Writing Prompt #3

On your deathbed, the Grim Reaper himself comes to pay you a visit. You expect him to collect your soul, until he asks where and how you have hidden it.

This prompt was found on the subreddit r/writingprompts, here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/g6fj8q/wp_on_your_deathbed_the_grim_reaper_himself_comes/

“What?” I said.

“Where. Is it?” said the figure.

The figure standing in my hospital room was tall and thin, and wore a loose-fitting tunic with a long, dark, open trench coat over it. Its curly hair went down to its neck, and its face seemed to be masculine and feminine at the same time; it didn’t have a strong jawline, nor did it have any certain roundness in its cheeks. It had no beard. I glanced down and noticed that it was barefoot.

“I don’t know,” I answered, “I mean, I thought you were supposed to know.”

The figure sighed and pinched the narrow bridge of its nose. It sat down in the chair near my bed.

“I’ve been in this business longer than you can imagine; I’ve seen people try and avoid me any way they can – and before you ask, no, you can’t challenge me to any games or fiddle contests – that’s not my department,” it said.

It looked at me like I was some disobedient child that had hidden away a pair of car keys.

“So where is it? Your soul. I don’t have all day; it takes a lot of energy to slow down time enough to collect,” it said.

I looked around; I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was right. The moment the figure had appeared in my room, time had slowed to a crawl. A single drop from my IV drip clung to the top of the bag, waiting to fall. My heart rate monitor was almost frozen, pulsing with a green light as it prepared to rise and fall with another beat of my heart.

“I didn’t hide it,” I said, “how could I have?”

The figure chuckled.

“A fair point,” it said, “and according to our records, you’re not particularly… well-read, shall we say.”

I frowned, and it smirked at me.

“Don’t act so surprised – most of you humans aren’t as smart as you think you are,” it said.

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“Well,” said the figure, “since it’s obvious you’re not smart enough to have hidden your soul away, and I cannot find it, there remains only one answer.”

“And what’s that?” I said.

“You, James Clarke of 185 Strawberry Hill, have no soul,” said the figure.

I burst out laughing – I couldn’t help it.

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

The figure didn’t seem bothered by it.

“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded.

It raised its eyebrows.

“Hell has nothing to do with it, Mr. Clarke. You see, every so often, a human is born without a soul. Its existence is unknown to us, as per the orders of Upstairs, until we find such a one upon their Collection Day.”

I blinked at him. He stood up and continued.

“When a human is chosen to be born without a soul, that human is marked to become one of us – a Grim Reaper, I believe is the term nowadays.”

I sat up in my bed.

“What!?” I said.

“Now, we’ll need a different contract for this, so let me just-“

The figure fished through an inside pocket in its coat, and finally produced a piece of paper.

“There we are,” it said.

The figure handed me the contract. In thin, flowing script, it informed me of my new role as a Reaper. Upon signing and therefore agreeing to its terms,

“The new Reaper shall be granted access to any and all abilities befitting of a Reaper, magical or otherwise, as per the agreement with Upstairs,” I read.

I looked up from the contract.

“So I get to, what, slow down time and collect souls?” I asked.

The Reaper nodded.

“Collection is only part of the job; you’ll also need to ferry them across to the Gray – you might call it purgatory, although it really depends on where they go afterward.”

I nodded as it all washed over me.

“What if I don’t want to sign the contract?” I asked.

It raised its eyebrows again.

“Without a soul, there is nothing to ferry to the Gray,” it said, “and so there is nothing I have any power to control.”

“But, where do I go?” I asked.

Its eyes grew dark, and I could see now how sunken they were.

“Only Upstairs knows that answer,” it said, “but as far as my department is concerned, they are classified as Void.”

A chill ran up and down my spine. I swallowed my fear and nodded.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked.

It nodded and produced a pen from its coat. I signed my name and handed the contract and the pen back to the Reaper.

Then the Reaper held out a hand to me. I grabbed it, and felt a pulling sensation from my back and my chest; it was as if someone had put a string into my chest, and was tugging at it. A moment later and I lurched forward.

I stood beside my body, beaten and bloody from the crash. Time had returned to its normal pace. My heart rate monitor blared a long tone signaling my death, and the nurses rushed into my room – but it all floated away from me, like trying to remember a dream.

The Reaper and I had entered a long, off-white hallway. At the end of it was a set of wooden double doors. I followed the Reaper as it walked down the hallway. The closer we got to the doors, the more I noticed the changes in me; I had no cuts or wounds from the crash, and I was wearing the same tunic as the Reaper. I felt something flowing through my veins, warm and pulsing with energy. I looked down at my hands.

“Your first stop will be the training center,” said the Reaper.

We had reached the double doors.

I nodded.

“After that, come and see me in the Terminal and we’ll pay a visit to Upstairs,” it said.

I must not have been able to hide the shock on my face, because the Reaper burst out laughing at me.

“You didn’t think They’d just let you go without a visit to Upstairs, did you?”

I didn’t know how to answer, so I just nodded.

“You have much to learn, James Clarke of Strawberry Hill,” said the Reaper.

The solid oak double doors opened with no small amount of effort from the Reaper, and my eyes struggled to adjust to the sunlight outside.