I am a killer.

That’s what I thought, when I walked out. When I started speaking to her.

“Excuse me,” I’d said, “Are you Miss Emne?”

So simple was the phrase, but already I’d become the reaper, my scythe at my side, prepared to take her soul to hell.

Her simple, understanding nod tore at my heart, ravaged the compassion within me to say “Stop this! Turn it around, everything will be okay! Tell her that instead!”

I wish I could’ve. But as I reached her, my shoes tapping the cold tile floor, I knew that I had no choice.

For I, I am a killer.

“I am very sorry,” I began, as I drew my scythe over my head. My victim stood before me, her soul standing over hell on the most fragile of support; Hope.

I didn’t wish to continue on. I didn’t want to. What’s worse, she understood immediately. She looked me right in the eye, the logical side of her brain accepting the situation.

“You mean.. He’s..?”

I reared my scythe as I had done so many times before. Prepared to take the fragile pillar down as I had done so many times.

“I’m afraid so.”

She looked down. My scythe struck, as it had done so many times before, taking the pillar of hope away, and dragging the innocent down to despair as I had so frequently over the years.

I killed her, her hopes, her dreams. It’s not that I wanted to, it's not that I liked doing it. I got nothing but a paycheck at the end of the day and even then, scarcely enough for my life. 

No, I’m not a killer because I want to be,

I’m a killer because no one else will be.

So, there I stand. On the cold tile floor in my scrubs and plastic gloves, with the woman who I’d killed.

“I.. I can’t believe it, you must’ve done something wrong, you must..!” she cried.

Just as broken as I’d expected, the final vain cries of the dying hope who cannot accept it to be so.

“Let me see him, you must let me see him!”

Of course, my scythe was driven deeper as I stopped her, for I cannot permit that. It is against policy, inhumane and terrible policy.

Nonetheless, she broke past me, and ran into the room.

The doors swung open to the tomb, and permanently swung shut for her soul.

Her sobbing screams could be heard echoing the halls as she lost the final fighting glimmer of life within her.

In the end, she’d led her heart to my pointed blade.

I had killed her, as I had so many others.

In the past I’ve been sued, I’ve been screamed at, I’ve been blamed.

But I did not kill those on my table, no, nature is responsible this day.

The victims of nature have it easy, they see it coming, when natural life is dragged so unwillingly.

The victims of emotion and life are the ones who suffer. The victims of the reaper, of the killer, of me.