In the Training of Grim Reapers

The two of them stood perched above my prone body, balancing effortlessly on the lower branches of the giant oak against which I had happened to die. They were smartly dressed with pressed suits and shined dress shoes. The one on the left was furiously jotting something down on a notepad, pausing every few seconds to push his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. The one on the right held a leather briefcase and spoke in a hushed tone to his companion.

“As you can see, the subject is now aware of our presence. What does that indicate?” the one on the right asked.

“That the soul has entered the second phase, sir,” replied the one on the left.

“Good, now- you are continuing to reference your timepiece, yes?” asked the one on the right.

The one on the left frantically dug through his pockets–he had not been referencing his timepiece–fumbling with his pencil and notepad before dropping them both onto my corpse below. His companion sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Whitaker, please recite the Third Article of our Code of Conduct.”

“Reapers shall, under no circumstances, tamper with the mortal vessel of a Reaped Soul,” Whitaker replied, a faint blush creeping up his pale cheeks.

“And, Whitaker, would dropping items onto a mortal vessel qualify as tampering?”

“Yes, sir. It would.”

At that, the senior reaper sighed once more and descended from the tree in a single leap, landing beside my body with the silent grace of a cat. Whitaker landed with more of a thwump, crushing my dead fingers underfoot.

This earned another sigh from the senior reaper before he turned in my direction, pulling a pair of sleek metal tweezers from his suit pocket and addressing me directly. 

“Good morning, Mr. Bennet,” he said, his dictation impeccable. “My sincerest apologies for the disruptions we have caused. First assignments can be….turbulent.” He crouched, adjusting his grip on the tweezers with swift precision. “Now, if you will, please hold still. This will only take a moment.”

He paused, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

“And Whitaker,” he added, “do try not to shout.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, the tweezers descended toward me.

~The End~