Reaper

Reaper watched the father kiss his children goodnight.

“Are Nanny and Grandad coming over tomorrow?”

“Yeah they are. Just after we finish opening our Christmas presents,” the father said.

“D’you think nanny and grandad will bring more presents?” his daughter asked.

“Oh, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“But… what if they don’t?” his son asked.

The father chuckled and stroked his dark hair, not a grey in sight.

“I’m sure they will, my darlings. Don’t worry. Now get some sleep.”

He blew a kiss and left the room, unaware that Reaper accompanied him.

Reaper followed the father down the hallway, into the shower where he made love to his wife. They giggled and splashed whilst Reaper waited.

In time, the husband snuggled into bed with his beloved and switched off the light.

Reaper loomed over him.

He knew the man had done nothing wrong.

He had been a simple person. Almost bland.

He hadn’t cheated. Hadn’t broken the law. And wasn’t too intelligent for his own good, though, he wasn’t a fool either.

He hadn’t lived life to its fullest. He probably never would have, for he simply loved his family too dearly.

Reaper’s scythe grew heavy as the time approached.

The clock tick, tick, ticked.

Reaper, in all his darkness, felt a new emotion. It hung in his chest like an anchor. It weighed down his spirit, his motivation, his will.

The clock chimed.

Reaper breathed.

Reaper sighed.

The night passed silently.

He had so many more people to put to rest that night, but he never left the man’s room. Instead, he stared. Stared at the husband beside his wife. Stared at the father who dreamed of a quaint Christmas morning. Stared as the light of the morning sun illuminated his chest, with a soft rising and falling.

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During the first lockdown of 2020, I set myself the challenge to write ten pieces of micro fiction within a month. This was my eleventh piece.

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