Hello. My name is… well… actually I don’t have a name. Most of you just know me as death.
Pleasure to meet you. You know who I am, right? The grim reaper with the black hood and
scythe in his hand? The poor creature who has to collect the souls of the old and unfortunate
– No that sounds horrible, death thought to himself before throwing himself back onto the couch,
frustration showing on his bones. Damn it all, he just wasn’t meant for writing. Life in hell was lonely.
A desolate wasteland, barely bearable. Sometimes he paid a visit to the opera or he would go to the park and listen to the lovely agonizing screams of all who were damned. It had improved slightly ever since Mac Miller got here back in 2018. Death had been to a couple of his concerts already. He liked the dude. Real cool. At least better than this Mozart prick, the old dog. Apart from that, his life was miserable though. His boss was on his tail constantly, God wasn’t the nicest guy around either, and he didn’t like his job. You know all these old grannies and gramps just can’t accept, that it’s time to die. It’s not that big of a deal. Just recently, one of those old hags beat me up with her walking stick. Real mean. I don’t want to do my job anymore! Everyone thinks I’m
the bad guy, but I’m not. I have a good heart. I’d rather just slack around here in hell, smoke
some pot, and throw it down with Hitler. “Are you complaining again?", the devil asked. “Of
course not”, death lied. Ah, the devil. This woman was straight up horror. She’s the boss of God,
you know, the guy I talked about earlier? The devil’s name was Gertrud. Fitting, am I right? “Has
Torsten left already?”, the devil asked. Death shrugged. You’re wondering who Torsten is? God. You guessed it! Torsten and Gertrud? Husband and wife. The epitome of all toxic relationships. No one knows why they’re dating. They fight all the time, just to have make-up sex afterwards. I once walked in on them railing. Never seen such a sick sex position in my life. “Why are you just hanging out around here? Go, and be useful. A ten year old slipped on ice in London. Go and collect me his soul!”, Gertrud ordered. “Yes, your highness”, death murmured before vanishing with a faint puff.

Only the weak light of the street lanterns fought against the haunting darkness of the night. In a
resisting manner, they kept on shining. The darkness seemed to even swallow sounds whole. Well,
maybe not all of them. I can hear the snow giving way to my feet. Should’ve brought my
shoes, got cold bones. Gosh, where was this boy? Death trotted down the street. After minutes of
searching, he found the child. He sat on the sidewalk, a glimmering silhouette next to his own
corpse. How do I start the conversation? How do young people talk these days? What’s hip?
“What’s up?”, death asked the boy. “I’m not”, the kid replied. Well, that backfired. Good job,
dude! “I’m here to take you with me”, death explained.
“Mommy told me not to go places with strangers”.
“I don’t care”.
“You’re rude”!
Have I ever mentioned that kids are equally as annoying as old people? I believe that
mankind is just intolerable. “Please just come with me. Gertrud is going to let all hell loose, if you
don’t”, death pleaded.
“Is Gertrud your mommy”?
“You would think”. 
The boy didn’t move. Death sighed, then took a seat next to the kid. “What are you doing around here at this hour?”, death inquired.
“I could ask you the same”.
“I’m only here because of you. If your fall hadn’t put you out cold, I’d be sitting on my couch right
now”.
“Will I see mommy again”?
“No”.
“You don’t seem happy”.
“I’m not”.
“Why”?
“There’s nothing to be happy about”, death said. The boy didn’t answer. So they sat there, snow falling on them like the tears of heaven.