The Horned Reaper

Death is terrifying. Only once in the middle of a sleepless night did my brother and I mention our common intense fear of dying. We weren’t even ten years old yet and already our mortality was torturing us.

That torment never relented. I was a nervous wreck in my early twenties, always expecting that my demise would come in some kind of horrific way. Maybe I feared death so much because I had some uncanny supernatural knowledge that I would die before I even hit my forties. I hope it is a coincidence, otherwise I suspect my brother isn’t too far behind me.

I was wrong, though. It isn’t the death of the body that is horrific; it is the death of the soul.

No matter the words I choose, know that I am not even close to capturing the unthinkable pain and fear that awaits you when it is your time. I am sorry that I am burdening you with this. My spirit form may not last me much longer... because He is coming. Desperation grips me, so I am pushing my intent out into the universe in the hopes someone hears that my feelings and experiences. If you are present with me now, that someone is you.

Non-existence has never been an acceptable option, but maybe I can leave my imprint on life by expressing this to you.

Again, I apologise.

During the brief seconds that thoughts of death forced their way into my brain, digging grooves of trauma over the brain folds that could otherwise be used for happiness, it felt like a hole was being gouged out of my chest. My heart was gripped and squeezed so tightly that it might stop quicker than my breathing did.

Never could I have imagined that it would be horns gouging out my chest after I die, in place of the crippling fear of death while I lived. I can’t quite recall how I passed away, exactly, and I imagine that’s a good thing. My last memory of life was riding the bus.

Now, I am in this hellscape with Him.

I thought Death or the Grim Reaper was a ghoul or skeleton wearing a hooded cloak carrying a scythe to reap my soul with. The reaper doesn’t have a scythe. He has a pair of twisted, sharp horns.

This place after death is a dreary, grey, fuzzy, silent place. Screams from those trapped here as the bull charges and skewers them onto its long horns can’t be heard. I do, however, hear the hooves against the pavement as it stalks the streets, the puffing of air through its flared nostrils, the whips of its tail as it passes me in my hiding place.

I can’t hide for much longer.

I don’t know how long it has been. Time stands still, and the fog settled upon the streets never lifts. Have hours passed since my life ended, or have I avoided the reaper for days in this cursed place?

The point is, I can’t keep running and hiding from the reaper. I don’t think that it is possible to escape Him. The other lost souls I have seen scampering through this place have died quickly. My time is coming soon.

In all the horror, He also carries with Him a majesty that takes your breath away. He is the perfect specimen; rippling with muscles, black coat shining despite the lack of light, horns tapered to a deadly point, and the brand of a skull seared into His right shoulder.

Should I just accept the very doom that I have feared since I was eight years old and reveal myself to the beast?

I don’t know if I have the strength. Tears roll down my cheeks, the air traps in my lungs and my body shuts down at the thought of my demise. An elderly lady appears on the street and a look of confusion barely holds her features before her soul is taken. The bull heaves her image into the air as He flicks His head back. The horns are blood-soaked and red.

A calloused hand weaves into my own and squeezes my fingers gently. I didn’t hear anyone approach. Turning my head, I see my brother, his panic-stricken face mirroring my own. His lips move and his features twist into that of a devastating, soundless cry. His grip turns fierce on my hands and his face turns red and veins bulge as he screams his soundless screams.

I try to tell him that everything will be okay, but he can’t hear me.

The sound of hooves stampeding across the pavement is fast and deafening and I twist, terrified, to see the bull charging toward us.

In this place, the bull hears everything.

In this place, we can’t escape the horned reaper.

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