Authors note: This story was heavily influenced by a story called The Book Thief. In the story, death is personified and is a character in both the novel and film. I found the concept of death as a character fascinating. I confess I have not yet read the book version, so I am creating this version of Death with the character depicted in the film in mind. Hopefully, my version of personified Death will not be a clone of the one in The Book Thief.

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Life goes on. This is a simple fact that has been proven time after time, with every loss and every calamity. Humans never seem to have a firm grip on this concept. There's always last words and last rites and funerals, urns, vaults, and coffins. There are hysterical spouses sobbing that they shall never love again, there are the fathers and mothers hitting the bottle everything night, desperate to do anything to get their child's final moments out of their heads. The worst are the children, not understanding why mommy and daddy won't wake up. And I'm there every time.

Every. Single. Time.

I'm not jaded. After thousands of years, you might be but I never waver in my job. Of course, there are times when I feel cold, when I wish I were something else, anything else.

But people can be remarkable.

And the ginger heiress turned obscure film star was in my handful of remarkable people.

Rose Calvert was different. I knew so on the chilly night I came for her in the middle of the ocean, on the grandest ship in the world surrounded by every conceivable luxury. It was the life envied by many, the sort of life seeming to be the closest some will ever get to heaven. Rose didn't want it. That was the first thing that struck me as strange about the beautiful teenager crying out, tears staining her perfect skin, auburn hair flailing wildly, as if she were floating underwater. I have witnessed millions of suicides in my day, and I have taken them to their destination. And I knew Rose would not die tonight, her soul would not be mine to take for many more years.

She climbed over the stern and took a deep breath.

She stood there, clutching the rail firmly and panting, tears still cascading down her eyes like water. Like the dangerous whitecaps only yards beneath her, no one knew her capabilities. Everyone saw a beautiful woman, one of exceptional beauty. That was it, she was only a china doll, not allowed to be touched, kept high above so others could look upon her. Such dolls are hollow and cold, the only color is the painted blush on their cheeks. If anything, Rose was the exact opposite of those empty china dolls. She was still sassy and sharp, still making snarky quips in first class. And no one gave a damn about her welfare. No one, not even her mother or Hockley.

However, the young steerage man smoking a cheap cigarette seemed very interested.

There was a mixture of emotions on Rose's face as the man carefully came closer.

"Don't come any closer. I'll let go!"

"No, you won't." Said the man calmly.

The conversation was a strange one. Then again, almost everything humans do is foolish and confusing to me. Rose and the man, a skinny blonde boy named Jack went from talking about ice fishing to Jack being arrested on rape charges in only minutes. Fortunately, Rose quickly invented a story about propellers and Jack was freed.

What a clever girl.

If I had a heart or a stomach, the former would fall into the latter the moment I looked at Jack. I knew I was coming to claim him very soon and I felt powerless. In a matter of days, almost 2/3s of the ship's occupants would perish. As I saw the doomed man depart, I felt the familiar emotions of every life that I saw ended, of every soul I've ever taken. Even Death can feel guilty sometimes.