Chapter 13: Chapter 13

S Ø R E N

“REST IN PEACE, Annabella Rays,” Søren said, lowering his crossbow. The soul nodded, before dissipating into the air in a trail of white mist; leaving the body of a middle-aged woman in the pile of a wreckage.

He sighed and mentally checked off soul number three of the night, before reaching into his pocket for the list and looking through the remaining ten. He was grateful for a small workload —especially given the circumstances —and that the rain had finally ceased falling; however, it rendered him itchy and damp. He readjusted his jacket with lazy tugs, while he memorised the rest of the names.

He frowned at the last one.

It was a seven-year-old girl named Yolanda Russel; fated to die from concentrated exhaust fumes inhalation. It would not take a moron to figure out exactly what that meant. It was like Louise Hansen —and Søren’s chest lurched at the realisation.

Apathy be damned; it was just a child.

“So many car accidents this week, huh?” a voice then said from behind him.

Søren turned to find a short, feminine figure half obscured by the shadow beside a streetlight. A silver and black semi-automatic pistol twirled around her pale forefinger; the silver embellished swirls glinting and matching the luminous glow of white teeth in a maniacal grin. Light blonde hair then flew in her face; and she then emerged, spluttering as she swatted her hair out of her mouth. Søren sighed, a smile of his own forming at the sight of a familiar face.

“…Abby, I thought that I told you that I’m not fazed by your disappearing-and-reappearing act.”

Abigail was a Grim Reaper and friend of the Trainer who lived in an apartment block across the city; working towards the Trainer title in his footsteps. Even though Søren had given her the benefit of the doubt, he had seriously stubborn reservations about her being Trainer material.

He had not seen her in two and a half years, but when one has eternity, it could feel like two months. Her aventurine-eyed gaze flickered upward at his taunt.

“Søren,” she smirked, “—long-time no see. And, I was going for a cinematic entrance,” she explained sheepishly. Then she straightened up and eyed the male up and down. “…You’re not usually out this late. Are you training again?” She tilted her head to the side and let the gun continue to gently swing on her finger.

“Yeah…” Søren answered a little vaguely, scratching the back of his head. “They’re currently grounded for disobedience.”

Abigail snorted. “Maybe you’re taking this Trainer business too seriously,” she suggested, smirking, “The trainee is meant to learn as they go —not get babied by you. You’re not a Dad.”

He flinched as though she had slapped him. Once upon a time, he had wanted to be. Once upon a time, that was all he had thought that he was good for. Søren paused, digesting Abigail’s words. They had no consequence in Savannah’s case but maybe she had a point in other circumstances.

“…Their offence is worse than you think,” he put delicately. He did not need to give the situation away, and he most certainly did not trust someone like Abigail to keep a secret. He had concluded that the hard way.

“How bad can it really be?” she scoffed, folding her arms. The leather of her jacket stretched too unnaturally, indicating her jacket was too small.

“…Hey, what exactly are you doing here, anyway?” the Trainer steered the conversation away from Savannah and narrowed his eyes at Abigail. “Did your list really bring you this far?”

“Oh, you know me,” she breathed, flicking her hair back over her shoulder dramatically, “Being in the same place for too long bores me. I need to broaden my horizons. I like to reap around.”

She shrugged, as if to say what are you going to do?

Søren rolled his eyes and held his crossbow more securely.

“This is why you’re never going to be a Trainer, Abby.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stuck out her tongue, offended —before darting after him as he turned to walk away. “Hey wait! Come on Søren, I wasn’t serious,” she whined, falling in step with him. “Why don’t you tell me about your current student. What’s he like?”

“It’s a girl,” Søren corrected her.

Abigail seemed surprised. “I thought a Trainer with your experience would be able to choose who he trained.”

“Then why did you assume it was a he?”

The Trainer raised an eyebrow. Abigail shrugged innocently and mumbled something under her breath, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “…Pardon me?” he asked, cupping a hand around his ear.

“Because that’s your sexual inclination,” she said a little louder, though still whispering. “I didn’t want to say anything before, since you vaguely mentioned that Angelina girl; but I always thought so.”

Søren did not react to that besides tensing up at Angelina’s name. The assumption that he was gay was something which he heard often, and it no longer fazed him or rendered him speechless. His sexuality was a natural part of him, so he stopped trying to hide it —not that he had been very successful in that either. Melchior on the other hand, had not managed to stick so much as a fingernail out of the closet, publicly.

He smiled slightly and stared at Abigail, expecting her to say more. And when she did not, a chuckle escaped his lips.

“For your information,” Søren started, “I’m pansexual. But, it’s beside the point because I don’t mix relationships with work. As a responsible Trainer,” he emphasised the word and the blonde Reaper groaned lowly, “I cannot allow myself to interact in any way that isn’t platonically interact with any of them. Also, no, we don’t get to pick our trainees,” he added, much to her disappointment.

“Well, that blows,” she pouted, clicking the safety on her gun on and off out of habit. “I was hoping to train a super hunky newbie.”

Søren shook his head, amused by the fact that she had not changed in the recent past years. She had always been teasing and flirtatious; the kind of woman who brought men to their knees, or sent them running for the hills. Everything was in excess with her: aspirations, expectations and her hourglass curves. Not that she had dated anyone thus far —the gun and how she handled it probably warded off any potential boyfriends.

“So, you never like like any of your trainees?” Abigail asked, catching the Trainer off guard. He paused, suddenly feeling squeamish.

“No. It’s too weird. I’m essentially their teacher. That’s weird in itself. I’d be years older than them,” he cringed.

She snorted and kicked at the sidewalk, scuffing her shiny black boots. “You know as a Grim Reaper that age is a mortal construct,” she chuckled. “So that’s an invalid excuse.”

Søren thought of another one. “I don’t want to get attached more than I already do. As a trainee, they’ll eventually leave and venture out elsewhere, so I ask myself what’s the point of getting used to the idea of them staying.” His voice grew softer towards the end, which was unplanned but seemed to do the trick of drawing empathy out of Abigail.

“…Okay. I get it,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“This will be something that you will deal with too,” he reminded her. “It’s not a rule that’s set in stone, but I would suggest you refrain from seducing your trainees. It should go without saying.”

“All right,” she grumbled. She was stropping, but Søren knew that she would not put up a fight. “So…what is your current trainee like?” she then eventually asked, thankfully changing the subject. “…I mean, besides an apparent troublemaker.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” he grumbled, suddenly finding the energy to continue speaking. “She is probably one of the most annoying people I have ever encountered. Did you know, she wanted to keep a Phoenix in the apartment as a pet?”

Abigail gawked at him, her jaw dropping open. “You’re kidding,” she snorted. “Who would want that as a pet? I’d rather have a snake.”

“She died on the 13th,” Søren sighed. “Barely just Turned.”

“Well then, no wonder she thinks Phoenixes are pet material. She’s never had any experience with one,” Abigail sang, taking hold of and then spinning around a tree. “Hang on,” she paused, her eyes narrowing, “…What was a Phoenix doing at your place anyway?”

He should have seen that question coming. he wondered if it was really something that he could tell her —without her getting the wrong idea. “Well…” he started, “She, uh…her reaping tool,” he blurted out, before deciding to roll with it. “It’s an anomaly.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Her weapon’s OWES and ORES are so abnormally high —for a trainee and an average Grim Reaper, anyway —that OCC headquarters sent us a letter of concern about the probability of the match, with the attached requirement that she reap a soul before sunset,” Søren explained. “And a Phoenix was the thing to deliver it.”

Abigail frowned thoughtfully before responding. “…High enough to get the OCC’s attention?” She nodded slowly, looking impressed. “How high?”

“Instant; and ninety-eight point three, high,” he murmured.

Abigail inhaled sharply. “Holy gods —how is that even possible? She’s barely a Reaper and she’s already got power comparable to that of the Boss?”

Søren could tell that they then had the same thought, because she looked at him suspiciously as he met her gaze, their expressions mirrored. “…Do you think that he’ll want to hear about this?” she whispered.

“I’m pretty sure that he already knows,” Søren frowned.

“What age did she die at? Don’t tell me she’s barely a teen. I’m not sure if I’d be comfortable working for a boss who hires young kids to kill people. Well…reap souls.”

She shuddered, and rightly so, because he completely agreed.

“You’re in luck,” Søren huffed, stepping over a crack in the pavement. “She’s eighteen. She died the night of her birthday, in fact.”

“Aw, shame,” Abigail pouted, and he could not tell if she was being genuine or not. “What a birthday present, though; bound to this job for eternity.” She did a dramatic swoon, and he nudged her to get back on topic.

“She’s unlike anyone I’ve trained before,” the Trainer then admitted. “She’s so emotionally indecisive and hyperactive —somewhat the opposite of me. She’s stubborn and compulsive and won’t take no for an answer. It’s like looking after a child,” he clipped in irritation.

Abigail giggled and her light green eyes shimmered in amusement. “Well, she is eighteen. She’s not exactly fully mature.”

“I was sixteen when I died and I was nothing like her,” Søren said firmly.

“No one was anything like you, Søren,” Abigail put a hand on his arm comfortingly. “You died when the world was more of a horror show.”

He frowned and glared at the ground, muttering incoherently under his breath. He breathed out and it misted in the air. Søren had seen the world descend into total doom since being Turned, and he knew history better than the books in libraries and museums. The broader internet still escaped him, so he had not touched any of that. It seemed as though most wars were about land or people, and whose it rightly was, and the victor hardly ever flourished thereafter. The weak, small and insignificant always rose up to the challenge, and were usually underestimated.

It was all nonsense to him —even though a certain someone had told him that in order to better understand the hostility of the outside world, they had to look on the inside world: what it was that drove mortals, pushed them and motivated them to keep doing what they were doing.

“…This is my turn,” Abigail then spoke up as the two Reapers approached a set of traffic lights. She stood in front of Søren and gave him a sideways smile, before a salute. “We should talk more often,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, lightly punching his arm.

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding, before softly punching her in return. “Reap around more often. Broaden your horizons.”

“Get bored?” she added, chuckling softly.

The Trainer shook his head and sighed, mildly saddened by the fact that it was unlikely she would ever take anything seriously.

“All right, Abby,” he raised his voice. “I have ten more souls to reap, so let’s call it a day on this conversation.”

She paused, and a mischievous grin spread across her face. “Shouldn’t you rather say…” she began.

“Don’t you say it —” Søren hissed, moving to put a hand over her mouth. But she was a little faster than him.

“—Call it a night!” she shrieked triumphantly, dodging his advances easily. His entire body recoiled in cringe-worthy distaste.

Søren sighed and massaged his temples as she laughed at her own joke, before he gave her a glare as warning. She quietened down like a disgraced toddler and pocketed her gun.

“Let’s just say, that the conversation, ends here.”

“Yes, your Trainer-ship sir,” she quipped, and before he could retaliate, she was already running. “Bye, Søren!” she called over her shoulder.

Søren shouted it in return and stood there until she disappeared around the corner. He then turned down the left road towards the house of his next soul, who thankfully, was going to die from the natural cause of old age.

✠

Søren trudged all the way back to the apartment; his shoulder stiff and inflexible as though he had been out of practice; ready to lay down on the sofa and stare at the ceiling, thinking about nothing.

Getting through the souls had taken him all night and drained all of his energy. It was enough to make Søren feel human again.

He wondered if Savannah had really stayed put and heeded to his warnings and instructions. It would not look all too good for him if she was found wandering around alone as though he had abandoned her. Regret then washed over the Reaper like a tidal wave, and he suddenly stumbled as he came to a halt in front of a streetlight pole. He probably would have hit it, seeing as he had not been paying attention. He shook his head and walked around it, trying to figure out what was wrong.

If he was honest, he had been a little out of it since April Dawn; soul number six. Her tragic and untimely suicide had rendered him numb and more unfeeling than usual —simply to compensate for the feeling of empathy welling up inside. It hurt to know that he could not have done anything.

Feeling things when reaping was the worst thing that could happen, in Søren’s opinion. Feel too much pity, and things take longer than necessary. Feel too much empathy, and the soul could end up being left to live —which was almost as monumentally catastrophic as taking a life ahead of its time.

Søren had only done it once; long ago when he had been younger and naïve.

And when he came for soul number ten, all of those memories came back to haunt him.

Reaping Yolanda Russel was even worse than he had prepared himself for —the look in her big brown eyes when she looked at him was vaguely unnerving and it made him hesitate. Her coarse toffee curls bobbed up and down as she tried to get out by banging her little fists against the windows. The Reaper cursed her father —soul number nine, to whom he had not said ‘rest in peace’ politely in the slightest —and he had been in two minds about getting her out of the car. Her at least; she deserved to live.

But he was in no position to mess with death and become a wanted Reaper. It would be far easier to find him than to track down Savannah.

So, he shot an arrow, through the closed window.

The girl was crying; relentless, desperate tears streaming down her face as she was not only struggling to breathe but she was now burning on the inside. That was his doing —Søren knew that he was causing that agony. It was something with which all Grim Reapers had to come to terms; they caused souls unimaginable and unavoidable pain as they passed on.

Søren had to turn away.

He could not bear to watch Yolanda’s soul escape, so he waited for the screaming to turn to silence. It did not take very long. When that quiet engulfed the street, he slowly turned around to find the soul of a little seven-year-old girl standing by the car. Her body was still inside, limp and lifeless. Søren looked at her soul, and it looked up at him. As he crouched down to be eye level with her, her gaze followed. He never did this —talking to the souls. But he felt compelled to make an exception with this one.

“…They have jellybeans in Purgatory,” the Trainer whispered. “And milkshakes. Pizza, and cheeseburgers too. And candy floss that you can eat forever and never get a tummy ache.”

A soft giggle escaped the girl’s lips, and it echoed as though she were not really there. Søren knew that she was not —but it was even more heart wrenching to see her in this form; dead and only seven. But she did not have to suffer any more —at least there was that truth.

“…Rest in everlasting peace, Yolanda Russel,” he smiled slightly as the words caught in his throat.

She took a step towards him and lifted her ghostly hand up to touch the side of his face. He could not feel it, but it was all right.

Then she melted away, into the early morning air; a sad smile on her full lips and the echo of a laugh disappearing with her.