I always chose someone I didn’t know.

I never let it affect me.

Until I realized how much it did.

_‘Frida Navada_’

My hands shook as I wrote the name.

What if they had a family? A bunch of friends?

I shoved any feelings of empathy aside and quickly licked the letter and sealed it shut. I don’t have any room left for empathy, so why won’t it stop banging at my door? I slipped letter in the mail bin before I could give it a second thought.

I didn’t know them anyways.

There were millions of people in the world.

Would it really matter if we lost one?

I clicked my pocket knife open and crawled under the wooden table. I carefully carved a diagnal line across the four vertical ones.

680.

That’s how many people I’ve killed. And if all of them had at least one person they cared for…

1,360.

That’s how many peoples lives I’ve affected.

That’s how many peoples lives I’ve changed.

That’s how many peoples lives I’ve changed permanently.

The dull blade slipped from the wood, cutting my knee and splitting it into a large gash. The demanding red was enough to speed my heart, though I only felt half of the pain. I wiped the drops of blood surrounding the edges with my thumb.

It doesn’t really matter anyways. It’s just a cut.

I stared up at the grooves in the wood.

If I lived until I was 80…

I’d have killed about 44,000 people.

And if they all had a loved one…

88,000.

The math made my head hurt and the wound started to itch.

I uncurled myself and slipped out from under my desk.

I should treat the wound.

It wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t really.

I didn’t want to be this way.

I didn’t want to be the one to choose.

But I guess that’s the cost of being Death.

Being Death is facing Death.

Bring me is facing me.

And that is a battle that cannot be won.