"Emma?"

"Here."

"Andrew?"

"Here."

I didn't say anything when I was called, only deepened the frown on my face. My neighbour eventually took it upon herself to answer for me, and I thanked her silently.

I sighed and glanced at the paper on my desk. Several days ago, I'd made the wonderful discovery that my enhanced focus was a fluke, and school had once again turned into the frustrating daily ordeal I remembered it to be; I was back to piles of unfinished work, and it only added to everything else. After an awkward slip-up a few days ago, most everyone had found about my "condition", as I'd begun calling it for simplicity's sake, and they were either avoiding me like the plague—literally, for all they knew—or treating me like I was possessed by a demon. A little bit ironic, honestly. I tried not to let it bother me, but more often than not, I found myself wondering if I could bribe someone to carry out an unauthorized reaping of their souls, so that didn't work out very well, to say the least. I did occasionally appreciate the alone time, though.

I blinked hard, trying to clear my thoughts, and took another long look at the paper. Still nothing. Sigh. "Can I go to the bathroom?" I called.

"Break was ten minutes ago," he yelled back, hardly glancing at me. "You should've gone then."

"I didn't need to go ten minutes ago! Why do teachers always say that? Just—Fucking hell," I muttered, and shot up out of my desk and left, slamming the door behind me.

He—the substitute teacher, I hadn't even bothered to learn his name—didn't follow me. I wondered if he even cared to know what was wrong.

I wandered through the halls, making sure not to draw any attention to myself. I didn't have a specific destination—it wasn't like I ever used the school facilities, and I didn't actually even need to go. For a while, all I did was stare at posters on the yellowish walls like they were the most interesting thing in the world. Honestly, I would've preferred literal hellfire than division just then. I spent something like twenty minutes walking around, and after having read nearly everything in the school, I reluctantly decided to head back. That was when someone happened to appear down the hall. I didn't think much of it; he wasn't a teacher, and I didn't know him personally. I didn't think much of it at all, not until he passed me by and my mind instantly exploded into a flurry of panicked thoughts I didn't understand. Distorted images. Bits of conversation. And—

I froze, feeling my stomach lurch. It was the guy I'd seen just seconds earlier, body crumpled underneath a car and bathed in flashing red and blue lights; flesh torn up and the bones in his hands sticking out.

Fuck.

I immediately turned around, hoping to catch up to him, but he was gone without a trace. I watched the empty spot where he'd been, chest tight and eyes wide with what I was sure looked like a thousand-yard stare. A minute passed, and that was when I ended up going to the bathroom after all. I went into the farthest stall, curled up on the floor, and cried.

O O O

"You got this wrong."

"What?"

"The question. You. Got. It. Wrong." Elliot remained unbelievably nonchalant as he proceeded to pull a bottle of Jack Daniel's from his bag and started drinking it right in front of me. "And this," he continued after a moment, pointing with his free hand to another point on the paper. "And this. Aaand... this."

"That's impossible! I spent three days straight doing research, and you're telling me I got all this wrong?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Gimme that!" I growled, snatching the paper from him. I looked it up and down for a good several minutes, eyes narrowed and teeth grit tightly, until I realized that it really was absolutely impossible. I didn't get it wrong—he was messing with me! "Motherfucker," I muttered, hot fury bubbling up inside me.

"What was that?"

"Eh?" I glanced back at him, face red. "Nothing. Just thinking. Can't believe I didn't get it right. More research for me, huh?"

A vague look of disdain washed over Elliot's face; I flinched, praying silently that he hadn't noticed the knowing gleam in my eyes. "Here's a blank copy," he said, handing me another sheet. "Have it done by tomorrow. Hopefully with the right answers this time."

I took it and left, too pissed to say anything.

As I was walking down the hall, only stopping to grab a muffin from the break room, I heard someone call my name. I turned; it was Marx. "Yeah?"

"Um, hey. You alright?"

"Fine," I shot back, tearing a piece from the top and shoving it in my mouth. "Why?"

He paused. "Elliot being a dick again?"

"Again? Jesus Christ, how often does he act like this?"

"Pretty much any time he's not black-out drunk. You'll get used to it."

"Ugh. He told me I got this wrong," I said, giving him the filled worksheet and promptly collapsing on one of the sofas, where I continued to angrily nibble at my muffin.

He adjusted his glasses and took a long look at my answers, before finally replying, "Don't even listen to him. Every single one of these is right and he knows it. Honestly? What you wrote down is way beyond what's even expected from someone as new as you. I'm actually impressed."

"Yeah, tell that to shitfaced."

Marx gave a weak smile and slipped the paper into his bag. "Anyway, look. The reason I stopped you was 'cause I noticed you were still wearing your old glasses, and—"

"What about them?"

"They don't bug you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged. "Yeah, they do. I've been getting bruises on my nose for weeks. But what can you do?"

"Well..." He gave an awkward smile. "You could come with me and get a specially engineered pair that's been designed to be as durable and efficient as possible. Or stick with your 21st century coke-bottles."

"I mean—sure. Yeah, I guess."

Marx led me down the hall, to a door off to the side; there was a frosted glass window bearing black text that read OPTOMETRIST, and a small, purple figurine of some sort hanging over that. I guess they were trying to lessen the perpetual gloom clinging to the place, but it wasn't really working. I frowned and followed him inside.

Almost as soon as we stepped foot into the room, an ashy-haired man looked up from his desk at us and said, "Oh, who's this?"

"This is Johan," Marx answered. "Johan, Andrew."

"New, huh?" Andrew waltzed over, taking a long, close-up look at me and stopping at my glasses. He grinned. "Damn it, Fossi, I told you to stop bringing in strays!

"You say that like it's something I do every week." He sighed. "Anyway, Johan here has been wearing these nightmares for quite a while now, and I figured I ought to do something about it. I can't imagine they're very comfortable."

I sent an awkward grin Andrew's way, hoping he wasn't too miffed about us showing up unannounced.

"Remember your prescription?" he asked me. I shook my head. "Ah. Don't worry about it. I can probably figure it out just by looking at the lenses, maybe fine-tune it later if necessary. We're all so close in eyesight that it's nearly impossible to mess up."

"Oh. Wow, okay." I paused, stared at my glasses for a moment before slipping them off and handing them to him. Andrew took a long few minutes to inspect them, looking for features I couldn't really understand—I guess maybe thickness or how much distortion they caused. At one point it seemed like he'd taken off his own glasses and peered through mine, and that was when I heard him practically do a double take.

"Impossible," he muttered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Andrew didn't answer; he quickly replaced my glasses and sped off somewhere inside the room, motioning for us to follow. He led Marx and I to an eye chart, where he got me set up and began the test, ignoring my confused cries.

"Now, you've probably seen this variation before, it's got circles with a cutout on one side, and you have to tell me which direction they're facing. Ready?"

"What—I thought you could figure it out just by looking. Why do I have to do this again?"

"Never mind that! Just do it."

"Fine, okay," I grumbled, taking off my specs once more. "I wonder where the cutout is? Oh, wait, I can't even see the fricking chart! I told you, I'm blind. Bliiind." I pointed to my eyes for emphasis.

At that, they both fell completely silent. "Seriously, what the hell's going on? Why are you guys acting like you've seen a ghost?"

"Er... Fossi, do you mind?" Andrew gave an awkward smile.

He sighed. "Alright, listen. Grim Reapers all have poor vision, correct?"

I slid my glasses back on before answering, "Yeah?"

"What you probably don't know is that how well you can see is inversely related to your eyes' brightness, and that how bright they are is related to your current physical strength and emotions."

"... And?"

"You're fucking strong, Johan. Do you have any idea how few Reapers' powers can even begin to compare?"

I stared, feeling like someone had just dropped a fifty-tonne weight in my stomach. "You've gotta be kidding."

"Nope. God, I'm tempted to try and find out who your parents are now..." He trailed off, clearly lost in thought. I paid him no mind.

"Okay, just—" I shook my head and turned to face Andrew. "Just forget about this, okay? Give me the damn glasses and leave me alone. I don't care how strong I am. For that matter, I'd rather not even think about it. This whole dumpster fire has been driving me crazy as it is."

"Er, alright," he stammered. "Hold on a few minutes."

I slumped into one of the chairs and waited. It seemed like only some ten seconds later he reappeared in front of me, a pair of round, John Lennon-esque glasses in hand. I grabbed them and left, ignoring his innocent question of whether or not I needed a case. I switched them out mid-walk, shoved the old ones into my breast pocket and made for the gate.

People stared at me on my way out. I didn't care.

The far West side of town was where all the old, crumbling buildings and unpaved roads could be found; near century-old houses and suspicious looking shops, like a tiny, decaying sharpening service, or a florist located conveniently close to the old cemetery, with narrow, overgrown alleys connecting them all. That's where I headed, cutting diagonally through the forest and the downtown area to get there. It was a strange place, one that was often maddeningly quiet and deserted, but I liked it. Nothing but you and your thoughts. Eventually, I came across an old apartment, and I proceeded to scramble up the fence and onto the roof and sat down with my bag on my lap, pulling out a half-eaten bag of beef jerky and a sketchbook.

Between drawing and taking in the magnificent view of the neighbourhood, I found myself spending almost an hour on the greenish shingles before I heard someone call out, "What are you doing up there?"

"Drawing!" I yelled back, not looking up.

"Can I come watch?"

I stopped, a strange amusement bubbling up inside me. It was only when I finally set my sketchbook aside and peered over the edge of the roof that I realized it was Marx standing there, dressed in outrageously tight jeans and a colourful sweater. He gave a hopeful smile; I just glared, immediately losing the cheery demeanour. "The drawing sucks and I'm contagiously sick!"

"Uh-huh. Need I remind you that your immune system is too powerful for that anymore?"

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, unsure if he could hear me or not. "Why are you even here?"

"Taking a walk. I've been coming here for years."

"Well, go walk in some other direction. I'm busy. " I grabbed my sketchbook and pulled it up in front of my face.

"Come on, Johan. You're acting like it's my fault."

"Sorry, it's just I'm really fucking angry right now, and when I'm really fucking angry, I start taking it out on people. I need some alone time, okay? Shoo."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Sure, knock yourself out. So long as you don't mind getting pushed off."

He gave something of a thankful look and then flat-out teleported next to me, startling me so much that I nearly fell. I huffed.

"What's up?"

"I don't know."

"You say that to everything."

"Yeah, right," I said, accidentally scratching a hole through the paper with my pencil; the tip of the lead had worn down so much that it'd become practically like a needle. I sighed. "You only met me a few weeks ago. How can you be so sure already?"

"I'm not. That's just a first impression. I'll have a better idea in a few more weeks."

"Ugh." I pushed up my glasses with one hand and took a moment to rub my eyes before continuing. "Okay, fine. Maybe someone else would be super excited to realize that they're some kind of ultra powerful one-in-a-million or whatever, but I'm just... no. I thought this would be cool, being a Grim Reaper, but it's not. Fuck, it would've been better if I'd ended up here through killing myself. At least then it has an end eventually. But now? There's no set date for something like that. I'm gonna be stuck here forever."

"No, that's not true," he finally answered, brows furrowed slightly. "Look, think about it rationally. A regular Grim always gets forgiven eventually, and then they head over to the afterlife, or reincarnation, or wherever they would've gone before. Right?"

"I guess."

"And in your case, there's no need for that. You haven't done anything to require forgiveness. These kinds of situations are rare, but they're always treated with understanding. So maybe it's in a thousand years, maybe it's tomorrow—whenever you decide you've had enough of this life, just bring it up. I'm sure you can get a free ride out no problem."

"Positive?"

"Yep."

"Well..." I narrowed my eyes. "Okay. But if it's not like that, you're reaping me, and I don't care if you get in trouble for it."

"That's fair," he said, smiling wryly.

"Jerky?" I held out the bag; Marx shook his head. "You never eat."

"I do. I just don't need to as much as humans. A small meal once a week or so is enough to keep me going."

"Sheesh. A lot of things I don't know about you guys, huh."

"You'll learn."

I shrugged and pulled out a few pieces myself. "So, how long have you lived here?"

"Since I was born." The answer was almost automatic. When he saw my confused squint, he added, "September 14th, 1963."

"That's pretty long," I remarked, gnawing at the meat.

"Long for a human."

"Oh." I paused to erase something. "Why didn't I ever see you anywhere?"

"Because you couldn't. Invisibility, remember?"

"But how come people can still see me?"

"It's not the default for you. Everything happened so gradually that you had the time to get used to your abilities, especially since you were still interacting with others during this time. So even though you can now turn yourself invisible, it's just that. Most Grim Reapers can only turn themselves visible. It's strange to think about, but that's likely what's going on."

"I can't, though. I can't turn invisible."

"Have you tried?"

I opened my mouth, but then I remembered, no, I hadn't. Not really, anyway. The only attempt I'd ever made, I never even found out if it had worked or not. "... No," I replied.

"Don't get discouraged," he said, hopping off the ledge with a grunt. I winced, having somewhat expected him to break something. "It took me nearly a month to figure out how to turn visible."

"Where are you going?"

"Starbucks. I'm there part-time on Thursdays and Fridays."

"Why?"

"They don't really pay us much back there," Marx explained, motioning up in what I guessed was supposed to mean the Grim Reaper Dispatch. "Food and a pretty decent shelter's free, but everything else is your responsibility." He gave a bleak chuckle.

"Part of the whole punishment thing, maybe?"

"Probably. But yeah, come visit me there sometimes. Maybe I'll give you a discount."

With that, he bounded off somewhere into the alleys, leaving me alone on the roof. For quite a while after, I just stared at the empty space where he'd been moments earlier, with a vague sense of loneliness settling inside me. It felt nice to talk. It took off the edge of staying here, kept my sanity from slipping away entirely.

I didn't hate being a Reaper. I didn't hate the powers I had, the safety I felt nowadays. What I hated was that I couldn't blend in among even them. I was still the freak, after all.

I frowned and glanced at my drawing. It was a rough sketch of a person, one with a skinny build, flowery dress, and a pair of Elvis-style sideburns that I preferred to call mini mutton chops. Although I certainly wasn't as skinny—not from the waist down, at least—and the only facial hair I could grow was the downy fuzz on my upper lip and a few stray hairs here and there, I liked to imagine that this was me. Me how I might've looked in another life.

I reluctantly added in a pair of cat's eye glasses and then closed the book.

O O O

It didn't take me long to realize why I couldn't find the boy from school the next day. Turns out his name was Seth, and he was in one of my classes. Everyone kept wondering why he was absent, if he was sick or something. I couldn't bring myself to tell them—about the crash, everything. Even if they somehow happened to believe me, just the thought alone made me feel sick.

The gloom followed me throughout the day, leaving me an absolute wreck by the time three o'clock was even somewhat close. I never had any proof of what had gone down, of what my mind claimed had happened, but it was there, just like last time. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't.

The bell rang and I was gathering my things from my desk, about to head to the last class of the day, when they decided to step in: the assholes who always hung around me, making sure not even passing period was safe.

"Yo, he-she, what're you working on?"

"How I'm going to murder you guys," I muttered, books in hand. I was bluffing to hell and back, but they didn't need to know that. He-she. Only because of how I looked, which was astoundingly androgynous, with a voice and style of dress to match. I couldn't give less of a damn about what gender people perceived me to be—but they did. I almost found it funny.

"Yeah?"

"Yep, Dickhead over here with an axe to the stomach; bleed to death. Shit-for-brains, knife through the skull. Fitting, yeah? And Cunty McFuckwit!" I motioned towards him with my pencil. "How 'bout I break your arms off and ram them down your throat?"

"Original," he spat, grabbing the pencil and tossing it somewhere across the room. I raised an eyebrow. "No, seriously, what the hell is this? 'At what point during development does the body generally obtain a soul?' What kind of fucked up cult are you in?"

"None of your business, Cunty." I took the paper and shoved it into my pocket. "Fuck off already, would you?"

"Aw, is it going to cry?" One of them must've noticed how hard I was struggling to maintain my composure. With the most disgustingly cocky laugh I'd ever heard, he slowly continued, "No wonder. It's because you're a—"

"I said fuck off!" My vision faltered for a moment, and I instantly felt my neck break out in cold sweat; Oh no. No no no. This was bad. Hold back. Hold back. Don't do it.

"Hey, he-she, what are you?" Shit-for-brains.

"What are you, huh?" another one hissed, practically shoving me.

Stop. Make it stop. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep it inside. Make it stop make it stop make it—

"The fuck," I heard. "The fuck? Where'd it go?"

I froze, breathless. What the hell were they talking about? Cold shoulder, or... no, that wasn't right. Though acknowledging the "it" and everything before it made me damn near want to vomit, something drove me to call out, "I'm right here."

No response.

My fists were still clenched so tightly the nails tore into my skin; for a moment, I was confused, maybe even a little scared, but then I remembered the last thought that had been running through my mind just seconds earlier. I want to disappear. And so my body must have obliged by doing just that—making me not only invisible, but also inaudible.

"Holy shit." My eyes widened and I repeated, "Holy shit! Can you guys hear me?"

Again, they acted as if nothing had happened. It was insane how someone who'd seen their own eyes glowing in the dark, who'd walked into another dimension like no big deal—insane how they were finding something like this hard to believe. But here I was. Invisible, inaudible, and still more than just pissed off. A wide grin slowly spread across my face, and while they continued asking themselves what the hell just happened, I immediately got up and started giving them the most creative, obnoxious versions of the middle finger I could think of while chanting insults—and no one noticed a single thing; nor did they notice as I walked over to the whiteboard and picked up a marker, that same devious smile still fresh. I waited. I waited until they turned, and then I snapped the lid off and slowly spelled out a word. Run.

Half of them tripped on their way out.

O O O

Marx and Elliot were arguing again.

I sat down, resting my bag in the corner of the sofa, and sighed. Here we go again.

"—didn't fucking steal it! How many times to I have to tell you? Nobody else in this entire building even drinks whiskey! When we did that vote a few years ago, nobody gave a flying shit. Not a single person voted against. Jesus, stop being so paranoid already."

"Ugh. I bet it was the newbie." Elliot shot me a glare, and I flinched.

"Keep your hands off him, asshole," Marx hissed, gripping his arm and pulling him close. "You try anything and I'll fucking kill you."

Elliot snorted. "Fine. Why do you even care so much? Ya' gay for him?"

"Says you," he muttered, shoving him off. "And no. I'm straight, thank you very much. We already went over this."

"Aww." Elliot gave a sort of sarcastic grin. "That's too bad."

"Oh, piss off already." Marx huffed and sat down next to me; Elliot just shrugged and left. Thank God.

I took a deep breath. "So, uh..."

"Bi."

"Oh." It wasn't at all what I was planning on asking, but I didn't say anything. I didn't want to further dampen his mood. "What was the vote about?"

"To stop stocking whiskey in the minibar," he answered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not like it keeps him from sneaking in his own. That travel mug he always carries around? It's not coffee, I'll tell you that."

"Jeez. There isn't something else you can try?"

He shook his head. "Just forget about this. And by the way: do not get on his nerves. At all. Especially if he's sober. I don't want you getting mauled."

I chuckled nervously.

A while passed and we eventually headed to class, where we started wrapping up the section on the respiratory system. Things I already knew. Things that shitfaced son of a bitch told me I got wrong. I paid attention nonetheless. If anything, it would improve my chance of memorization.

One of the last things Marx mentioned—Elliot was half asleep in a chair, as always—was gas-related suffocation, and I couldn't help but think of the lie I told that first day, the method I'd have used in another life. It was ironic; although I still regularly breathed, and enjoyed it as much as I could something like that, it hadn't taken me long to discover that it was no longer necessary. Maybe it would come in useful the next time someone didn't flush.

I fiddled with my tie, trying to distract myself.

"Are you okay?" whispered Oscar, who was sitting next to me. He must've noticed how uncomfortable I was.

"I'm fine. Thanks." Now, the problem with being in a room full of people who killed themselves is that they know when you're lying. They know when you're not feeling well, when you're not just "fine". The doubt was plastered over his entire face. "Okay," I eventually let out. "I don't want to talk about it. Sorry."

He nodded and left me alone, and that was that.

I finished up and headed home, making sure to change back into my regular clothes beforehand. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep the instant I set foot on my bed. I didn't even take off my glasses.

O O O

Two months passed before I knew it.

I excitedly soared through training, diligently filling out handouts and spending inordinate amounts of time studying at the city library after school. I quickly became a regular there, arriving at 5 o'clock sharp almost every day to give a quick hello to the receptionists before disappearing somewhere between the shelves of biology books.

It was around that time that I realized something terrible: my death clairvoyance had grown even stronger. I would be sitting in an empty corner of the library, book in one hand and packet of homework in the other, when I would suddenly get these feelings, where my stomach would lurch and I'd be overcome with a sickening, heart-wrenching misery for just a split second, and then it would be over. Though I had no logical way of knowing if these episodes were related to a death, at least not at those moments when I was sitting in the library, there was a very specific kind of certainty inside me that said, no, you're right, someone did just die, and you did just feel it from way over here.

It happened at other places, too; I vividly remember when it first occurred at school, down to the exact date and time—Thursday, October 8th, at 2:17 in the afternoon. I was quietly working at my desk just like I would any other day, when I was struck with that horrible sense of gloom. I later found out through the newspaper that a teacher from one of my many old schools had died in a car crash, and also that every person after that whose death I felt was someone I'd met before, if only for a few moments. It was quite a saddening discovery, but I didn't even want to think about how much worse it might be if I could sense every person's death. How I wished all I had to deal with were overly perceptive children who'd point and cry whenever they saw me, children who could practically see the darkness clinging to my body.

It was only the second month, and I hated it more than anything. And yet—and yet, even if I quit training, nothing would change. I was a Grim Reaper, and I could never be human again; if Marx's words were to be trusted, I never even was.

I wanted to scream.

I don't know how I managed to drag myself through the doors that day, but when I did, it was only to be greeted by another damn fight brought on by who knows what. I was sick and tired. I figured they'd draw it out for some ungodly length of time, just like when last I walked in on something like this, but it didn't take much for someone to finally step in. English, a little nasally, and absolutely furious, practically screaming when he said, "For crying out loud, would you two stop already?!"

Nobody moved. I could hear my own heartbeat.

The way Elliot was looking at Marx, I could tell he was looking for him to take the blame, but it wasn't working. It took nearly a dozen apologies before Elliot was even allowed to leave, and his face was bright red the whole time.

A moment passed. Marx breathed out a massive sigh of relief. "Thank you."

I couldn't stop staring at this other man. There was nothing strange about his physical appearance; with pale skin just slightly darker than my own, short, blackish hair that was neatly slicked back, and no visible scars, like the wide cuts that were sometimes visible under the ends of Marx's sleeves, or the jagged tear over Elliot's throat that never failed to freak me out, he looked more ordinary than anything. What struck me as odd was how unbelievably out-of-place he seemed, and how... how familiar he was.

Marx must've noticed the look on my face. "You alright?"

"... Yeah. Who was that?"

"Oh. Oh, that's—" He broke off, glancing back at me and giving an awkward smile. "That's... William. William T. Spears. I thought you might recognize him."