden shock and anger she feels will cause her to shout a series of curse words and then bend down to pick up her phone. Had that not happened, she would have tripped over the ladder a few seconds later, causing the man to fall to his death.”
“So it all starts with a squirrel climbing down from a tree?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her voice is cheerful, and it is clear she is thoroughly amused by the situation.
Reapers are almost never cheerful, and I am glad we both feel that way now. I know our cheerful feelings are only fleeting, as difficult work awaits. Even so, a brief respite of cheerfulness is a wonderful thing.
One little thing after another is all it takes, I remind myself. Life and death can be like that sometimes. I think about the absurdity of it for a moment and then ask, “Do you think the man will realize how close he came to dying?”
“Yes. He will quickly descend the ladder before storming off to find his helper. The latter was supposed to be holding the ladder and watching for signs of trouble.”
“I’m impressed,” I say, knowing that she is, of course, right. The helper is in the coffee shop a few doors down. Thirty seconds earlier, he had noticed an attractive young woman as she entered the shop. His girlfriend had dumped him a few weeks earlier, and the loneliness he felt afterward lingers. The sight of the beautiful young woman, who seemed to be alone, stirred a longing within him. Thus, he decided to try striking up a conversation with her.
They will be married in a few years and have three children. All of their life lines stretch out far into the future. They will be happy, at least for many years, and that knowledge is enough for me. Eventually, Death will see each one of them when their time is at hand. When that happens, I suspect I will be there watching her work.
“Thank you… So, as you surmised, no one here is going to die this time. Shall we make our way to where we need to be?” Raising an eyebrow, she begins pointing down the sidewalk to her right with her scythe.
“By all means, please lead the way,” I reply with deference. She is Death, and I am an observer. Where we go and when we leave is up to her.
As Death begins to step out onto the sidewalk, I follow her. Mortal time remains still as we walk side by side among the living. Weaving our way along the sparsely populated sidewalk, she pauses momentarily to look at a middle-aged man. His life line indicates he smokes, drinks excessively, eats too much, and never exercises.
“Not today,” she says to him. “I will see you tomorrow down by the river at 11 a.m.”
Once again, I am truly impressed by her. Seeing a person’s death so precisely a day ahead of time takes considerable concentration, but she seems to do it with ease. I want to comment on her growing skills, but I decide to remain silent.
As we make our way to the unfortunate soul, she occasionally pauses to comment on the fate of one person after another. None of them are going to die anytime soon, but a few are going to die under extremely interesting circumstances. All of these deaths are things I look forward to with a mixture of unbridled anticipation and considerable trepidation. This knowledge is a gift from her to me, but thanking her will have to wait. First, there is important work she needs to complete.
As we leave the sidewalk and enter the park, I know our journey is coming to an end. Once inside the park, we follow a wood-chip path. Scattered about, there are leaves in various autumn shades. A few have already turned brown and dry like parchment paper, but most have fallen too recently for that to have happened.
The park appears empty, but I know that isn’t entirely true. There is at least one person in it who, whether aware of it or not, is waiting for her. It is a quiet journey, one without encountering another soul, and it allows both of us to ruminate on what is about to happen.
Ahead of us, there is a tall oak tree, and as we get close, we leave the path together. She walks past that tree and heads toward a second one. We are walking slower now, and not far away, I can see our destination. Off in the distance, there is another tall oak tree. It looks proud as it seemingly stands guard waiting for us. I know neither of those things is true, but the image feels right to me.
When we reach the tree, she stops in front of a young boy. He is lying on the grass under the old oak tree, looking majestic with leaves of crimson and orange. Not long ago, the boy was stung by a bee, and he has stopped breathing. For some strange reason, it occurs to me that he would turn eight years old next month. I never thought about an approaching birthday before, even when it was only days or hours away. Why I was doing so now was puzzling. I let the thought fade into oblivion.
Looking down at the boy, Death sighs heavily. For her, the contrast between the beauty of the trees, high above, and the heartbreak of the dying boy, below, is both familiar and sad. I feel the same way. His dying so young doesn’t seem fair, but nothing about life and death seems fair to me.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says in a sweet-sounding voice that reminds the boy of his mother. “Take my hand and come with me. Your grandmother is waiting for you.”
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