Huddling and Hollow

I have been called many names – ‘Savior’, ‘Demon Lord’, ‘Peasant’, to list a few. That is simply what happens when you go through hundreds of lives, trying to make the best of a finite existence. Do I think those aliases are warranted? Not really. Everything I do amounts to nothing.

Well, that’s not completely true. There is one nickname that keeps getting repeated at the end, no matter which life I’m in. It all goes back to death, not how or why, but when. The apocalypse is not always a quiet conclusion. Some are gruesome and painful, dropping people into a pit of trauma. Climbing out is near impossible, and even then the peace only lasts for a brief moment.

That’s why…

Tick.

“Are you here to kill us?” the raggedy man asked again, pushing through my strained silence. Needless to say, I was confused. If he wanted to die, why was he pushing himself to exhaustion, helping the people lining the walls of this inoperable train station survive? They could’ve simply starved or asked someone else to do the deed. It was the most logical… ah.

Observing these people through the lens of logic was the wrong move. Our sensibilities differed, which meant our viewpoints differed as well. These weren’t people struggling to live. No, they were hollow shells waiting to die.

Tick.

Taking a second look, I could see the things I ignored previously. Yes, the young man in front of me was in torn clothes and tired, but it was worse than that. There were nicks all over his body, covered in either a thin layer of dirt, dried blood, or puss. The parts exposed through the holes of his clothing revealed a rather gaunt stature. Even the metaphorical light in his eyes was extinguished, leaving behind a broken body.

The rest seemed to be in similar conditions. Although most of them were covered in a bit of cloth to keep warm, those that weren’t exhibited the same or worse signs as this man. There were a few that seemed to have passed already, but instead of discarding the bodies, their loved ones laid next to them, stifling a cry. I doubted whether they could move anyway given my previous observations.

“How many more are there like this?”

“There may be a few other groups, but they’re probably the same as us,” the raggedy man promptly responded. “So, are you here to kill us?”

That question again… “Do you really want to die?”

A hoarse laugh rang through the growling halls. “Do I really need to answer that? I think you’re already aware.” I kept my silence. He was right, but I couldn’t help but ask those nostalgic questions.

Tick.

“Why can’t you do it yourself? Or why don’t you wait for the end to come?” I quietly asked, a stark contrast of the yelling from the scene overlapping in my mind. I stood in the middle of a rumbling forest, an hour or so after the sun had set. An old man sat by the dancing flames of a nearby campfire, clutching his side. He made a mistake, a stupid one trying to save a doll’s life, and as a result, he was shot. Any movement would exacerbate the wound, serving to bring about his end. His story would finish with or without my interference. And yet…

“Even I/we have our pride as people. I/We want our end to be on our own terms, not dying to some giant bug, not dying from some incurable disease.” I looked over to the side. In my past life, a space creature known as a world eater had already devoured a quarter of the planet. Its teeth appeared like mountains along the horizon, while its giant body blocked out almost every star in the sky. It was a hopeless situation, even more so than my current one. And yet, the old man smiled as he accepted his fate. The raggedy man seemed similar, though his expression was much more resigned.

“Why me then? Couldn’t you have chosen anyone else? Why does it have to be me?” Although my current tone was even, I could see my past screaming my lungs out, pleading with the old man. Back then, I had killed only a handful of people, and only in self-defense, never as the aggressor. But the old man in my memories, a friend who I traveled the world with, asked me to take his life. The reason didn’t matter; it was the fact that he wanted me to pull the trigger. I couldn’t comprehend what he was asking, and I lashed out in response.

Tick.

“It’s because it’s you. You are a reaper here to herald the end of the world. But at the same time, you try to save as many lives as possible. Whether you succeed or not is whatever. I can’t think of a better way to go out than by your hands. Your scythe is…” It was an oxymoronic statement. How could I be both a reaper and a savior? I could only give them a brief respite, one that might last as long as a single moment. And yet, he was happy with what little I could give. As for the raggedy man…

“I’m not sure why. I’ve never met you before, and I should have been much more wary. For all I know, you could be a reaper here to make the ends of our lives hell…” he began as his gaze wandered around the people, giving them each a conflicted expression. “But for some reason…

Tick.

“Your scythe seems kind.

“So, I don’t think I would mind dying by your hands.”

The silence lasted for a long but brief second before I let out a nostalgic sigh. Or was it a smile? One of the two, or both.

“Anything else you want to say then?”

“I already told them a long time ago, so…

“Thank you.”

I pulled the gun behind my back, aiming at the raggedy/old man and…

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Tick.