Hi. I'm Midnight. Or... I might as well be. I lead a very interesting life, to those who know of it. Then again, those who know about it are dead, or either God or the Devil. Yeah, they exist, but even though I know each of them personally, I still don't believe in them. And they can't say anything about it, because it would be impossible to fill my position with someone who does it as well as I do.
Once you've been doing what I do for so long, everything starts to look the same. I differentiate by color. And before you get all annoyed and earthly- seriously, you guys are ridiculous- I don't mean by race. I mean by- dear lord, this will sound stupid to you- by aura. I see people's light, their personality. I don't need appearances. After all, a person is just another person to me. I only wish everybody's light was the same intensity. Young people give off a much softer light. The softer the light, the younger the child.
And I hate it when I see children.
Babies are always white. Some teenagers have a lighter shade, showing how young they are at heart, but most lose all the white by the time they are thirteen. It's really sad, actually, because the people with lighter shades always seem to live longer.
I am the only one in the universe who's shade is jet black. What does that say about me?
Oh, you are probably so confused right now.
I don't remember much about myself. I am not important in all honestly. I do my job, and do it well, so I get to stick around just one person longer.
There are no doctors for me, seeing as I can't get sick. But I'm fairly certain I have Attention Deficit Disorder. You might be able to tell, seeing as I get really distracted from my train of thought really easily.
It's because my job takes a lot of focus, but only concentrated focus. I focus for maybe 20 minutes a day, total, but it is really hard focusing.
Oh, gosh, right, we were talking about me.
Things I know for certain
I am seventeen years old
I have been seventeen years old for 4 years
I am a girl.
I named myself Midnight.
I hate my job.
Yup, that's about it. Oh, what is my job? I was sort of hoping you'd figured that out by now. If not, well, I'm sure you'll pick it up.
On second thought, there are some redeeming qualities to being me. Likeā¦
Nevermind.
The Rules of Being Me
I can't kill anyone.
I can't save anyone.
I can't dawdle.
I can't get to know anyone.
I can't have friends.
I can't talk.
I can't steal.
It isn't fair really. Isn't a seventeen year supposed to do all of that, and a whole lot more? I find myself breaking the rules quite often. Not the big ones. But I do dawdle quite a lot. I do get to know a few people, they just don't know I'm getting to know them. I did have a friend, but once she knew who I was, she stopped talking to me. Her name was Alice. She died in a magical place she called Wonderland. She told stories of rabbits, and growing and shrinking, of falling, and running, of evil queens and crazy men with hats, and talking animals.
People on earth talk about her a lot, but when I told her that, Alice said they have the story wrong. Who am I to judge, she's the dead one.
Dead people have different rules. The people in heaven can get away with pretty much everything. The people in hell, well, they don't really care.
That's why I can never decide who I hate more. Either the good people die, and I get a nice person to transport, or a bad person dies, and I have to transport them either way.
They can talk. They do talk. They rarely say nice things.
They can remember. They do remember. They rarely shut up about their memories.
It's all the same, whether they are a good person, or a bad person.
So yes, I break the rules. The person who had my job before made a bad decision, if they were looking for strict compliance to the rules.
They probably weren't. See, there is only one person in my job at a time. The system is supposed to work. It is supposed to keep a good person in the job at all times.
I hold the record. Having said that, I am very picky. And it is hard to find a person who can handle my job, since I can't get to know them. Which is why I cheat. I break the rules. I dawdle, and I learn.
Things I've learned
How to read and write
Politics are horrible
People, in general, are bad
Every so often, I fall across someone so very interesting. Like Alice, for instance. She would have been great at my job. She's very dim, what I do wouldn't have much emotional impact on her. Only problem is the talking. She has so many stories to tell.
Also, I made a pact that the person I give my job to will not be a child. But I want someone pure at heart. Someone who decides who goes where. Sometimes there is a very fine line.
Criminals and thugs are easy. Everyday sinners? Not so much.
I don't pay much attention to religion when it comes time to pick who goes where. Religion doesn't make the person. The color does.
That's why Shawn Spencer attracted me so much. He is not one color, like most. He isn't two, he isn't three. He is everything. In my four years, I've never seen anything like him. People, occasionally, have a lot of colors. But theirs are stationary.
I dawdled on him the most, when I could. I spotted him on the street many times throughout my tenure. He attracted my attention from the time I first saw it, to when I retired.
His Colors Swirled
The red of anger
The blue of stupidity
The orange of brilliance
The white of innocence
The green of compassion
The pink of love
The yellow of cheerfulness
The purple of pride
The gray of humility
The brown of gruffness
The aqua of friendship
The friggin magenta of oddities
The black of death
The red often surfaces when he's around a man of mostly purple and brown, with a little bit of green, orange, red, and pink. They are clearly related, because it is highly unlikely to find people of many colors- that know each other- that aren't.
The pink nearly encompasses him when he's around a girl of yellow, orange, pink and gray. He loves her, and judging by the pink that eminates from them when they're together, she loves him back.
The aqua around his best friend. He's made mostly of aqua as well. It's clear that they mean the world to each other.
I've only seen his black once, and I'd like to keep that experience to myself, at least for now.
I think Shawn fakes blue around that lanky man of brown, purple, blue, and red. He seems mean. Why would anybody hurt a man of so many colors? I can see that it actually breaks Shawn Spencer's heart. How? It baffles me, truly.
He would be perfect for my job, that lanky fellow.
After all, I broke The Fake Psychic's heart three times.
