THE BETWEEN

It was a gorgeous day to be in the park. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, just the brilliant sun casting its warm rays toward the earth below. In the sunlight, the green of the grass and trees seemed more vibrant. A gentle breeze rolled through the area as well to gently jostle both. All around, people took full advantage of enjoying their Saturday afternoon. Children chased one another in some game of their own design while their parents kept a watchful eye on them from the comfort of their picnic blankets. A group of young people took turns posing and photographing one another to show off their fashionable outfits near one of the public art sculptures. Two elderly men walked along the sidewalk in merry conversation as they enjoyed some fruity popsicles they’d purchased from a nearby vendor. Life thrived in this park.

And alone on a bench taking it all in, sat Death.

Well, not Death incarnate exactly. For Grim Reapers were not harbingers of death, but rather followers of it. They merely appeared wherever it took place. Thankfully, there was no death in the park either. The Grim Reaper in question simply liked to pass the time between deaths observing life.

If anyone could see Booker, it would’ve been quite the jarring sight indeed. Amidst the light and color of the world around him, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was a large, imposing man with dark skin that was only paled by the inky black cloak he wore around his person. Prominent features of his face included his heavy brow, wide nose, and full lips – all of which seemed to be etched into a permanent glower. And even more striking still was the long weapon he held in front of him that stretched skyward approximately six feet before ending in a shining curved blade. A scythe.

But no one took any notice of him at all. That much was made clear as soon as a dark-haired woman sat beside him, pulled a book out from her purse, thumbed through a few pages, and began to read. Booker considered her silently for a few moments. He noted how she gently chewed her thumbnail as she read. How her hair kept curtaining her face as her eyes drifted from one page to the next. How she’d look up every now and again whenever there was a particularly loud shout from a nearby child. The woman would smile to herself, shake her head almost imperceptibly, then return to her book. Realizing that he was becoming too drawn toward the woman, Booker pushed himself to his feet and stalked away.

Watching life go by was all well and good, but only ever from a safe distance. Too long lingering on minute details could very well be his undoing. It only served as a stark reminder of everything he lost and all that he had to endure. After all, he could only move through and observe the world of the living, not interact with it. He’d never again be able to feel the warmth of the sun’s rays, or the crisp pages of a new book. Instead, he had to settle for living vicariously through others who were still alive. And it hurt. Yet he far preferred it to the other option: residing in the Between instead. If he wasn’t forced to escort a soul through it, he wanted to keep as much distance as he could.

Booker settled himself beneath the shade of a nearby tree with a sigh. He crossed his legs in front of him and rested his scythe on top. The man leaned against the bark without feeling it behind him and closed his eyes. No sooner had he done so than there was a sudden tightness in his chest. Dark orbs flew open, and Booker grit his teeth against the sensation. It was as if his torso was collapsing in on itself, crushing the bones and organs beneath. Then, a pull promptly replaced the press. An invisible fishhook looped itself in his ribcage and began to reel. Booker felt it calling him to a new location, a new death soon to occur. It was a common sensation, one that was experienced by all Grim Reapers within range of someone who was about to die. But the familiarity didn’t dull the pain.The man tried to fight against the feeling. Surely, someone else was in range and could take over in his stead. He’d been avoiding taking on new charges lately. The Between, cursed place that it was, had claimed nearly all the past half a million or so souls that he’d had in his care. Perhaps it wasn’t even the place that was cursed. Perhaps it was him. Either way, he was of no use to anyone. There wasn’t any point in adding yet another name to his growing list of people he failed to protect. But still death called to him. And he had to heed its cry.

Against his will, Booker was whisked away.

The world shifted beneath him, slow at first, but then rapidly picked up speed. Everything became a frightening blur of color and sound around him. It spun sickeningly, nearly nauseating him. Just as suddenly as it had started, however, it stopped.The sun was instantly replaced with an overcast sky, a torrential downpour. Though it was still early in the day, it looked as dark as night. Sheets of rain came thundering down from overhead, making visibility near next to impossible. Booker pulled up his hood against nature’s onslaught even though the howling wind could not stir his cloak. He eyes scanned the area from beneath the covering.

The greater forces at work appeared to have placed him at a city intersection. The road that ran from east to west had a yellow light, but a pair of headlights still a hundred feet away did not slow. A sportscar was coming up fast. Too fast. There was a harsh squeal of brakes as the light changed to red, but the car had too much momentum and the road was too slick. The figure of a man stood at the edge of the crosswalk, body tensed and prepared to jump right in the sportscar’s path. Booker turned away.

Behind him came a sickening sound of a car colliding with flesh. A crunch of bones and glass shattering. The scent of burning rubber. The panic of people emerging from nearby stores. Booker looked over his shoulder just in time to see the sportscar speed off dragging its front bumper behind it. The man did not fair nearly as well. His body had crumpled in on itself like a crushed soda can and flew some twenty feet away from the scene of impact.  Gasps and cries for someone to call 911 echoed from the small crowd that had gathered. Had humans always been so optimistic? To hold onto hope that someone might be alive even in the face of unimaginable devastation. It seemed too long ago now for Booker to recall. He almost wished it were true too. At least that way, he’d still be in the comfort of his park.

Long, dark tendrils began to leak from the body of the dead man. They oozed outward, thick as tar but moving like wisps of smoke. No one seemed to notice. The substance snaked over everything, covering car, street, and person alike, freezing each object it touched. It did not touch Booker. The man took a steadying deep breath. When everything stood paralyzed in time, he approached his new charge.

With the environment existing on the same plane as him now, he had the ability to manipulate it. Booker stood over the facedown man and unceremoniously turned his still unconscious body over with the butt of his scythe. He was young, the reaper realized with a small pang. He didn’t allow himself to feel as sympathetic as he might have when he first started the job, but he could at least admit the tragedy behind a life that ended before it truly began. After all, he had only been afforded a handful of years himself. Even with the injuries he sustained from the crash - large gashes and purpleish blue bruises from internal bleeding - he could recognize that he was something of a handsome fellow too; no doubt he would be missed and mourned.

Booker lowered himself to his level, his eyes almost willing him to wake up. They couldn’t stay at the scene for long; they needed to get moving. As if in response to his thoughts, the world around them rumbled menacingly. Booker looked around in all directions, the grip on his scythe tightening. Clenching his jaw, he dropped his gaze back to the unconscious man. Ignoring the cuts and bruises he already had across his face, Booker raised his free hand and slapped him across the cheek. Although the dead kept the bodily harm that might’ve arisen as a result of their death, it couldn’t cause them pain any longer. Harm inflicted while dead, however, could still hurt. And Booker did not hit him lightly.

When finally he opened his eyes, Booker immediately recognized the fear and confusion within them. In his earlier days he would’ve done everything in his power to calm and reassure those feelings. Now, however, all he said was, “Sorry, " in a deep voice that didn’t sound sorry at all. “But you died. Of your own accord, it seems. So, now it’s time to go.” He stood, spinning his scythe around a few times before swiping it in the air. It instantly tore where he slashed as easily as if it were a piece of fabric. Beams of bright white light shone through. They were soft and inviting, promising peace and prosperity. But Booker knew better by now than to believe it; their journey was likely to be anything but that. He turned his cold gaze back to her, motioning with his hand for the man to hurry up. “Haven’t got all day. C’mon.”