Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
Rain fell down on the misty city of London, low clouds hanging below the rooftops and obscuring figure atop a building, overlooking a dark alleyway in the East End. Her long white hair fell past her shoulders and down to her waist, blending in with the white mist surrounding her and a strange object in her hand. To anyone else, it was just a fancy, white and black bow, but upon closer there was blades on either end of the bow, serrated and sharp to the point. It was held by gloved hands, the holder clad in a high-collared white tux jacket with silver rose buttons and two black stripes running down from collar to sleeve on either side. White, skin-tight pants were tucked under white and black high-heel boots.
Elzabeth had been standing on top of the rooftop for a fair three hours, waiting for the time of her scheduled collection. Today's collection was a young girl who had no name and was about seven years old: blonde, blue eyes, four-foot-two, fifty-five pounds…death by stabbing. Not that the Shinigami really cared about the little girl, rather the memories associated with this particular reaping. Too familiar…oh, how familiar. Like the nightmares she had had every night for the last ninety-six years. The memories she could never forget.
Grim Reapers were like the joke of second chances. They were nothing but reincarnations of humans with bad lives. Of course, no one ever talked about their past lives, but it was common knowledge that every Shinigami had either a terrible life, or a horrible death before they became a reaper. No one had to ask, and no one ever did; it was that simple. Unfortunately, Shinigami were incredibly sterile, and it was literally impossible to ever conceive a child, or impregnate a woman of another species (therefore eliminating the threat of half-breeds or maternity leaves). Therefore, reincarnation from a mortal life was the only way Grim Reapers increased their numbers. However, it is never as easy as it sounds. Humans are simply reincarnated souls, and new souls are always incredibly rare; therefore it is up to the Shinigami to place each soul in their respected species. Even angels, reapers, and demons could be reincarnated should the Shinigami reap their soul. The only way for a soul to be lost or destroyed is for it to never be reaped (therefore making it a ghost), or to be devoured by a demon (thus the initial hatred of demons by the Grim Reapers). And it was only the immortal species (everything except humans) that kept the memories of their past lives all the way up until the point where they were humans, because humans were such stupid, folly creatures.
Grim Reaper-worthy souls are usually hard to come by. Each soul is chosen precisely to be the "perfect Shinigami". A life with hardships and struggle with little sin-a horrible life, yet not a tainted soul. So, a girl who had become a prostitute to raise money for her children would become a Shinigami instead of a pure Christian priest who had lived his life with no hardships. Typically, royalty and nobles had zero chance of ever having a place among the Shinigami ranks and would be reincarnated as something else. The only exception to this rule had been none other than Grell Sutcliff himself, who was the third son of the Baron Sutcliff; but that was the only known exception among Reapers. Why Grell of all nobles chosen, no one quite knew, they simply assumed the worst or thought it had been an error. However, Grim Reapers do not make errors, nor do they ask questions.
At any rate, Elzabeth now thought of that past life she could not shake from her conscious, plaguing her mind and driving her to the point of insanity. If the definition of insanity was to do the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, then she was already insane. Every night she found herself falling asleep, expecting to have a dreamless night or at least another dream; but it was always the same.
She saw every night what she saw was starting to happen now before her in the alleyway below her.
A small girl, running down the streets for her life, was pulling a boy of no more than four behind her. Several men chased after them, enraged that they had been pick-pocketed by the boy and the girl had rushed to his defense, trying to save him from a worser fate. She'd taken a wrong turn, cornered in an alley as the men raced after her.
"Oh, she's a pretty one, ain't she?"
"A real doll."
"Won't she be fun?"
The words echoed in her head as she watched the girl huddled in the corner, protecting the boy with her body despite her trembling legs and wide eyes. Brave. She had to be brave. Like her parents, who were off fighting in the war; who had left her all alone in the world. After all, who would care if she died? She was just an orphan wandering the streets of London, stealing to survive.
Elzabeth turned her head away, trying to drown out the girl's screams of agony as they pinned her to the ground, violently raping her before taking a knife. The bastards had decided to shut her up and in their infinite wisdom tried to cut out her voice box. Geniuses they were, ending up killing the girl in the end and finally just stabbed all over her limp body in rage. The boy had lived because she had died. He had escaped whilst the others were busy defiling the innocent girl in a dirty street in London. There had been several passersby, but they all ignored her screams; this scene all too familiar and common for any of them to care. It wasn't anyone important, so why pay attention?
It was the way life went. There were people who stole, and then there were people who were stolen from. There were people who lived, and then there were people who died. But no one cared about those they stole from; about those who died as long as they themselves were living.
The men stole the girl's life. The boy stole the girl's freedom for his own…Until the boy was scheduled to die in the next week when he got ran over by a car running away from someone he'd stolen from.
The Shinigami above watched the men at the end who were busy cutting her throat. She leaped down into the street and cloaking herself from mortal view as she walked to the girl, clothes tattered and whose blood was staining the street, red mixing with white. The girl looked directly at Elzabeth, tears in her eyes as she felt the world slipping from her grasp.
Her pleas were but feeble whispers falling on deaf ears; her tormentors driving that knife through her throat. Her world was nothing but agony at that moment. Blood poured from her neck onto what was left of her clothes and onto the street. She felt herself drowning in that sea of red. She struggled and gasped, trying to breathe in air but only succeeding in swallowing her own blood. Choking and rasping, she clawed at her neck, as if to rip out her own throat, flailing to free herself from this world...this prison, she was trapped inside. To be spared the pain for any further moments. Her lungs were bursting, her vision fading, but still the pain continued. Her eyes dripped tears though they would do her no good. Her body twitched and spasmed and contorted itself in ways she did not know it could. She wanted it to end. Oh God, she needed it to end. Death would be a welcome respite for this horror. And she reached out a twitching, desperate hand towards the Death God that no one else could see. Every fiber of her being begged for death to take her at last-to end it now. There was no reason to live anyway; she already lived in hell.
All Elzabeth could do now was answer her silent prayers.
She raised her scythe, driving her bow straight through the child's chest. The girl screamed in a scarlet agony, eyes wide as her Cinematic Record was exposed to no one but her and the death god's eyes. Elzabeth already knew everything, there was no need to watch. Quickly and respectfully she reaped the girl's soul without hesitation.
"Young girl, name is unknown. Death by stabbing. Date: November 23rd...2013. No special notes," she commented, closing her ledger and jumping up to the rooftops above without another word, heels clicking gently on the ledge she had jumped upon. Slowly, she walked along the rooftops, her clothes soaked in the freezing autumn rain. So what? It wasn't as if she would get sick. She was already dead. The To-Die list in her gloved left hand disappeared, as did the scythe in her other hand; now walking empty-handed. For a moment, she started to think about the girl, but she forced it out of her mind and walked on without any remorse in her eyes.
It was the child's time. The Higher-Ups said it was.
She couldn't question it; no one could. And that was the way things were.
No questions. No regret. No emotions.
They had lived that way for centuries upon centuries. Change was just as unnecessary. Everything was fine. Everything was perfect.
After all, who was she to defy the rules?
And she went home without a word.