I pick up the souls in my arms. It is that of an old woman, her hair parted, her mouth open wide like a turkey on Thanksgiving. She is skinny, her frail form bent at an odd angle as I take her soul in my arms, from the shell of her dead body.
This one is a young boy, maybe five years old. Gabriel, his name is. I know all names. Everyone belongs to me. Gabriel is chubby. His golden curls frame his face like the royal embellishment on a picture frame. Like with every soul, words hiss out of his mouth. The ghosts of the last words he uttered. The ghosts of his last thoughts.
Being Death, you'd think I'd know all about ghosts. But ghosts as they are are not what humans imagine them to be. I have collected many a young human child with a white bag over their head, deprived of oxygen, dressed as a "ghost".
Real ghosts? They're just souls. Just the imprints of human lives. Whisps of air, of partial matter. But mostly of memory. Ghosts are built on memory. The memories they stored in their life, the memory others have of them.
Take George Washington, for example. The hero of the US. When he died, I was there. When I picked his soul out of his body, it was brighter than any soul I had seen for ages. And, unlike most souls, his has not faded significantly since. People still remember him, cherish him. He is still loved.
When a soul is completely forgotten, they disappear altogether. I have seen many children, babies, enter my arms. Soon after, many fade to wisps of smoke. They are soon gone.
I am Death. I was created eons and eons ago, before Earth was created, back when the galaxy was created. That is a phenomenon, nothing more. Back then, all I saw was stars. Supernovas. I would take the star, then, and lay it down to rest.
I am Death. I have seen every human who has died, and will see every human who has been born. Every human belongs to me. Every animal belongs to me. Everything living belongs to me - and a lot more that isn't. I remember each one. I remember the small girl who died in a cave, begging for her mother. I remember the albino cat who fell off of the cliff. I remember every soldier who has died. I do not forget.
I am Death. I am busy.
Back in the twenty-first century, I had my greatest stretch of work ever: World War Three. And, on top of that, America's Second Civil War. Millions of humans alone died each month. Millions more than usual. For a decade, about, I worked overtime, nonstop.
And then came the "peace". I began to collect souls from the Capitol, they call it. A beautiful place. Colorful, grand, unrealistic.
But I did not see the Capitol nearly as much as I saw the districts. Thirteen dirty places, full of disease, poverty, death. Half of the souls I collected were stick thin, the other near half wretched from disease.
This was not peace. I knew another war was coming. All this meant to me was more work. More time spent picking up bodies, cradling them in my arms, listening to their last words, repeated several time, like from a broken recorder.
The Dark Days came soon. I picked up the president's body at the end of the 21st Century. I found him in his office, laying under his desk. He hissed the words, It has begun. They have truly revolted. It has begun. They have truly revolted. It has begun. They have truly...
When I collected souls on my daily rounds in the districts, I saw armies. Guns. People preparing for war. And bodies were on the battlefield, their souls striving for peace, for a break from war.
The ghosts of their last words, their last thoughts, they became fearful, full of unhappiness, uncertainty, sadness.
A young boy lies on a scruffy couch, covered in pox spots. Mommy, you said Daddy was coming back. Mommy, you told me Daddy was coming back! Mommy, Daddy isn't back...
A general in the rebel army lies on the gravel ground. The Dark Days have begun. Good luck. We have no hope.
A soldier lies on a battlefield, his body peppered with bullet wounds. The Capitol is too strong. I don't know how long we can keep it up.
A middle-aged woman sits on an old, lice-ridden bed, cradling her stick thin, malnourished daughter. Mother, is it true? We're rebelling? Why are they killing us?
A man lies in a bed in a makeshift hospital in District 5. His son kneels by his side. The Dark Days. Is that what they're calling it? Son, you must keep fighting. The Dark Days will end in our favor, you only need to...keep...fighting...
A small child, terribly sick, sits on the floor of a dirty shack, playing quietly. Auntie, I heard they killed the entire District 6 army. Is it true? They killed them all? Daddy and Uncle were both there. Did they come back? And my brother! He went, too. He lived? Auntie, I'm scared... He sinks to the ground, dead. I reach into his heart, and gently pull out his soul. It is not bright.
A teenage girl, nearly dead of pneumonia, clutches her mother. They really won? The Capitol...I thought...I thought we had a chance. Really, they won? They really blew up Thirteen? D'you think they're going to blow us up, too? I know they're not going to just let this go.
The souls, they told me the Capitol had won. I had foreseen this, of course. I have experienced enough war to be able to predict who will be the winning side. The rebels were not that strong. They were not capable of winning.
I continued to work overtime to collect the souls from the Districts. It was almost the 22nd century. The Capitol went back to being the beautiful, colorful place it was before the Dark Days. I so rarely see color these days.
The souls began to talk about something else - a sporting competition. Every year. And some souls claim to have competed.
A tiny girl, twelve years old, sits in a forest. Her back is to a tree. Ropes bind her to the tree. She is tied on. A spear is in her heart. A teenager, seventeen years old, stands several meters away. The girl's scream pierces the air. Her abdomen is covered in still streaming blood. I know she is mine to take. A cannon booms, and I reach down, into her body. I take out her soul. It gleams faintly.
I'm sorry, District Three. I didn't win the Hunger Games. Well, I never really had the chance...
It is barely a week later that I take the boy. He runs along a cliff side, constantly looking behind him, terror on his face. A huge girl appears behind him, holding a sword. The boy is unarmed. She gains on him, and eventually overtakes him. She swipes her sword at him, taking off his head. A cannon booms immediately. I swoop in, and retrieve the boy's soul.
I thought I could win the Hunger games, I really did. I'm from District 2, I've been training to become a Peacekeeper, that has helped me. I should have won...
The Hunger Games, the souls tell me. The Capitol orders twenty-four tributes, a male and female from every district, to fight to the death. It disgusts me. Death is prominent enough without them asking for it. And the way these children kill each other, offerings to me, I cannot understand.
Seventy three years of uneventful Hunger Games pass. But I have lived for all eternity. I knew another war was coming.
There were two victors for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The Head Gamemaker, among others, told me. I found him in his quarters, slumped on the ground. Nightlock was on his cheek. Why did I not blast one of them? I should have. But I let them both win. I let them both win! And now look where I am.
The war started the next year. I picked up soul after soul. Souls strewn on the battlefield, in the Districts, in the Capitol. Souls everywhere. Dead everywhere. I worked overtime.
You know what they say, war is death's best friend? It's a lie. I, being Death, can tell you that firsthand. War is too demanding. It means more work for me. Nothing more. War is the demanding boss, nothing more. And I'm not even paid.
The rebellion eventually was fought to it's end. This time, the rebels won. Their heroes: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, victors of the 74th and 75th Hunger Games. Peace followed. Almost true peace.
Peeta died first. I found him in his house, in front of an easel. The sunset is beautiful. As beautiful as Katniss.
Katniss died a decade later. I found her in the woods outside of District 12, holding a bow, at a ruined house in front of a lake. My father and I used to come here. I would swim in the lake, and hunt. That was a while ago. Before everything happened. Her soul was brighter than any soul I've ever seen.
Years passed. The nation thrived. Wars were scarce. But I still worked. Day and night I collected souls.
I haven't changed much the millennia I've lived. But humankind has evolved more than I ever thought it would. More than anyone thought it would.
But I still don't understand the human race; their motives, their lives, their joys and sorrows. And I never will.
A/N: Please review and tell me what you thought. Stay awesome! -Skylark