Well, this is awkward. This wasn’t in the manual.
You would think that for all the years we spent in Grim Station Vocational School, we would have learnt how to deal with this. But here a woman laid before me, her face contorted in pain. I mentally blocked out the distracting panting as I pondered my options. I took out my trusty handbook and flipped to Section 3.1: The reaper shall go about his duties in the most timely and efficient manner.
“Help… me…”
Just ignore her, follow protocol and everything will be cool.
I raised my scythe, ready to strike them both.
I swear this wasn’t in the job description.
“Hel-” the woman’s voice cut off into a silent scream as pain ripped through her body, her eyes staring at me in a silent plea for help. Her water had broken. For the first time in my life, I felt the smallest inklings of doubt creep upon me. After all, the child wasn’t technically on my assignment list.
Speaking of which, do the storks ever do their job? For God’s sake, their HQ was exactly a block and a half away. I paused, secretly hoping that one of those lazy storks would fly in to save me from dealing with the other (literally) emerging half of this situation. There was a reason why I signed up for Grim School - seeing people choke on baguettes and hot dogs, ignore railroad crossing signs, and dance into molten lava - I loved witnessing all the stupid ways people die. On the other hand, Life wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, and delivering kids was definitely not high on my to-do list. I checked my watch - 3 minutes had passed. Well, there goes my 50 year streak as Most Efficient Reaper.
The woman let out a ear piercing scream, her body wrecked by convulsions.
I knew I should have picked the old man in Room 303 instead. Silently cursing, I threw down my scythe, and kneeled beside her. She was gasping for air now, her breath becoming increasing laboured; once again, it was the beautiful scene of life seeping away. But this time, the familiar rush of exhilaration was accompanied by a foreign sensation. I watched with interest as she struggled to hold on, her eyes rolling back into their sockets, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her fingers gripped tightly onto the fabric of her dress as she kept pushing, so tightly that her knuckles turned white, so tightly as if it was her only anchor to the present, against the darkness consuming her. She was fighting so hard for her life - but why?
As the baby began to crown, it looked like any other mortal, albeit the bloody (pun intended) mess, but the callous disregard for life I long associated with mortals was nowhere to be seen. The sight of the vulnerable creature fighting to make it into the world stirred an emotion deep within me, a desire to protect the helpless child, the same desire clearly pushing this woman to dodge the clutches of Death itself.
I leaned over and held her hand, murmuring words of encouragement. She jerked forward, as if jolted away from a deep slumber, and gave a final push. The sound of violent crying echoed in the empty room. Covered in blood and amniotic fluid, I gently cut off the child’s umbilical cord with the sharp edge of my scythe. The woman lay heaving on the ground, a sad smile on her face.
“Will he be alright?” she asked, tears in her eyes.
I hesitated, and slowly nodded. I raised my scythe once more, bidding farewell to this atypical soul. As the light left her eyes, I looked at the small bundle of life left behind.
Oh man, the paperwork for this is going to be such a pain.