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Soul Heir

Prompt: [WP] Your mother sat across from you and let out an exasperated sigh as she said, “Look, I know I told you that I wanted grandchildren, but that didn’t mean that I wanted you to adopt every troubled soul you came across.”

Word Count: 3168

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“I’m home, Mama.” AJ walks in, scythe in one hand, shoes in the other.

It leans by the door hinges, the tip of its obsidian blade nestling between fresh scratches.

“Is that blood on your shoes?”

“Huh?” he asks.

“Azrael █████ Jr. Is that blood on your shoes?” Mama repeats, never raising her voice.

“Sorry, Mama. I'll”—

“Leave them outside.”

He does exactly that, treading lightly when he re-enters. Six translucent people, as different as they can be, form a single file line behind him. Together they make the short journey from the foyer, around the black leather couches and across the polished marble floor panels to his office.

“Hey, y'all. Why don't ya wait for AJ over there while he and I have a little talk?” She points a finger stripped of flesh at his office.

They look at AJ. He gives them a thumbs up. They follow instructions. Afterwards, he pulls out a chair made from Eden's wood and drops onto it.

Mama sighs. “Look, I told ya I wanted grandchildren. I didn’t say ‘adopt every troubled soul ya come across’.”

“Mama. Mama, I can handle this.”

“It may look fine now, but get too much too early and you'll”—

“Burnout? Relax, Mama. I'm far from lookin’ like Ghost Rider.”

Seconds of inescapable silence.

“Now why ya gotta go ahead and do that?”

“No. Wait. Mama, that's not what I meant.”

“Relax, baby. I'm just playin’ witcha.”

“Oh good. Good.”

“But seriously. Keep pushin’ yourself like that and Imma beatcha a”—

‘Ain’t No Grave’ by Johnny Cash cuts her off with its familiar tune.

“Just a moment, baby.” She picks up her latest phone with ageing, yellowing bones.

His ears tune into the half of the conversation closest to him.

“Hi, Famine.”

…

“Yeah, yeah. I'm about to leave.”

…

“Of course I'm bringin’ potato salad.”

…

“No. Junior's on the job. New souls ‘n’ all.”

…

“I know. We're all proud of him. But he did almost bring blood into the house. On our nice carpets.”

…

“Alright, alright. It's his first day. I'll go easy on him.”

…

“Alright. I'll hand it over. Hold on.”

She puts her phone on speaker.

“Hey, Uncle Famine.”

“Mr. Reaper. My boy. How are things?”

“Things are good. Got myself six new souls waitin’ for me.”

“Six? Wow. Great job. I won't keep you too long then.”

“Thank ya.”

“How does this sound? You tell your mum to come home in one piece, and I'll tell War to make you those lemon pepper wings you like. Extras. Just for you.”

“Okay, you,” she interjects. “That’s enough.”

“And I'll make you some extra chips,” Aunt Conquest adds.

“Alright. Say bye, baby.”

“Bye.”

She puts the phone back to the hole where her ear should be.

“You two. When I get my hands on ya. I swear.” She laughs.

…

“Are ya keepin’ my hubby busy?”

…

“Good, good. Now y'all keep the drinks flowin’, and I'll be back in one piece.”

…

“Alright.”

…

“Alright.”

…

“Bye now.”

Mama puts her phone away.

“Come help me get this potato salad in the car, baby.”

They get a stack of plastic wrapped glass each and place them in the boot of their pitch black station wagon.

“Thank ya, baby.” She gives him a hug before finding her spot in the driver's seat.

“You're welcome, Mama.”

“I'll get War and Conquest to double their offers for ya.”

“Thank ya, Mama.”

She changes her appearance before his very eyes. Becoming the same Afro-Latina who showed up early to his parent–teacher conferences and got a little too excited at competitive school events. The same one who pimp-slapped a teacher for daring to question his lineage and the mortician whose husband did ‘something with numbers.’

“Goodbye, AJ.” She gestures for him to come closer.

He leans down to receive what in reality is a lipless kiss on the already melting skin clumped up and affixed onto his cheek. Mama starts the car, met with the sound of ‘Many Men’ by 50 Cent when the radio turns on. She drives off. After a considerable amount of waving, AJ rests his weary arm.

Returning inside, he sits in the living room. In front of him is a mirror with enough energy to climb halfway up the wall and no higher. Rather than glance at its suffocating presence, he stares at a portrait hung above it such a way that the reflective surface rests right outside his vision. It was his graduation. His hair, the same infinite raven's wing of his father's. His flesh as pale as the bones within him, his hands spindly extensions. And the robes. They look like someone bought king-size sheets for a single bed. Replaced before they could even be granted a second glance.

Head tilted, he removes the threadbare clump of skin from the cheek his mom kissed. If only she told him about this earlier. If only she warned him. Oh well. AJ took the job irregardless. After all, friends he never thought he'd see again were made while his parents were neck deep in paperwork. That's what he gets for being born, he guesses. Being born to the angel of death and the living embodiment of the concept doesn't exactly guarantee him a normal life. While one was given the form of flesh, the other was given the final form all creatures take. Both experience the ageing only known by the ageless. As will he in his own way.

“Who was that?” A young voice asks.

“Ah!” He flinches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I scare you?”

“It's alright, Tommy.”

“Okay…” He floats over to the floor in front of him.

“You're gettin’ better at that.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So that was your mum?”

“Yeah. That’s mama.”

“Is she really a real skeleton?”

“Ha. She is.”

“Whoa!” Tommy flies up. “That’s so cool.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” AJ gestures for him to come back down.

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“I need to help ya’ll.”

“Please,” he asks with extended vowels.

“Fine.”

“Has she always looked like that? What happened to your cheek? Did someone hurt you?” They leave his mouth like bullets from a semi-automatic.

“Tommy. That was three.”

“Sorry.”

He sighs, “I’ll answer all of them.”

“Yay!”

“She was born that way. Every time I do my job, I lose my skin and muscle till I look like my mama. No one hurt me,” he explains. “Now can I help ya or not?”

“Yes please.”

AJ and Tommy finally enter his office. Also known as his childhood bedroom.

“Sorry about that, y’all. Time for a little role call.” He sits down by his desk.

AJ shuffles a few folders in hand.

“From right to left: Baxter Huntsman.”

An older man whose wrinkles have started making cameos while grey hairs are yet to sign contracts looks directly at him. He leans on his cane out of habit as he nods. In better shape than a man his age should be, his broad shoulders fill his tailored, midnight blue suit. That paired with the bouquet of blood blooming from his chest portrays a harrowing readiness for this moment. A date with new death, even though he’s not AJ’s type.

“Sorcha Durnin.”

Eyes of mouldy emerald meet his, young enough to cling to some shine but old enough to see the absence of light hidden in the pages of this world first hand. She waves an arm drowning in bracelets, rings and glass shards.

“Thomas Shah.”

Tommy’s head darts up from the Rubik’s cube he was fiddling with. Unlike himself and some of the others, his sun-kissed skin remains untouched. His hair of black sheep’s wool manages to shine beyond circumstance.

“Ashton Bennett.”

Mrs. Bennett redirects the smile originally meant for Tommy to AJ. Every fold and pinch in her wedding dress white skin hides a memory. All replayable—whether willingly or unwillingly—wherever she ends up.

“Virgil Clay.”

Virgil raises an arm coated from fingertip to elbow in crimson. His unwashed wife beater is a variable game of ‘Guess That Stain!’. Coffee, gravy, sweat, blood that probably isn’t his and blood that definitely is. All split down the middle by a Titan Arum sized blade currently forcing itself through his spine and ribcage.

“Kaipo Bakó.”

She tips a bright yellow hardhat towards him. Wearing a similar vest to Virgil—although this one’s actually clean—showcases a level of muscle development AJ’s quite frankly jealous of. Even though he’s resigned himself to his losses, seeing how her biceps and forearms stand out under her many tattoos makes his eyes green. He should call Envy after this.

“I’ll send y’all out from oldest to youngest,” he says, leaving all but one folder on his desk.

Mrs. Bennett sits across from him.

He opens her folder and gives it a read:

Name: Ashton Bennett

Age: ██

Occupation: Administrator of Field Day Orphanage

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (09:45)

Cause of Death: Old age

Positive Impact: Gave thousands of orphans loving homes throughout her career.

Neutral Impact: Ran redlights.

Negative Impact: Indirectly sent a small percentage of the orphans into unsafe homes.

“Everything looks good here, Mrs. Bennett. You'll know where ya are when ya get there,” he says as he puts the folder back on his desk.

“I only wish I could have done more for those children.” She looks back. “I'm so sorry, Tommy.”

“S’not your fault, Mrs. Bennett,” the young one responds.

“It really isn’t, ma’am,” AJ comments. “And you’ve done so much for them already.”

She turns around and kneels, giving Tommy a hug and saying “You grew up to be such a kind young man. You deserved more time. Not me. I was already an old bag of bones when you met me, but”—

“Don't say that about yourself, Mrs. Bennett,” he interrupts.

“I won't. Thank you. I'll just say this: I’ll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too.” He lets go of the hug.

AJ looks around the room, patting his pockets and opening his drawers.

“I left my scythe in the”—

“I’ll get it!” Tommy flies through the wall.

A ring of violet fire appears in the floor next to AJ, and out of it rises both his aforementioned tool and Tommy clinging to its whittled ivory handle.

“Whoa,” he says as he comes through.

AJ sighs, shaking Tommy off of it. Out of his pocket he retrieves a small slip of card paper.

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

With those words, she disappears. No theatrics or even a hint of where she found herself in the end. Tommy makes a popping sound in response.

Baxter takes her place.

AJ opens his folder:

Name: Baxter Huntsman

Age: ██

Occupation: Assassin

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (01:00)

Cause of Death: Shot several times in the chest.

Positive Impact: Gave money to the innocent grieving families.

Neutral Impact: Refused to break any laws unrelated to his work.

Negative Impact: Took the lives of countless people, leaving many without guardians and caretakers.

“Your mum has good taste, kid.”

“Hm?”

“Your mum has good taste in music. I heard Many Men as she was driving out.”

“I'll tell her you said that.”

“Good…” He pauses. “So this is the final place I have to look at before my fate is decided?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Oh nothing. I just expected you to be…”

“Older?”

“And a woman.”

“You're too late for that. Mama’s retired,” he says, crossing one leg over the other.

“Any other complaints or assumptions, Mr. Huntsman?”

“Since you asked”—

“Here we go.” AJ puts Baxter’s folder back on the table.

“Do you usually conduct business in what I can assume is your little sibling’s bedroom?” he asks.

“Easy, Mr. Huntsman. I’ve been on campus most of the time, and I’m with my parents until I get my own place. I don’t have any siblings.”

“Sorry. I’ve never been one for bureaucracy,” he explains. “I didn’t realise it would’ve followed me into the afterlife.”

“A lot of things follow ya into the afterlife, but I’m tellin’ ya this ain’t that.” He taps his scythe idly. “Now are ya ready to go?”

“Eh. I’ve had a good run.” Baxter rises with his cane, adjusting his tie with a single hand. “As long as my Hisako is safe, I can burn easier.”

“Who’s that?”

He pulls a locket from under the bloody bouquet, opening the unscathed piece of his past. Inside are a far younger, clean shaven Baxter and two women. One whose appearance can only be compared to an oil painting of a black cloth draped over a snow covered branch. While the other is her reflection through a tinted hand mirror.

“My daughter.”

“Are ya gonna miss her?” He stands and readies his scythe.

A pause. It's not long, but it's noticeable.

“She’ll… she’ll be fine.” His eyes flicker down, before looking into AJ’s again and making a request. “Just let me go already, kid.”

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Kaipo replaces the Huntsman.

Name: Kaipo Bakó

Age: ██

Occupation: Construction Worker

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (12:39)

Cause of Death: Blunt Force Trauma

Positive Impact: Created homes for many disenfranchised groups.

Neutral Impact: Doesn't separate her garbage.

Negative Impact: Consumed by work to the point of neglecting those around her.

“Are you okay, ma'am? You look as pale as… well… a ghost.”

“I still can't believe it.”

“It must be hard,” he responds, “but you're calmer than most. I wasn't there, of course, but Mama told me about this guy who was screaming his nonexistent lungs out. I never understood that part myself.”

“That's good… Not that he was screaming. No. Me being calm. That's what's good.” She sits down.

“How does it feel?”

“Death?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s not as scary as I thought. The dying part. It’s my kids. I didn’t have enough time with them, I didn’t do enough for them.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three. All girls.”

“Did you ever hurt them?”

“No. Not intentionally at least.”

“Did they ever go hungry?”

“Never.”

“Are they getting a good education?”

“Two of them are on scholarships,” she says. “And I promised the other to go clothes shopping. Told me her clothes were too masculine.”

“I don’t have kids, so take my opinion with a grain of salt, but it sounds like ya did as much as ya could, and that’s all that matters.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Do they have anywhere to stay?”

“Their mother’s house.”

“Ya don’t live together?”

“No, but we’re still on good terms. We both love the kids, and the kids love us too,” she explains. “Sometimes things don’t work out as planned.”

“Like dying?”

“Like dying.”

“They have a place to stay and another mama who loves them. Sounds like they’ll be doing just fine.”

Kaipo pauses, he assumes it's to think.

“You’re right. I think…” She takes a deep breath despite no longer having lungs.

‘Old habits die hard, I guess,’ he thinks to himself.

“I think I’m ready to go.” She stands up, leaving her hat on the table.

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Sorcha sits down. They share a look of recognition.

Name: Sorcha Durnin

Age: ██

Occupation: Personal Assistant

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (10:00)

Cause of Death: Car Crash

Positive Impact: Charitable and kind to those she held dear.

Neutral Impact: Aloof to everyone else.

Negative Impact: Didn’t recycle.

“This whole time one of my freshmen’s been the feckin’ grim reaper.”

“Correction. One of your former freshmen just became the grim reaper.”

“And ye graduated too.” She looks at the diploma above his desk. “Criminology. Does it help with the death stuff?”

“It’s my first day, so it’s hard to say.”

“Well ye got eternity t’think about that. I don’t have t’worry about any of that anymore.”

“Would you say you’re ready to go?” He grips his scythe.

“No, I’m freakin’ the fuck out, but what can I really do now? Ye know?” She fiddles with the glass in her punctured arm. “What’s done is done. I’ll have time to regret wherever the feck I end up.”

“One thing I can promise you is that this process is painless.”

“I guess it is. Now, enough catchin’ up. Take me up or down or spin me right around. Whatever ye need or wherever the feck. Just promise you’ll come visit.”

“I’ll see if that’s possible.”

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

AJ reads before he can walk forward:

Name: Virgil Clay

Age: ██

Occupation: Video Rental Store Clerk

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (02:00)

Cause of Death: Stabbed

Positive Impact: N/A

Neutral Impact: ██████

Negative Impact: ██████

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Tommy makes a popping sound. “You didn’t even talk to him.”

“His place was decided before he got here.”

“Okay.”

“Come over here, it’s your turn.”

He reads the final folder:

Name: Thomas Shah

Age: ██

Occupation: Student

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (05:00)

Cause of Death: ██████

Positive Impact: Charitable even when he didn't have much himself.

Neutral Impact: Doodled on the wall besides his bunk.

Negative Impact: N/A

“It's pretty obvious where you're going, Tommy, so let me let you in on a little secret.”

“Okay.”

He shows him the inside of his own folder.

“It’s empty?” Tommy asks. “But there are so many papers.”

“Not empty,” AJ answers. “Only my parents and I can actually read ’em.”

“Ohhh. Okay.” He bites the tip of his thumb, nodding slowly.

“Are ya ready to go?”

“Wait, AJ… Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“I want to say goodbye to my parents. One more time. It’s not their fault this happened to me, and I want them to know that,” he explains. “Can you help me do that?”

For the first time in a while, he finds himself silent.

“I can…” He says. “Do ya remember your address?”

“Yep.”

“Think about it really hard, and close your eyes.”

AJ taps his scythe against the floor.

Comfortable suburbia surrounds them, its trees lush and bright, its streets and sidewalks clean and wide. An emergency vehicle peels away from Tommy’s two-storey house.

“Are ya sure you’re ready? I can come in and explain things to them.” Azrael Jr. suggests.

“I wanna tell them myself.”

Tommy floats over to the gate, stopping to wave at him before continuing on.

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