1 Prolouge
Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool's-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Dead trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light's expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed. The cemetery whispers under the sallow moon, a frigid wind rustling newly browned leaves.
Rows of tombstones stood erect in silence to the left and right, in front and behind, like a sea of the dead. Some were crumbled with the weathering of centuries, some were smooth marble with new black writing and laid with floral tributes.
In the middle of the graveyard stood a lone young man whistling a happy tune that was unfit for this sombre place.
It was eerily quiet but he seem to pay it no mind, seemingly enjoying the peace in which others would be frightful of.
He checked his old watch a grin appearing on his ghostly pale skin.
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Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
I always liked being in the cemetery, its quiet, peaceful. The dead laid to rest, grave stones in promise of not being forgotten, but a promise which is always broken. I like to visit the old crooked, crumbling grave stones the people who have had no one visit or care in a long time, I leave a single flower upon each headstone.
I like the way time seems to stand still, the wind unmoving, the birds always quite like they know. I like to hide behind the tall leafless oak and watch the tears trail down the face of grief stricken widows, to hear them cry and scream begging for longer with their love. I don't like that they're sad, I like watching the raw emotion, it is beautiful. And for a second makes me believe the dead wont be forgotten although to be forgotten is inevitable.
The graveyard was my favorite place to eat lunch. I would wonder amongst the tombstones reading the inscriptions. Here I could map out generations of families, wonder what their lives had been like and contemplate both the meaning of life and the permanence of death.
Gravestones lined the eerie graveyard, Some recently placed, whereas others, cracked
and crumbling. Mould covered the engravings dedicated to the dead, trees leaning towards the stones, branches reaching out to each other. Spiked, black fences surrounded the graveyard almost like it was a prison. The smell of old stone filled the dry air, weeds covering the graves of the dead, loved ones long since stopped visiting. Gravel paths weave through the maze of graves, allowing passers by to pay their respects to the people lined up in the earths embrace.
It was all simply incredible. How could one hate a place like this. I embrace death with open arms! What a wonderful piece of art it truly is.
I whip out a ham sandwhich, munching away as I watch a lone man come into the graveyard holding an expensive looking bouquest of flowers.
He went to quite a recently dug grave stone. Ah I remember now. That women had died in quite the tragic way, totured to death by her captor. So gruesome~
I chuckle loudly.
"What are you laughing about kiddo. This is a place to mourn over the dead. So immature-disguisting."
The old man boomed stomping towards my direction. I merely chuckle a smirk on my face.
"Well sorry. Your wife died in quite the tragedy. I saw you here on her funeral. I don't understand why you should cry on her death. You should be glad to have had fond memories of her. Think about what happen with her during your life instead of sobbing. I've heard plenty of sob stories in my line of work."
The old man glared at me.
"I'm a hitman. I would be careful with that mouth of yours."
"Well I'm not afraid of death."
Suddenly a loud boom sounded.
The entry wound was dead centre to my chest, perfection if you considered that sort of thing- professional hit, no doubt.
I already knew I would bleed to death before help came.
Blood soaked into my sleeve, radiating outward. A pool of blood forming below me.
A smile gently.
"Told you I wasn't scared."
The old man looked shocked.
I charge towards him grabbing a pocket knife and also stabbing him the chest.
A smile appeared on his face.
"Thank you, I've done enough in this life. Sorry..."
He collapsed to the floor.
"No problem old geezer."
I stumble to my most beloved grave, stroking it affectionately. A satisfied smile on my face as my eye lids become heavy.
"Oh mom, I'm right here next to you.
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Background check complete....
All requirements have been met....
Ready to commence launch...
Launching system....
[Hello host. I am System Death. You have been chosen as the place holder for the 'Grim Reaper's System]
