Must Kill Old Lady

The sun had set, casting a deep orange hue over the horizon as I walked the familiar path home. The day had been both exhilarating and tumultuous, marked by the momentous encounter with Yvonne during that school day. Her presence had a way of enveloping my thoughts, weaving itself into my soul.

The day had been both a torment and a delight, a chance to witness her essence up close. Her every movement, her laughter, her mere existence, captivated me beyond reason. Time seemed to warp in her presence, and as the day came to an end, I walked out into the world, my heart soaring and heavy at once.

The journey home was a solitary one, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. I replayed every fleeting glance, every stolen moment of our encounter, seeking to unravel the entity that was Yvonne. My footsteps fell in rhythm with the beat of my heart, and the world around me felt hushed, as if it held its breath in anticipation.

As I entered our home, the air seemed to crackle with a strange energy. My father was waiting, his demeanor serious and unyielding. His words hung heavy in the air as he revealed the task at hand—an assignment that sent a chill down my spine. My heart sank as I listened, the weight of the duty bearing down on me.

"Today, Grimm, you have a task to undertake," he said, his voice as somber as the night outside. "A scheduled 'heart attack' on an old lady named Florence Ambrose."

I listened in silence, my chest tightening with a mixture of apprehension and resignation. The name rang in my ears, a name I had not encountered before. Yet, there was something about it, a whisper of familiarity that tugged at my subconscious. This was something I had done a million times before, I just can't figure out why this one, in particular, was giving me a hard time, but it still has to be done. 

And so, with the assignment weighing heavily on my shoulders, I ventured out into the night once again. The stars twinkled overhead, oblivious to the turmoil within me. As I approached the house, an unsettling feeling gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. The façade of normalcy that had enveloped my existence now seemed fragile, teetering on the precipice of a truth I couldn't quite grasp.

The house stood before me, an ominous silhouette against the night. It was an ordinary house, yet its presence felt like an echo from another time, a distant memory that eluded my grasp. As I entered, the sensation of déjà vu intensified, and I was overcome by an eerie sense of recognition.

There she sat, a figure in the dim light, knitting as if nothing were amiss. Florence Ambrose—a name that held no significance to me until now. My gaze locked onto her, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. The act that was about to unfold weighed heavily on my conscience, a heavy burden that refused to be ignored.

With a mechanical detachment, I moved forward, my hand closing around a knitting needle. The moment was surreal, the shadows in the room dancing in tandem with my inner turmoil. And then it happened—the act that marked the culmination of my role as a reaper, the charade that veiled the truth from the world.

My actions were swift and efficient—designed to mimic the common cause of death. But as I carried out my task, an unsettling feeling nagged at the edges of my consciousness. I pushed it aside, my mind focused on the ritual I had performed countless times before.

And then it was done.

I stepped back, my breath shaky as I surveyed the scene. The room was silent, save for the echoes of my own heartbeats. It was a moment of grim finality, a reminder of the duality that defined my existence.

But then, out of the silence, a cry shattered the stillness—a voice that echoed with a strangely familiar tone. "GRANDMA!"

The voice was a jolt, a piercing cry that cut through the darkness. I turned, my heart pounding in my chest, and there she stood—Yvonne—her eyes filled with tears, her voice a desperate plea. The realization struck like lightning, a revelation that tore through the walls I had constructed around my heart.

The truth crashed over me like a tidal wave. Florence Ambrose was her grandmother—the one person she had left in the world, the cornerstone of her existence. And I had unknowingly taken her life.

My breath caught, and I stumbled back, my world unraveling before me. Guilt and horror gripped me in their icy embrace, and I was left to grapple with the magnitude of my actions. The connection I had felt with Yvonne was now intertwined with a darkness that eclipsed everything else.

As I stood there, frozen by the weight of my transgression, I understood the depths of the shadows that lurked beneath the surface. My path as a reaper had led me down a treacherous road—one that blurred the lines between duty and morality, between love and the irreversible consequences of my actions.

From that point, everything froze. With us being immortal as reapers, there is really no concept of time, I can stop it if I want, but for some reason, I can't go forward or backward. 

As I walk around the still scene that I have created, I can't help but wonder if what I had done is wrong or right. I'm going to need to think about what to do next.