Reaper's Game

        The Grim Reaper stood in my living room. His face, concealed by a dark hood, focused on his two victims: My husband Jeffrey, and my son Timothy.

         I dropped my groceries, stumbled backwards against the door, and screamed—screamed with a ferocious fear which incited a cold spark in my chest, turning my cry into something foul, deep, and emotional. But that scream, as powerful as it was, did not meet my ears. I couldn’t hear anything, in fact, not the television that showed an old Tom and Jerry cartoon and not my heart thumping in rhythm to my panicked breathing.

         It was like I was in some silent horror movie, only that every thing felt so real, especially the tears that traced down my face.   

         Their bodies, Jeff’s and Timmy’s were…they were crumpled with no blood. They lay there on the couch in front of the TV. Jeff held Timmy in his arms, and they lay as if they’d fallen asleep during the late night cartoon, only they weren’t breathing. Even at the distance where I stood, their pale skin proved evident to me. They seemed distant as if I had not seen them in years, that I had not spoken to them both just this day, that I had not kissed them before I’d left for work, that I had not reminded them over the phone not to touch the hamburger meat sitting in the fridge, as though they’d only existed in the confines of my memories, leaving behind pale shells of their former selves.

         The Reaper looked at me. Under his dark hood, his face had sharp features and tired eyes. His gaze held me in place as if invisible hands had grabbed hold of every inch of my body—except my heart. A fearful realization shot through me that my heart would stop, too, once the Reaper had willed it.

          He was the god of death, a monster which I once thought belonged only in movies, dreamt up by the outreach of imagination, but he stood there as real as the two corpses lying down on the couch.

         The Reaper walked over to me, his scythe held high. His movements had a sense of perfection as if practiced for thousands and thousands of years. He was patient. Confidence reigned in his gait, which meant that every part of him knew that he would prevail and not one living thing could stop him.

         But knowing this, I tried.

Though I couldn’t move, something sharp rasped against my heart again and again. The tears kept on running. My heart kept on beating. This feeling of pain and fear inside me formed together in a tight ball and was reborn anew as a force of anger and defiance. My desire formed perfectly in my mind’s eye: the Reaper sprawled on the floor, his head rolling away from his corpse as I stood above him.

         And when that thought came to mind, sound returned to me. The Tom and Jerry cartoon sounded in the living room, the Reaper’s footfalls thumped over the carpet, and my scream rang out panicked and crazed.

         The Reaper’s head jerked backward, surprised, and then his walk became an inhuman sprint. I kept screaming, not taking much notice to the fact that I could move again. My body spun around and I snatched and struggled with the door handle. I flung it open, my throat aching from my screams, and then I glanced over my shoulder, just in time to see the long blade of the Reaper’s scythe fly for me.

         I felt something tap my neck….

        And then there was darkness.