( &&. open // sullivan
( sullivan + )
a heavy sigh, sharp graphite sliding across a notepad that never seemed to run out of paper. a new type of regular day for the reaper, he had helped an elderly woman pass on– it’s nothing what television makes it out to be. sullivan doesn’t wear a cloak, doesn’t carry a scythe, though he does carry an hourglass. he waits until the very last grain of salt falls before helping their soul get to the other side.
the reaper sits at the window seat of the train, putting his pencil and pocket sized notepad away sullivan props his elbow on the arm rest, chin resting on the palm of his hand, eyes watching the setting sun.
earbuds send classical music into his ears as he loses himself in his thoughts. he ponders why reapers get such a bad reputation, they’re actually very helpful. we’re looked at as the bringer of death when death is inevitable. we merely make sure a newly dead soul gets to where they’re supposed to go. it’s a new realm, how would they get there if it weren’t for us reapers? another sigh leaves the raven haired male and like clockwork he checks his notepad; there are new names, next to their names is their time, how much they have of it left. some have hours, some have days.
death, it’s a quiet wave. some see it coming, some never think of it as a possibility. it’s the only sure thing in life as a mortal human. with the title of a reaper sullivan was granted immortality. maybe it’s selfish of him, but even if the time comes where he has a child, and even if it was male born, he won’t pass the title to him. it’s a scary thought but this responsibility brings sullivan tranquility, knowing he can help people pass on safely, knowing he can travel through realms some people don’t even know exist– it’s fulfilling.