I stood next to my father, we stood in silence, watching the crowd of people moving in front of us. My father rarely talked to me, I never saw his face, I was told to never wonder why. I enjoyed watching the people move, work, talk, it entertained me to see the different faces of people, both new and old, young and aged.
I looked up at my father, wanting to ask where they all come from. Though hesitant, I did, I asked him the question. He simply said "These poor souls, all of them. Their lives; meant to be taken by me." Curious, I pursued his response, wondering what he meant and why he answered me in such a strange way. Upon pursuing, he said "It will be your turn to take them soon enough."
Those words frightened me, I could never take another's life. I looked at him, quizically, still unable to see his face. Then, I saw it, as he leaned down, I saw it. His eyes, hollow, black, empty, gazing at me as if piercing into my soul. I could see nothing inside the deep holes where his eyes should have been. His face looked old, wrinkled, even burned. He smiled at me, an evil grimace, and told me "Now you are Death, and you must accept what was my burden, you must take the lives of these people." Shortly after, he began to turn a light grey, the colour of built up dust, then blew away, his ashes gone. I was alone, with all these people, all these people that would soon die...
Because of me.