Victim

• Emma Platt, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2020

It had been four months and Henry Myers still didn’t know if he was dead. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep and no one could see him. At the age of ten, he was told a story about how every town had a reaper. Henry had laughed in disbelief. Little did he know thirty years later he would decide to become one.

Henry creaked down the stairs of his decrepit house and grabbed the daily list off the counter. 7 people’s names were inscribed. It was a light day.

The lanky man’s arm grasped at the final location’s door handle. He almost had let out a chuckle at the inhabitants’ name: ‘Mr Tinkles’. He had until sunset to finish up with the guy; two hours. Plenty of time considering all that needed to happen was a single touch.

Stepping inside the desolate place, he scanned his surroundings. There was only a single room. A shudder ran up his spine; the place was deserted. A piercing meow racked his ears causing him to turn hastily. Henry had to leap to the side to stop an old cat from bounding right into his arms.
“Crazy cat,” the man muttered out loud. Moving quickly into the centre of the room, he took a closer look at the wrecked place. Pictures littered the area, but they only included an old man and the cat. The image of his wrinkled face and twinkling eyes jolted Henry back to his first week. He was the fifth human he had taken the life of. The cat jumped up beside him, looking up with curious eyes.
“You can see me,” the statement was barely a whisper and filled with wonder.
It had been over a hundred days since anyone had even acknowledged his presence. The animal just cocked his head to the side, before creeping up to him. The man leapt desperately away.
“I can’t,” the statement was cut off as Henry looked at the feline’s collar. ‘Mr Tinkles’ was carved into the gold. Realisation dawned on the man. This cat was his victim.

An hour and a half passed. Henry had migrated to an old rocking chair, refusing to meet the eyes of the still staring Mr Tinkles. It was when the light began to fade from the already bleak house that Henry knew a decision had to be made. If sunset passed and even one of his victims were still alive, the deal was off. No more half-life. But he couldn’t stand the idea of someone knowing that they were dying, knowing that he was the one committing the deed, even if it were just a cat. Henry couldn’t control the single tear that fell from his barren face as he reached out a hand in submission. The cat’s head made contact, before quickly turning limp. Henry stayed there the rest of the night, cradling the feline’s form in his hands. It wasn’t until sunrise that the realisation hit him; the cat wasn’t the only victim.