A particular tug at his lungs broke his reverie; the sign of hundreds of souls needing to be cut from their decaying corpses. He could do this; it was only for a day after all.
---
The first soul he came across was the victim of a murder. Throat slashed, eyes gouged, and tongue cut out; he turned his gaze to the horizon as the scythe fell and one less scream sounded in his mind. The next was a little girl; no older then eight who had fallen into a river and had failed to find shore. He tenderly closed her open eyes before cutting her free, watching dispassionately as her soul shook itself from her body; phantom water stopping her from completing her delicate 'thank you'. The fourth and sixth were similar, drug overdoses that resulted in a fine sheen of sweat to be caked to cracked skin. They left their bodies with a sharp inhale, breathing in pure air for the first time in years.
After that the dead blur together in a wash of blood and rotten flesh, only a few stick out.
The family that died in a car crash, caused by the daughter shouting that she hated the father; the younger brother went flying through the windshield and died at impact when his head struck the road, the mother's neck was snapped by her seat-belt. While the daughter and the father were caught in the car, alive as the engine exploded and fire licked at their bodies. England makes sure to gently lift the brother's soul from his torn body, placing it down on its feet and pushing it towards the mother's own weeping soul.
The man with his head blown off takes extra time to coax out of his body. His soul crying out that it was unfair; that he hadn't lived yet, done enough, accomplished anything. Most souls were happy to go on, and if they weren't they were apathetic; it was unusual for him to come across a soul that refused to move forward.
The rapist that had been killed in self defense; arm broken, ribs fractured, and a shard of bone cut through the femoral artery from where the victim had kicked him in the leg, shattering the fibula. He had bled out as his target ran away, tears slipping past clenched eyes as she sprinted to safety. England rips the scythe through the thin cord that connects soul to body, letting out his anger by crushing the souls hand after it disconnected from its corpse.
And the baby that had been born to early, its mother still hugging it to her chest. Sobs wracking her body as the babe's form cooled. Soft downy hair moved with the woman's gasps for breath as she begged god not to take her baby, not to steal him from her so early. England closed his eyes and steeled himself as he cut the baby's connection to life before hurriedly retying it; the babe would live, but he would have a severely shortened life when compared to other humans.
By the time that he's reaped enough souls for the array of screams in his head to die down to a dull roar the sun is just touching the horizon as dusk approaches. He only has a few more hours of wielding Death's scythe and wearing It's robe. Only a few more hours before he's just England again.
Re: Dead Days (1b/1)
---
The first soul he came across was the victim of a murder. Throat slashed, eyes gouged, and tongue cut out; he turned his gaze to the horizon as the scythe fell and one less scream sounded in his mind. The next was a little girl; no older then eight who had fallen into a river and had failed to find shore. He tenderly closed her open eyes before cutting her free, watching dispassionately as her soul shook itself from her body; phantom water stopping her from completing her delicate 'thank you'. The fourth and sixth were similar, drug overdoses that resulted in a fine sheen of sweat to be caked to cracked skin. They left their bodies with a sharp inhale, breathing in pure air for the first time in years.
After that the dead blur together in a wash of blood and rotten flesh, only a few stick out.
The family that died in a car crash, caused by the daughter shouting that she hated the father; the younger brother went flying through the windshield and died at impact when his head struck the road, the mother's neck was snapped by her seat-belt. While the daughter and the father were caught in the car, alive as the engine exploded and fire licked at their bodies. England makes sure to gently lift the brother's soul from his torn body, placing it down on its feet and pushing it towards the mother's own weeping soul.
The man with his head blown off takes extra time to coax out of his body. His soul crying out that it was unfair; that he hadn't lived yet, done enough, accomplished anything. Most souls were happy to go on, and if they weren't they were apathetic; it was unusual for him to come across a soul that refused to move forward.
The rapist that had been killed in self defense; arm broken, ribs fractured, and a shard of bone cut through the femoral artery from where the victim had kicked him in the leg, shattering the fibula. He had bled out as his target ran away, tears slipping past clenched eyes as she sprinted to safety. England rips the scythe through the thin cord that connects soul to body, letting out his anger by crushing the souls hand after it disconnected from its corpse.
And the baby that had been born to early, its mother still hugging it to her chest. Sobs wracking her body as the babe's form cooled. Soft downy hair moved with the woman's gasps for breath as she begged god not to take her baby, not to steal him from her so early. England closed his eyes and steeled himself as he cut the baby's connection to life before hurriedly retying it; the babe would live, but he would have a severely shortened life when compared to other humans.
By the time that he's reaped enough souls for the array of screams in his head to die down to a dull roar the sun is just touching the horizon as dusk approaches. He only has a few more hours of wielding Death's scythe and wearing It's robe. Only a few more hours before he's just England again.