The Grim Reaper sits in his kitchen, sipping a cup of peppermint tea. The warm liquid is soothing, it’s invigorating aroma a welcome detox from the scent of rotten flesh that lingers on his own skin. He’s had a big day, 15 deaths in England alone and the commute to Russia… the thought is enough to make him shudder. He’s been considering retirement for a while now; tempted by the thought of long lie-ins and boiled egg and soldiers for breakfast in bed.
He knows his wife and daughter would appreciate him home more too. When they were first married, his wife was proud of his work, often casually boasting to her workmates and friends, sometimes even fellow supermarket shoppers, about her husband’s profession. It carried, she knew, a certain amount of weight to be married to the master of death. Lately however, her enthusiasm for his profession has waned, buried under the weight of too many late nights and morbid work tales. It is often a frosty reception he receives on his arrival home, a curt nod, maybe an overly milky cup of tea if he is lucky and then silence. This is far from desirable – after dealing with corpses all day what he really craves is some decent conversation. He tried in vain last night to initiate a discussion about the rising road toll but was met with an exasperated sigh and an acerbic reply.
“Is that all you can think about?”
His daughter’s interest too has become decidedly cooler. The school friends he was once paraded in front of are now quickly ushered to her room, and he has begun to notice a steady decline in the amount of Parent-Teacher conference and Bring-Your-Father-To-School-Day invitations that are brought home. Perhaps his dead telemarketer joke wasn’t as well received by the class of 10 year-olds as he’d thought. Come to think of it, the receptionist at the doctor’s last week hadn’t seemed to find it particularly funny either…
Yes, it really is time for a change, he remarks to himself. He sips slowly at his tea and traces a finger languidly over the obituary pages of the newspaper open in front of him. Perhaps a holiday is what’s called for, a little getaway, an escape from all the death and despair he’s grown so used to. His wife has always said she would love to explore America. It could be the perfect break, a real chance for the family to reconnect. His mind fills with images of holiday bliss; a moonlit walk through a New York graveyard with his wife, a game of hide-and-seek with his daughter among the tombstones, perhaps the pair of them laughing as he regales them with stories of silly accidental deaths over a super-sized happy meal.
“Ah, yes.” He sighs contently, pleased with the mental image. Yes, a holiday is exactly what’s called for.