Hello!

This here is a story I wrote for my editor, The Omega Mega 1, as a Christmas present. After I showed it to him, I decided to upload it here and share it will all of you! Enjoy!

"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

It's a very cold night. She stands stock still before her latest kill. He is-he was-a large, horned moose, a good fat one too, his dark brown fur is now stained with his own blood.

It's a sloppy kill. But it'll have to do. An animal this size is worth sixty, after all, and she needs the money. Medicine is expensive.

She grabs his horn, halting briefly as bones crackle, and then continues on again. She now stops for nothing, even the villagers wrapped in warm clothing to protect from the cold; the one's who look at her with pure fear. They ought to know better by now.

She reaches the shop. Most of the windows are dark, but she can see light flooding under the door, so she knows she's home. Slowly, she pushes her way in, ignoring the jingle of the bell on top.

The old woman at the front desk looks up. She's busy, it looks like, counting out postcards with pretty pictures of orange skies and green seas and red maple trees, like pretty pictures could hide the horror. But she knows Marge, and even though Marge has been around a long time, much longer than she has, she always seems to be hopeful, and she likes that, even if she won't admit it.

She drags the moose over to Marge's desk and hauls him up, depositing him in front of her. She says nothing as Marge inspects him, checks him over if there's enough blood or even too much. She runs a hand through his fur, taps his forehead, and clears her throat as she looks up.

"Thirty." She rasps.

She feels anger flaring up. "He's worth sixty. You promised me sixty."

"Sorry, dearie." Marge replies. "Money's tight. He's worth a few feet of skin, but there ain't much blood I could sell. I'll give you thirty."

"You promised me sixty." She replies again, and her voice is dangerously low, almost like a growl now.

Marge shakes her head. "No can do-"

Suddenly, she hauls her scythe off her shoulder and plunges it into the wood, half a centimeter away from Marge's hand. She is angry now, very angry. Desperate too, but she dares not let Marge know that.

"Sixty." She growls. "Or there are other witches I could go to. With two bodies."

Marge, shaking, pulls a cash box out from under the desk, counts out the money, and hands it to her.

"I guess they don't call you Death Scythe for nothin'." She says, trying to force a smile. "And here; take some cookies." She hands Death Scythe a red bag decorated with Christmas trees. "For your sister."

Death Scythe snatches the bag away. She nods, which is as much of a thank you anyone's ever gotten from her, turns, and strides quickly to the door.

"Merry Christmas." Marge calls after her, but she's only replied with a door slam.

Outside, Death Scythe stands in the snow, she hasn't started her trek yet. In one hand she holds the money, and in the other the bag of cookies. She feels a lump start to form in her throat, but quickly swallows it. After all, she still has to visit the doctor and pick up the prescription, and if he saw she'd been crying, he'd start thinking she was weak.

After all, weak people get taken advantage of, and she can't afford that.

...

She manages to open the door, even though it's almost barricaded with snow. She flicks on the light switch, and immediately the heat comes on, as well as the lights on the Christmas tree in the corner.

Death Scythe sighs as she places the cookies and a wrapped present under the green branches. It's a little early for Santa to come by, but she won't know.

Speaking of which…

Death Scythe slowly removes her coat, hangs it up, and stands at the bottom of the stairs. She fingers the knife in her belt, trying to imagine what it would feel like. She tries to imagine what the moose felt as she had sliced him open like a taped box. The wetness of the blood on her hands was nothing new to her, all she would have to do…

She takes a step and begins climbing, ascending slowly. Each stair creeks, each one whispering to her different things. Some encourage her to do it, and some trip her, trying to hold her back, saying she'll regret it.

Finally she reaches the top. The entire upstairs is dark, and the room at the end of the hall is completely shrouded in blackness.

She makes her way forward. The floorboards creek beneath her. She fingers the knife in her belt again, and her heart leaps into her throat, bringing tears to her eyes.

She's reached the end of the hall, and is now standing in front of the door. The only door in the house that hasn't been painted black; it's still fresh and white, covered with childish crayon drawings of flowers and dogs and houses and people smiling.

Death Scythe takes a deep breath. Her heart is racing, and she lets go of the knife to turn the door knob.

She pushes her way in. The room itself is even darker than the rest of the house, but she can make out fain silhouettes of teddy bears and trains and model cars lined up around the room, covered in dust from years of neglect. The light on the table is dusty, too, as is the window sill on the other side of the room, also covered in crayon drawings.

But she can hear her. She can hear the faint, slow wheezing of the girl in the bed.

She turns to her, and fakes her best smile. "Matagi? It's me."

Matagi doesn't respond; she lies still on the bed, gasping shallowly like a fish.

Death Scythe sits beside her, and the bed dips slightly under her weight. She's amazed her sister doesn't break from the sudden motion, her frail body seems like it will snap in half at the lightest disturbance.

Death Scythe runs her hand over the poor girl's forehead. It's burning hot, just like the rest of her. "I got you some more medicine."

She sees Matagi blink her one eye slowly, the other eye is long gone; taken by disease, its empty socket hidden behind an eye patch

Death Scythe doesn't sigh; she's sighed for so long she doesn't see the point anymore. Gently, she sets the bottle of medicine down on the table, unscrews the cap, and pours a bit into a spoon for her.

"Here." She holds it towards Matagi's mouth, but the girl doesn't move.

Now she sighs. "If you don't take it, you won't get better."

Still, Matagi doesn't move.

Death Scythe is getting inpatient. "You have to take it, Matagi. I didn't scare the piss out of old lady Marge for you to give up on me now."

When Matagi still doesn't move, Death Scythe pulls her gently into a sitting position, opens her mouth, and force feeds her the medicine. She sees Matagi swallow, and apparently she still has enough energy to make a face as she does.

Death Scythe smiles triumphantly, before it is quickly replaced by said lump in her throat reforming. She turns away as her sister falls back onto the pillows, and before she can stop herself, let's out a muffled sob and begins to cry. She doesn't even know who she's crying for; her sister, herself, the moose she killed, the gloomy weather, Marge, the melting snow, it all kind of blurs together into one giant feeling of ultimate self-pity.

Suddenly, she feels something touch her arm. It's so faint it may as well not be there, like a flea's breath or a butterfly's kiss, but as she looks, she sees it's her sister's own bony fingers that have settled on her forearm, and that her one good eye is heavy with concern.

"Not Christmas…" She hears her whisper, and Death Scythe has to keep herself from gasping. It's the first words she's said in months.

"It is Christmas." Death Scythe said in defiance, wiping the tears from her face.

Matagi shakes her head and points to her tears "Not Christmas."

Oh. "Don't cry on Christmas?"

Matagi nods.

Despite all, Death Scythe manages to give her a smile. "Okay, sis." She says. "Not on Christmas."

...

They're running together through the town. They're fast, they're unstoppable, they're the ultimate killing machines, and Death Scythe has never felt so alive. Beside her, Matagi lets out a battle cry and laughs, holding their latest earnings above her head.

Death Scythe laughs with her. She's delighted, alighted and in love. She doesn't know with who or what, but this feeling must be what love is.

And of course, she's lost in her thoughts and gets a rough tug on the arm as Matagi drags her back to their little cottage. She's babbling on and on about hot chocolate and snowmen and cookies and how this is going to be the best Christmas ever, and that with how much money they just earned they had enough to buy a real Christmas dinner, with Turkey and Cranberry sauce and Apple pie and everything.

All the while, Death Scythe is still laughing. Yes, she is in love. She's in love with this happy life they have.

...

She wakes with a start. She's positioned awkwardly on the bed; half on but her legs are sliding off. Beside her, Matagi lays still again, still wheezing, like she's breathing through a straw.

Death Scythe is heartbroken. She's tired and angry; angry at the cold weather, angry at Marge, angry at Matagi, of all people (like she could help being sick), and most of all angry at herself. Right about now, Death Scythe hates the world.

She stands up. She hated that she'd just spent all her earnings on Matagi's medicine and present. She worked for everything and she got nothing in return; she'd expected her sister to come back to her, so far she hadn't.

Acting on impulse, Death Scythe unsheathes her blade. It's a well made piece of weaponry; a handle made of leather and ivory and a blade made of sterling steel. It's probably the most expensive thing she owns. Maybe one day she'd have to sell this too. And the thought of that makes her even angrier.

She's heaving now, huffing with rage. It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. It would just be so much easier to get rid of this nuisance, and that way she could work for herself again; she could go all the places she wanted to go.

And as she thinks this, she raises the knife above her head and stops.

It's not fair, it's really not, and it's not fair to Matagi, either. Matagi didn't ask to get sick.

Death Scythe knew her sister would much rather be outside, hunting bounties with her and selling to witches and feeling the joy in life.

It wasn't fair to either of them, and now someone had to make it fair.

She sheathes the blade again. This isn't a permanent decision; really, she's just waiting for her anger to get the best of her so she really can end it all one day, but right now…

Christmas was Matagi's favorite holiday. She couldn't kill her on Christmas.

...

The other doctors can't do anything for her, and this one is her last hope. He gently takes Matagi's pulse, feeling her lymph nods and narrowing his eyes. Her sister coughs again, shuddering and moaning.

Finally, he shakes his head. "I rarely see illnesses this bad."

Death Scythe feels her heart drop into her stomach. "Fix it."

The doctor shakes his head. "It's no use. It would only prolong her suffering."

"Fix. Her."

The doctor looks back at her.

"Now."

He sighs. "Perhaps the medicine can help. But I can promise nothing."

"I don't care." She clenches her fists. "Fix her, do whatever you have to."

He nods and stands up. "I'll have the prescription filled. You can come pick it up Monday." As he leaves, he stops beside her. "This won't be cheap."

"I'll get the money." She said. "Don't stop treating her."

The doctor only nods. "Good day madam." And with that, he's gone.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Death Scythe feels her knees buckle and sinks to the floor. She's shaking, panicking, even. She feels the tears behind her eyes push through and spill down her cheeks, and she cries on the floor, sobbing desperately, wishing this had never happened.

It should be her. It should be her.

...

Death Scythe wakes again. The sun isn't quite up yet, but the early morning light is pouring through the window.

She sits up, yawns, stretches, and looks around at her room. A quick shower and a change of clothes get her fully awake, and she makes her way down the hall again to Matagi's room. Downstairs, the lights on the Christmas tree make the room glow with an iridescent, warm light.

She doesn't hesitate this time as she opens the door. "Matagi?" And immediately, her breath catches in her throat.

Her sister is sitting up. She's propped herself up on several pillows, using some of them to support her arms as she put the finishing touches on a colorful box she was wrapping.

Death Scythe rushed to her, speechless, and Matagi pulled the present under her blankets, looking down shyly.

"For you…" She rasps. "Christmas."

For once, Death Scythe doesn't try to stop the tears from flowing. She can hardly feel them touch her skin or drip onto the floor. She's preoccupied, and she's so, so happy.

"I wanted…" Matagi continues "To put it under the tree…so you…could open it…"

"Yes…" Death Scythe drops to he knees beside her. "We can still put it under the tree! Of course! I can-" She reaches for the present but Matagi pulls away.

"I want to." She insists. "For you."

Her brows furrow. Matagi hasn't walked in such a long time. If she could even remember how, would her frail legs be able to support her?

But, her sister is sure, so Death Scythe smiles and nods, trying to suppress her worry. "Here, let me help you." Slowly, she helps Matagi stand, but she nearly collapses in her arms, and Death Scythe instinctively scoops her up into her arms and carries her down the stairs.

They reach the living room, and she lays her down on their old ratty couch that needed replacing long ago but they had no money for. She takes the present from Matagi and places it under the tree, and the two admire the scene before them, with the glowing Christmas lights reflecting off the wrapping paper.

Matagi smiles. "You first."

Death Scythe picks up the present again. It's sloppily wrapped, and the bow is crooked, but she did her best, and right now it's the most beautiful present under the tree. She pulls off the wrapping paper gently, as not to disturb it, and opens the box.

She's never seen anything like it in stores. She doesn't even know what to make of it at first. Then she sees the tiny loop on the end, and picks it up, noticing the jingling sound it makes.

"A charm." Matagi whispers. "For your scythe."

She feels her heart quiver. "You made this?"

She nods.

The tears flow again. "It's beautiful." She throws her arms around Matagi. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Matagi smiles and slowly wraps her arms around her as well, holding her loosely.

Death Scythe sits back and pulls Matagi's present out from under the tree, handing it to her. "Here, now you open yours."

Matagi sits up, slowly, and very slowly pulls the wrapping paper off. Her frail hands tremble, but she continues steadily. Death Scythe wits patiently, though her heart is racing with anticipation.

Finally, the wrapping paper is off and the box is open, and Matagi's eyes widen. Inside is a white arm band with a purple pentagram design on the front, glowing softly in the dark.

She looks up at Death Scythe.

She smiles. "You always wanted one."

Matagi holds her arms out, and Death Scythe hugs her tightly. Now they are both crying.

As the day goes on, Death Scythe begins to cook dinner for them. Matagi still sits on the couch, watching the tree lights flicker softly.

Suddenly, Death Scythe hears a thump. She runs back into the living room, panicking, as she sees Matagi on her knees, her bony hand gripping the arm rest of the couch. Immediately she rushes over to help her, but instead of gripping her like she usually does, Matagi uses her hand and pushes herself up, stumbling and finally standing.

Death Scythe is mesmerized. Stunned, she watches and Matagi makes her way over to the steps and clumsily slips on her old boots that haven't been used in years. She pulls on a jacket, all the time holding the wall, makes her way to the front door, and opens it.

Death Scythe jumps up just as Matagi exits. She hears her boots crunching in the snow, and her steps are uneven. Quickly, she pulls on her own trench coat and boots and follows her sister outside.

Matagi is still walking. Once, she stumbles and falls to her knees in the snow, but she stands again without help. Finally she stops and begins looking around at the snow, scooping some of it together into a snowball.

A snowball fight? She couldn't.

But as she watches, Matagi keeps adding more to the snowball, and drops it on the ground. She starts to try to roll it towards her sister, straining under the weight.

A snowman.

Death Scythe hurries over, cold tears stinging her eyes. Hour after hour passes and the two on them add several more layers of snow to their creation, until finally they stand back and admire their work.

Death Scythe looks at Matagi. She's pale and breathless, but she also hasn't looked so happy in years. Instinctively, Death Scythe reaches out and touches her forehead, only to find it cool.

She begins to wonder if maybe the cold weather is messing with her, so she grabs Matagi's hand and leads her back inside, where she feels her forehead again.

It's a bit warmer, but her fever is obviously gone.

Now Death Scythe breaks. She collapses in a chair and sobs harder than she ever has.

She hears the clunking of snow boots across the floor, and looks up to see Matagi starring down at her, a worried expression on her face. Slowly, her sister kneels down in front of her and wipes the tears from her face, smiling a bit.

"Not on Christmas." She gently insists.

Death Scythe smiles and hugs her again. "Of course not." She assures her. "No tears on Christmas. I promise."

"Good." Matagi giggles, and for a moment, Death Scythe sees a bit of the old Matagi in her, the one who thought the world was her ultimate playground or castle to conquer; the one who though she could do anything in the world as long as she put her mind to it.

The days after that are…different. Some days Matagi once again retreats into her sick shell, but she's beginning to walk again. She sits up more, she eats and talks with her again, and that gives Death Scythe hope. Even if it's two steps forward, one step back, it gives her hope that one day, Matagi will return to normal.

No longer does she contemplate putting her sister out of her misery. No, she would never waste so much improvement. True, there are still days when she gets angry at her sister and herself for their lack of money, but it's never permanent.

And as the two of them sit outside building a snowman in the last of the snow right before spring begins to revive, she looks up to see Matagi walking smoothly into the house and return with a carrot and some buttons. Her gait is a bit unsteady, but her smile is confident.

It gives her hope again.

"There comes a point at which you stop giving things up. This is what I won't give up. None of it will I give up, for my beautiful sister…"

-Alison McGhee

Hope you enjoyed it! I know it's not even close to Christmas anymore but what the hell! Christmas specials are good whenever.

Once again, Merry Christmas to Omega, my cynical, wonderful editor. And to all of you, too!

Bye now!