The boy's name was Edmund; only Edmund. His file was conspicuously sparse, but that was only expected of a whore's whelp. Those unwanted children spent their short lives hungry and neglected and were eventually consumed by one illness or another. Of course their deaths were never clean, never simple; for that reason, only reapers in ill favor were sent to collect their sad souls. And of those, there only ever seemed to be one.
Today Grell chose a drab brown suit to match all the others in the dirty back alleys of London. Though it lacked the stains and frayed hems of its brethren, it went unnoticed in the droves of men and women concerned only with the source of their next meal. He skirted piles of garbage and puddles of questionable origin on his merry way down the row, glad to have abided by one of his golden rules: one does not wear one's good shoes in the East End. And valuable advice it was, for nothing ruined a good reap like a ruined shoe.
He paused in front of the shabby little row house, frowning. Usually when a child died - even a whore's get - there was some measure of grief; a grimly silent mother at best, a wailing one at worst. But here, there wasn't even a presence of this boy's mother. The old door gave way under his hand, the mortal locks folding obediently like the inferior matter they were. Inside he found a small living room where, obviously, nobody had done any living in quite a while. Dirty old furniture layered with dust was arranged haphazardly atop a threadbare green rug, but the only inhabitants were some opportunistic rats. The other rooms yielded no further information - or humans, for that matter. Only dirt. Mortals were so tragically dirty.
"Will could have just told me if this was a bleeding wild goose chase." He muttered to the peeling walls, sighing. A beetle crawled slowly across the faded wallpaper; he flicked it to the floor resentfully. It coughed.
Wait, beetles don't cough. Do they? He narrowed his eyes as it scuttled under a rug. I really should spend more time down here.
The cough came again, rougher this time, and Grell turned toward the darkened stairwell. The boy's room was easy enough to find, since it was the only one with light. One stunted tallow candle burned at his bedside, threatening to gutter at each gentle breeze through the open window. Edmund himself was stretched out on a rickety bed, dressed in soiled bedclothes obviously made for a woman. His brown eyes were open but did not see, his left arm twisted grotesquely and tied to the headboard by a hempen rope. His cinematic record welled darkly out of a swollen gash on his stomach. Barely clinging to life, this one.
Grell sifted through the boy's memories lazily. Predictable history of violence and neglect, thoughts of suicide but no will to carry them out. Interesting, though, for the mother to carry out these little tortures, to even enjoy them. Usually that type of monster was haunted by guilt and self-loathing, but not this one. Congratulations, you are one interesting human in a thousand.
Well, time to end this poor creature. He grabbed a fistful of the record and pulled as hard as he could, steeling his mind for the familiar crushing weight. Children were so difficult to bear; old men looked back on their lives with resigned nostalgia, but children never truly understood what they were seeing.
Edmund's life began with an all-too-common anonymous conception, the risk that whores carried with them at all times. His mother tore at her hair and cursed God when she discovered her pregnancy, for she had already birthed another mistake. Edmund suffered worse punishments than his older sister, for he was the salt in his mother's wound; the tearing and stretch marks Edmund had inflicted would forever lower the price of her body.
Ah, here is something of note. A well-worn memory drifted by, a secret pastime that had only been discovered recently. Grinning, Grell delved into it. Ah, the fantasies born of a mind twisted with pain. Stealing into his sister's room and slipping into her dresses, thinking with childish naivete that he could follow in his mother's footsteps and somehow gain her love. The feeling that he would be better as a girl; that he could wear makeup and cry freely when he was hit. These were familiar.
But freak, she called him. Sick boy, addled and unfit. Seeking out a customer in a desperate attempt to prove himself, being beaten and raped in an alley instead. Stupid child, when he crawled home, what did you think would happen? Laughing, scorn.
The memory faded; dying Edmund cringed away from it, ashamed.
"Don't have to hide it from me, kid." The last bit of record slid free, and the tainted child's body fell limply against the bed. I would have raised you better.
The front door slammed open. Grell heard muffled yelling, then the sharp slap of flesh on flesh. Booted feet stomping up the stairs. He made no move to hide; humans would not see him unless he wished it.
Two women that could only be Edmund's mother and sister entered the room, both dressed in what used to be finery before a few too many violent romps. As always, he knew them when he looked upon them. The mother, Natalie Gosling, forty-one years old, two children, dead in two years, five months, twenty-seven days. The daughter, Elsa, fourteen, pregnant, dead in one month, nine days.
"So he's dead." Natalie stated simply, crossing her arms. "Clean this up." Grell saw the fury in her when she looked toward her daughter. The jealousy, the impotent rage of aging women who knew their time was dwindling. And Elsa, so pretty, barely touched by the filth of the world. Fresh scratches on her cheek, a cut above her eye. Little punishments that would mar her beauty but not detract from her price.
Natalie wheeled and left the room like any aristocrat, a queen in her own home. Elsa couldn't speak; she stood frozen beside Edmund's body, wanting badly to follow her mother's order but revolted by the sight of her little brother lying dead in her nightgown. Grell made the decision for her, stepping forward and letting himself be visible. He put a gloved finger to his lips before she could scream, and Elsa, being the good little whore she was, did not dare to disobey a man.
"Get out of the house, now, and be as quiet as you can." He said softly, drawing her toward the door. "I won't save you if she catches you." He grinned, and the sight of his teeth drove her out.
Natalie was in the kitchen preparing half a fowl that smelled suspiciously of rot. She didn't notice the pale wisp of a girl slipping out the door, or the tall man drifting down the stairs. Natalie was concerned with Natalie, as she had been her entire life. Grell saw a young girl no older than Elsa seeking the perceived luxury of a high-end brothel, being showered with affection and gifts, and being tossed into the street when her breasts began to sag. An enraged woman with a baby on the way and a hovel to call home. Fifteen years later, she had lost none of her greed or malice. Her grudges ran deep and black, and the only outlet left for her rage would succumb to it in one month, nine days.
Once he had asked Will why the worst humans always seemed to live the longest. The answer had been simple; they were the most resourceful and conceited, the most willing to do anything it took to survive. Will then added that it was not a reaper's place to judge humans, only to guide their souls. You judged me quickly enough, though.
"How are you going to do it, Natalie?" Grell stepped into the kitchen, effectively blocking its only escape route. The woman jumped and turned, carving knife in hand. Oh, I wonder how often this happens. Amusing. "Perhaps you'll use that, and carve up her pretty little face? I know you've dreamed of it."
Natalie smiled wryly and lowered the knife. "Oh, a sicko, huh? Sure, we can play that game, if you got the money. I'll do any carving you want, mister."
Money again. One covets what one never has. "Do you think that by hurting your children, you will become young again?" Her smile disappeared. "Did you even love them? The fruits of your human body."
Her mouth contorted in anger. She thrust the knife forward, but mortal movements were so easy to dodge. "Who are you, huh? Those kids are mine! You get away from me!"
"Kid, you mean. And where is darling Elsa? Not here, oh no, not with a monster dressed like an old whore." He grabbed her wrist when she tried to slap him, twisted it until she screamed. "To think I could have ended up like you."
She stared transfixed at the splintered bone protruding from her wrist. "What...what do you want?" Her brittle wall of pride crumbled; Grell could smell the fear on her skin.
"What do I want?" He threw her to the floor and watched the blood soak through her tattered lavender dress. He sat down beside her, pulled her hair until her face was level with his own, smelled her rancid breath heaving desperately against the shock. "An interesting question, one whose depth I'm sure the likes of you could never appreciate." She clutched her broken hand, worrying at it as if it could be fixed with a touch. "I have achieved what your son only dreamed. I can trick men, seduce them, make them do whatever I want. But it's not enough, Natalie, because they know I am not a woman." He punctuated his words by slamming her head back into the cabinets, over and over and over. "And you, you had everything!"
She was barely clinging to her pathetic life, staring at him blankly through sad brown eyes. He frowned and let her drop to the floor. Her cinematic record was smeared up the cabinets, crawling across the floor like a snake. He collected it slowly, reflecting on what he'd done. A premature death. Someone would surely take notice after a while. But the threat of punishment could not touch the thrill of holding this woman's life in his hands, so different from normal collections. A conscious choice among the predestined mummery. Her soul was already drifting aimlessly through the house, a confused and empty thing, bound to wander for another two years, five months, twenty-seven days. After that, it would be pulled down to Hell to assume its prepared seat. Isn't that unfair, Natalie? For one lifetime of sin, you will suffer forever. But no matter what I do, God will forgive me. He grinned widely and even laughed a bit, kicking up some blood to spatter on the wall, and was glad that he hadn't worn his good shoes.