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People are such hypocrites.
Just because my job deems it necessary to collect souls, they negate me diabolical, although judgement does not fall under my job description, those measly humans continue to judge me for doing what was asked of me by the creator.
I used to be human, during the Cold War, but allow me to spare you the gory details of my untimely demise and sum it all up with: I died a terrible, terrible death. I was never a believer in the afterlife, so imagine my surprise when my soul regained consciousness and I discussed my options with an angel of death. Blinded by rage and dissatisfaction, I signed a contract with the devil angel to become a soul collector. Rather than guide the virtuous to heaven, I chose the lesser of two evils, an entirely selfish decision on my part, which entailed hunting and delivering the wicked to their eternal unrest.
My first times are always plagued by anxiety and distress, and even without a physical form to sweat and fret, I was a complete mess on my first hunt. The name fluttered down to me one evening in an ivory envelope, a name easily recognizable as a rotten politician responsible for many slaughters. It wasn’t difficult to find him entertaining a notion, a glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand, while his other fisted around some redhead’s hair as she sucked him off. I fight the urge to gag out loud and tilt my head up towards the sky. Is this your idea of a joke? I ask but no one answers.
It’s pretty easy to remove a soul from a human body. I remember it felt like exhaling cigarette smoke when mine deserted flesh. But looking at this piece of shit, I can tell I’m doing it poorly, because I can see the life leave him, his eyes rolling back, irises almost disappearing into his skull, only for me to breathe it back into him. I’m nervous, and the situation in which I’m performing this isn’t pleasant for me, but in a way, it’s all very fitting. It’s so torturous on him, that soon his face turns blue, but before he could even hurt the girl before him, I take his breath away only to return it and then take it away again.
The girl doesn’t notice and dismisses his ugly grunts as sounds of pleasure. She shrieks loudly when he topples on top of her, limp and tarnished.
With time, my soul gobbling skills improved, and it seemed as if for once my stars aligned with the creator’s. For several days, the only names neatly scribbled inside the envelopes were of those who’ve orchestrated my death. For six days straight, their souls hung on a precipice, neither begotten or found, and when I finally allowed them to tip over the edge, it was straight into the ravenous inferno.
And then the seventh envelope fell into my open palm. I released the invisible string that hung between his soul and my finger to read the new name. It seemed God was on a mission, and I was His humble servant after all, He’s served me vengeance on a lavish golden platter.
But the name I read next slips through my fingers as my hands begin to tremble. I bend down slowly and pick up the piece of paper, mistrusting my sight, which had been quite poor in my human form, rather than believing the name spelt out for me.
Why her? I ask the sky again, but it doesn’t answer.
I find her sitting in a big cozy sitting room, fireplace crackling as she reads to her husband. She is my reflection, better kempt and kind hearted and gentle. Her fingers gingerly caress his chestnut hair and he’s fast asleep. She had a soothing voice, one I could still hear even though the windows are closed. It’s a cold night, and I push my hands inside my pockets and wonder why God wants me to take my twin sister’s soul.
It is gut wrenching to step through the brick wall into the warmth of her home, to hear her read and her husband’s soft snores. She’s an angel in disguise, and the creator chose me of all the soul collectors to settle down some unfinished score he had with me. I knew He was being too nice when the names of those who’ve hurt me piled up, but this is too cruel, even for you, Creator.
I lean close to her face, and I could hear a phantom heart pumping against my chest. I bring my mouth close to her moving lips, straining myself to have complete an utter control over this tumultuous ordeal. I suck in a breath and her spirit, smoke-like starts leaving her, but the blankness on her face as the breath gets knocked out of her forces me to stop.
I cannot do this. I look up to the ceiling and yell, “I CANNOT DO THIS.”
But then the images start darting across my head, fleeting and urgent. It’s from that godforsaken night, of scenes I’ve replayed over and over again, of six figures encompassing me in an alley while I toughen it up and snarl, and try to frighten them as much as they frightened me. Hands began to reach and grope and touch before I could make a run for it, and before I knew it I was bent down and taken, violated and humiliated, not once, nor twice or thrice, but six bloody times, dumped against the asphalt and left there to bleed to death.
My core shakes at the memory, my proverbial belly twists in a knot. Why am I recollecting this now? Why won’t it go away? Why-
“Nina?”
Anna rasps and my eyes widen.
“Anna,” I say, even though I know humans can’t see soul collectors. “Anna,” I touch a lifeless hand to her cheek, and then something surges through me and sends me flying across the room.
I’m standing in the alley again. Wait, no, that dress is Anna’s. We used to fight over it and she wouldn’t let me borrow it. Anna is approached by one of the perpetrators, rapist number one. His face leans into her ear and he smirks as he asks her when she’s willing to pay for her side of the bargain.
What bargain?
She shudders against him but does not flinch away, and I’m sickened by their intimacy. “Tomorrow night. I’ll take this route on my way home. Come meet me, then. I’ll pay my dues.”
Realization trickles on me like droplets of rain against my naked back. I feel a jolt between my legs, a hammering ache, pressing fingers against my skin and my hair in fists. I feel their teeth grating my shoulders and their hands on my breasts. I feel the rage that’s been dormant reignite as I cross the room towards her. My palm sets on the crown of her head and I hold her in place. She’s immobile and stiff under my touch, and then my lips let out a pathetic mewling cry that holds no semblance to voracious fury.
Her pupils go completely white. We’re not supposed to touch the humans, but my hand is cemented to her forehead and the longer I touch her, the more she crumples and pieces of her shatter until she’s dust.
Her husband’s head falls against the sofa, jolting him awake.
“Nina?” he calls her name, sitting up and looking around the room for her.