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The Reaper

    The day had finally come to kill. To remove a soul. What I do is a form of cleansing. I take great pleasure in easing the world of the souls that burden it. The only problem is, each soul has to be worked and - after eight years on this one - I need to move on. I’m old, tired and ready to hand off some of my responsibilities to the younger generation. But first I have to continue the ruse. What’s one more hour in the life of someone as old as me?
     
    “What bothers me,” I started, “is our own child doesn’t like us using the name we gave him.” I turned around in my seat to glance at my sleeping son, my little reaper, Jacob. Or Mark , as he would rather be called.
     
    “I know, honey, but all we can do is continue on to Novar and prove to him that what he’s been saying can’t be right. We’ll take Jacob to where he thinks he was born and show him.”
     
    I felt grumpy and moody. I was pissed this day had taken so long. But, in each case we have to have a story. I don’t wait for people to die like my cousin the Grim Reaper. We take people early. It’s justified. It’s right. The problem for me is that I’m the only one powerful enough to know our purpose. My husband, John, has no idea who he is, and won’t for another hour. He actually thinks he’s my husband and Jacob actually sees himself as my son.
     
    If the world only knew how crazy I am, how much fun I have in their misery, they wouldn’t hunt me with pitchforks as they did hundreds of years ago - they’d send an army to decapitate me.
     
    I sat in the front seat of our Nissan and stared at the passing trees, my arms crossed. The colors were a vibrant green this time of year. Normally that would inspire me, cause me to snap a picture or two of the July sun, if only to add another prop to my stage dressing. But I didn’t, because this play was coming to an end and there would be no encore.
     
    “I’m just tired of always hearing about his mother,” I stated, fully encompassing my role in this incarnation. “How she washed clothes with her hands and how she made bread at home in an outside bread oven. His mother this and his mother that . Never memories of his first eight years with us.” I raised my hands in frustration. “I know he remembers getting a PlayStation at Christmas, and lots of other things since he was born, but I’m talking about what he says happened that isn’t true. I mean, come on, we haven’t let him watch that much television.”
     
    John put his hand on my leg to calm me down. He knew all too well that I could really get fired up about this stuff. I am Jacob’s mother. I wash clothes in a machine. I buy bread at a large grocery store and we live in a city, not a village. We have electricity and only use candles for a romantic dinner. At least that’s how it all appears.
     
    At first, I wondered if Jacob knew who he really was and what his mission had become for this incarnation. There were times when I was sure of it, but then I realized that he wasn’t as old as I am, and only ones older than five hundred years can do what I do with all the knowledge. I’m eight thousand, two hundred years old this June and as I said earlier, ready to retire. My husband is a pawn; my son, my successor.
     
    I realized a few years ago, when Jacob began remembering a past life, that it was only a phase he was going through. But it didn’t stop. Jacob continued talking about his past like he’d actually lived it. When he said he was born in the village of Novar, my husband and I decided to drive there to show him Novar so we could put his delusions to rest and I could complete my task for this incarnation.
     
    “Everything will be fine,” John said, trying to reassure me. I appreciated his efforts, but I had a nagging feeling that something was amiss. On this, the day of atoning, John still didn’t indicate that he knew who he was. I worried a little that he wouldn’t. If he didn’t come around, I would