Putting this here just in case:

C/W - pregnancy complications, war/displacement, homelessness, mental illness.

In the dank, black pits of hell, the reaper swung his scythe dangerously. All around him souls hung on thin threads. One carefully placed slice and another life would be over in an instant.

A spider ran along his scythe and he plucked it from the blade, it’s little legs trapped between his thumb and forefinger, wriggling with all it’s might, like Zeus’ captured Prometheus, trying desperately to escape it’s fate.

But he didn’t have the freedom to set free just any life on whim. Like anything else he was guided by proper order, time. Which meant he could put pressure on something, he grinned with a sick smile as he squeezed the spider’s tiny body, but he could never extinguish it entirely, not without permission.

He sighed and lifted his finger, the spider struggled back to life, scurrying off on it’s few undamaged legs.

Well, he thought. He lifted the sythe, preparing himself to deliver the damning blow. Who will it be this time?

A mother, going through a particularly hard and excruciating labour.

It was always going to be a difficult pregnancy, not that she was aware. When the time had come, her doctors had said she would be fine, despite a few minor abnormalities. She was encouraged to go home.

A few days later, she had felt pain like she’d never experienced before and was rushed to the doctor. She was just about to be sent home a second time when a bright red stain appeared on her hospital gown, blood.

He lingered around the thread for a minute, holding the scythe to the very edge. He leaned close as he could hear her breaths getting tighter, shallower; like the captured sound of the sea inside a conch. He waited patiently to hear the call.

Nothing. He dropped his sword. Well, that was disappointing.

Or, maybe it would be the young refugee instead, he pondered.

He’d had to flee with his family when his home got bombed. Ever since then, he’d been living in a bomb shelter with his parents and his two siblings, and nutritious food had become sparse.

His malnourished body was sickening as the sounds of war raged in the distance. The reaper stroked the thread. He could feel the young boy’s terror vibrating off of it, and he taunted the edge of the thread with his weapon.

But, ever so gradually, the raging, booming sounds eased and the boy’s breathing began to slow and return to normal.

The reaper backed away, disappointed.

Eventually, he heard something. A cry. It was loud enough that it permeated to him from across the room. Who was it? He roamed closer.

Eventually, he saw that it was just a teenager, not much older than sixteen.

What was her story? Well, she’d been pushed out of her home. She didn’t live up to her family’s standards. Quite rigid standards they were, you could say.

She didn’t have another place to go so she’d ended up on the streets scrounging for pennies.

When she was younger, she’d tried harder than anything to not let anyone see beneath her facade, see the side of herself that people would label her as weak for.

But, at night, she’d be tormented endlessly by what she felt, all the things she was keeping hidden from those who would not understand. And, her grades slipped.

She started picking up bad habits to quell the anguish. That was when she could no longer justify her behaviour to her father. He suddenly became cruel and judgmental where once he was kind.

There was a lot of fighting in the house.

The reaper could see her now, alone, cold, not sure if she had anyone left to trust.

He frowned, don’t be afraid, darling, it makes you look weak, he thought as he raised his scythe.