Chapter Text
There are two ways you can live in this world, follow the rules, or break them. Those who abide by the laws of nature will almost certainly live a fruitful life, but that’s what they all say right? To keep the world trapped, to restrict the mind.
May 22nd, 1842, a clement day; commonplace. Truthfully, Reaper was a normal guy, lived a normal life, and followed the rules. Who could blame him? Walking swiftly across the gray streets, holding a brown bag of what seems to be his breakfast. Distinctly, he wore a strange hood that covered his cranium. Yet again, who could blame him? Crime rolled like tumbleweed in this part of the city, you’ve ought to conceal your face from sly thieves. With a wardrobe dull and dark, he’s just mildly peculiar in the eyes of well, pretty much everyone. Despite his strange appearance, he miraculously landed himself a secure teaching position at the pretentious University of something. No one really cared to remember the name.
The large wooden door creaked open into a barren classroom, gray light pooled in like a streak of paint onto the marble floor. Reaper stepped in cautiously, a hand hovering over the knob. It was too early, the sun wasn’t even up yet. A large chalkboard loomed over the countless tables, many of which had loose paper on them. Pens, ink blotches, name it all. With a flick, the copper chandelier lit up. Its warm flames illuminated the classroom.
Knock! Knock!
The large wooden door thudded. Reaper quickly set his belongings on what seemed to be his desk.
“Good morning, sir.” He greeted the chancellor with cordiality.
“Morning to you too, I’ve noticed that your class had yet to participate in the exhibition,” Nightmare (yes him) commented, “You know we cannot let them win,”
“Yes I understand, I’ll try my best to urge one of my students to come up with something.” Sighing, a hand rubbed the side of his head. If he had to be frank, none of his students take competition into consideration, they just wanted to leave. With a slight bow, he retreated back into the safety of his dark classroom.
After ‘cleaning up’, he sat down onto the plush chair, legs crossing onto the granite desk in front of him. A newspaper in one hand, a steaming cup of (good ol’) coffee in the other. He flicked the packet of mundane news once before setting his eyes on the dark box with strange symbols within them. A chrysanthemum, a peace lily, and– a heart? He chuckled bitterly, gaze darkening before settling the newspaper down onto the stack of paper. It was about 8 in the morning by now, the sky just about a golden tint. Reaper sipped his coffee as a stream of students flowed into the room.
A particular group gathered at the far back, a smaller in front, and well, almost none in the middle. They wore similar clothing, some brighter to boast their status. Nevertheless, they are to be treated equally in Reaper’s eyes. Speaking of which, he had already started to scribble onto the chalkboard, white dust making its way onto his dark cloak. There was a charcoal sketch of a magpie secured beside his notes, carmine blue lining the wings.
By the end of the day, as red filled the classroom, Reaper sat in imperturbable tranquility with about 3 other students quietly studying. With quick strokes, he marked countless essays, blue filling the pages as he annotated. His head rested on a hand and his leg swung at a constant tempo. Occasionally, there would be soft footsteps along the corridor outside. Reaper found it rather irritating that this section of the University just stretched out along an extremely long walkway, it was like a set path. Sure it was easy to navigate, but at least have some colour along the way. This corridor was just unnerving.
Scribbles filled the silent room.
Reaper let out a faint sigh, pen tapping against one particular essay. The student had written nonsense, no offense, in his defense, he had all the right to describe it as nonsense. It was like they hadn’t even thought of the reasons why what they claimed came to be. He tried his best to mark it as sparingly as possible, but had to give the student a disappointing mark. Thankfully, it was the last paper he had to mark. Abruptly, he straightened the pile of essays, knocking them against his desk in a careful manner. The remaining students whipped their heads up. The peculiar one, Ink, lit up in anticipation.
“Am I allowed to ask how I did?” He quipped with a faint smile.
Reaper chuckled lightly, “Well, you know the rules, I’m not allowed to tell you your scores,” He pointed, “ But, I can tell you that you did well.”
The student, weirdly, lit up even further. Nodding and quickly set aside what seems to be a painting. The rest of the students stood up and slowly made their way to the wooden door. Reaper did the same, quickly stashing the papers into a secure locker. Soft goodbyes and cordial gestures were made as he stood beside the entrance, making sure every one of his students had left the building. The sky was a deep blue by now, still slightly tinted with crimson. Reluctantly, Reaper skipped down the marble stairs towards the vainglorious streets marked with burnt-rotten footsteps.
Pulling up his hood, the peculiar skeleton skidded across the dark town. After a few blocks, he slipped into a dark alley towards what seemed to be a cemetery. Ducking under a wall of ivy, he briskly made his way toward a grave. Around the mournful sight littered rubbles of neglect, it hurt to see. The names that were once carved onto them had far faded by now.
Soaking wet soil, a sign that someone had just been recently buried, the polished plaque marking the name of a child. An unfortunate incident, yet you cannot intervene with what nature wishes. His gaze darkened with a quick twist of the wrist. Solid soil rumbled in silence as an organ emerged, fresh with blood dripping from the arteries that hung limply beside it. Pulling out a glass container, he gingerly placed the heart in. Solemnly, it floated about, seemingly frozen in time.
There were many things in life that are left unanswered. Unfortunately, no one dares to step over the line of tradition. Which, to be frank, tends to be the fatal flaw. Fear, the word used to describe this, and as bright blood trickled down the sides of the daunting image of what once kept someone alive, Reaper felt none of it. It slithered slowly, pooling at the center of the glass prison, red painting deep despair. Like a hushed whisper, the soil closed on itself, sealing the grave as though nothing ever happened.
Before departing, Reaper settled a white lily upon the grave, mumbling a sincere apology to the owner of the stolen organ. Gentle footsteps reverberated around the silent cemetery.
It’s for the greater good,
he reminds himself. Grass blades idly wisped in the cold wind of the night, the pure flower ceased to wilt, gleaming soft innocence.