-- A short story I wrote to get it out of my head at 3am so that I could sleep. --
Lady Death smiled in amusement at the young reaper’s question.
“My favorite murder weapon?”
She held her pensive pose for a moment longer. It wasn’t uncommon for newly christened reapers to ask questions, but she wasn’t quite prepared for how belligerent this young man could be. Still, she mused, it was a teachable moment.
“I’m not a fan of murder, of course. Murder disrupts destiny…”
The young, impetuous new reaper cast a disdainful look at Lady Death. Clearly he wasn’t going to let this drop. Oh, this one shall be a handful, she thought. How exciting.
“Very well. But do not interrupt me again.”
Try as he might, the newly minted grim reaper couldn’t hide the interest from his eyes. He slumped down against a cold tomb, his attention given fully to the mistress who so recently brought him to this place.
“If I were to pick a favorite from countless murders, one comes easily to memory. A young woman, such a pretty thing. A handful of assailants had cornered her behind an abandoned cathedral. My hounds sensed the impending death from miles away. I watched as three men backed her against a wall. She screamed, and not one soul heard her.”
The young reaper scrunched his face in revulsion, easily picturing how the story was likely to unfold. The lady continued with her story, her voice wistful as she recalled what must surely have been horrific.
“One of the men brandished a knife, an heirloom from his forefathers before him. The blade was polished, folds marbled through the steel. A marvelous weapon. Another of the men held a rod of gold. He had stolen it from an antique shop, and thought it would make a magnificent club. He was right.”
Lady death swept her arm aside and images took form in the mist to help the young reaper better visualize what she was telling him. He leaned forward to see better, dropping all pretense of disinterest.
“The third man carried a large stone. It had been worn smooth from being wielded by the brute everywhere he went.”
“A rock?” This time the interruption was one of curiosity, rather than impetus.
“A weapon, in the hands of this particular man,” The lady corrected, “His arms were thick with muscle, and he had made a name for himself by using it to crush any man who defied him. A lovely blade, a rod of gold, and a famed stone. Yet none of these were a weapon I found endearing.”
Confusion crossed the face of the young man. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He nodded to the lady to continue.
“The men moved together, trapping the young, beautiful woman. She was terrified, cornered. The men paused only to determine who would get a turn at her first. They quarreled. In a fit, the muscled one hurled his stone – perhaps to pacify the others, I shall never truly know – through the great window of the chapel. Glass rained down over the poor girl. A thousand cuts cast her beautiful flesh crimson. A sound escaped her throat that I had never heard any mortal make before nor since.”
She paused long enough to note that the young man was now enraptured by her story. She was enjoying this too much. But he needed to learn.
“While the men continued to quarrel, she saw a glistening reflection through her bloody tears. A large, razor sharp shard of the window had landed within inches of her, mostly intact. Her own blood smeared the glass and lamplight was split by the jagged edge, casting a myriad of colors and patterns across the ground. Perhaps it was serenity, or perhaps it was madness. The woman looked at peace even as she grabbed that terrible edge. The men were so focused on their dispute that the first did not notice her calmly walk before him.”
The young reaper didn’t realize that he was leaning forward now, staring intently into the images in the mist. The lady continued her story:
“Glass tore at her fingers and his throat in unison. She laughed to herself as he choked on his own blood. The man with the golden rod dropped it and fled. The other lay on the ground, confused and having lost his blade. A lump was growing over his eye. She drove the shard through his other one, severing a finger in the process.”
Grim satisfaction crept into her voice as the Lady of Death shared her bloody story. She dared to smile as the young reaper flinched more with each detail.
“She hummed to herself as she left two of her attackers, one of her own digits, and the majority of her own blood behind that cathedral. She would return to her home, still clutching the glass shard in her torn hand. She survived, even if her injuries challenged her until her dying days.“ Then, almost as a casual afterthought, the lady added “The man who escaped was killed days later in an unrelated mishap.”
The young reaper cocked his eyebrow at the way the lady had said ‘unrelated mishap.’ Somehow, he suspected that his mistress had something to do with it. He decided to let it go. Instead he asked for clarification.
“So the glass shard was your favorite weapon? Because it had a few blood smears and caught the light just right?”
The lady gave him a look that he was growing accustomed to by now. It said ‘you missed the point.’
“The shard was never meant to be a weapon, child. It was meant to be beautiful. Then it was broken. It was cast into a role it did not deserve, nor was it ever destined for. The glass was beautiful before it was shattered. Then it became something that cut anyone it came in contact with - friend or foe. Yet, the woman held on anyway. She saw the beauty of that shattered glass, and she endured the cuts and the pain. Together, two shattered things found strength and purpose. Do you not see the beauty of that, child?”
The reaper sat quietly as the images in the mist faded. He was well aware of the Lady’s eyes watching him, measuring him. He replied, somberly at first, but irritation gradually returning to his voice – “I guess I get it. You’re still a creepy, morbid bitch, but I get it. So in the end, this whole story was to tell me that a glass shard is the great Lady Death’s favorite weap--”
He stopped speaking in the middle of the word. She had that damn look again. What am I missing now?
“I said the glass shard was a beautiful weapon. I never said it was my favorite.”
She loved the obvious exasperation on his face, but was impressed as understanding replaced his outrage. Good boy. She rewarded him with a straight answer this time.
“My favorite weapon, child, is the will to survive.”
