Taking

It appears in many forms. Male, female, ambiguous. Cloaked in robes blacker than night with a silver scythe, foreboding and unmovable. Blue-skinned in supple swaths of crimson cloth, austere and commanding. Skeletal, flowery, clad in beauteous, colorful robes, grinning resolutely. Death comes for all. The young, the old, the good, the bad. Humans, dogs, beasts of any kind. It is always easier to take the bad, the unforgivable, irredeemable. Of this, Death is certain. It takes no pleasure in the deed, but pleasure is not a luxury Death is afforded. The difficulty comes with those undeserving and youthful. Taking the unready from their mortal bodies, from their families and homes, Death grapples with its conscience. The mourning is unsurmountable. The grieving, endless. Perpetual suffering, like the permanence of the glistening constellations in a pitch-black sky. Like the stars, respite from sorrow is lifetimes away. Death falters, but never desists. Everyone who has ever lived, who will ever live, is just another soul for Death to collect. Despondent, Death has no choice but to amble the grim path carved out for it. Collecting the deceased is all it knows, and all it can do. A herald of mortality, a reluctant gatherer of the departed. That is all it will ever be. But one day, the last being will pass on. Death will take one final soul. And there will be no one left. Death takes solace in this fact. Finally, free from the intractable guilt. But that will take an eternity. Only when every single leaf of every single tree on Earth withers away in the elements one by one will there be no living soul left to claim. The very lifeblood of the Earth, vanquished forever. Until then, Death resolves itself to do what it does best. It takes on the emotional burden of relieving the dying of their physical burdens.

| McKenna Baxter

It somberly brings them into a cool, quiet, dreamless sleep of demise. Death does its best to tune out the sobbing, the wailing, the howls of bereavement. It solemnly hears the tolling of timeworn bells and the mournful brass of trumpets. One day, those mourning will meet the same fate, assuaged by a soothing void of nothingness. This only comforts Death triflingly, neglecting to absolve the guilt. Many abhor Death. Many more fear Death. It stings, but Death acquieses these scathing judgments. Others celebrate Death, the final destination, the moment every life has built up to. The grand finale. Reassuring as it is, Death still wishes it could find something meaningful to contribute. It may be silly, but Death has always hoped for a domestic life. Living in the suburbs, working a perfectly normal, boring office job. Grocery shopping with a spouse, filing taxes at midnight hunched over a desk with a broken lamp. Death would eagerly accept a life that those it collects take for granted. Death wishes most of all for an animal companion, a friend to unconditionally love. A friend to call its own. Maybe a black cat or a Pesquet’s Parrot. Maybe both. But presently, Death has no animal companion. Death has no spouse, no office job, and no taxes. Death only has loneliness, and the lives of billions resting in its hands. If only that weren’t the case. If only Death could create and add something to the world. But all it does is take, take, take. Death tires of the taking. Death tires of it all.