Resignation

I can’t do this anymore.

Have you ever thought you were born to the wrong family? That you didn’t belong? I meet a lot of people through the family business. Some of the people I’ve met believed they were born into the wrong body. A woman in a man’s body, a boy in a girl’s. I even met a unicorn in a woman’s body. Even stranger? He was a male unicorn. Don’t ask me how that’s possible, I’m no expert. I don’t even believe in unicorns, after all, I would’ve seen one by now. But I take people for their word. Who am I to call them a liar?

I’ve met people who were skilled at the one thing they hated most. People with all the potential in the world until it came to the only thing they wanted to do. I’ve met people born in the wrong time, in the wrong generation, or the wrong part of the world. I’ve met people who told me they were born to the wrong race, as if that of all things mattered. Isn’t it strange how humanity always finds a reason to hate?

I’ve met beautiful souls hidden behind ugly faces and rotten souls parading behind gracious masks. You meet a lot of people in our line of business. Thus, I’ve met a lot of people.

I find myself in the category of people who believe that we were born into the wrong family. It’s not that I hate them. I don’t. It’s not that I’m not like them or that I’m too different. I’m neither. It’s… hard to explain. It’s our line of work. My family is meant to do something special. They’re important. Without them, the world just… loses meaning. I’m serious. We’re that important. Well, they are. I’m not. I quit.

I can’t do this anymore.

I really can’t. Or won’t. Father always says there’s a choice. But Father also says that no matter what the choice, we all end up in the same place in the end. So, which is it Father? Destiny? Or free will?

I asked him once. He laughed.

“You’ll understand one day, Azrael.” He told me this so plainly. As if he wasn’t speaking in riddles. As if it were obvious. It was infuriating. And yet, I felt calm in that moment and have ever since. You may ask why. I won’t have an answer. Perhaps I realized that he didn’t give me a better answer because he, himself, doesn’t know yet. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, but misery loves company. The more we know, the more we hurt. And so, the more we know, the more knowledge we crave. The escalation of the pain is scintillating. We become enamored with our own suffering, disciples of our own demise.

How lovely it is to finally grasp that even we are lost. That we immortals wander this universe as oblivious as any other being. It certainly takes a weight off your shoulders. Unfortunately, the job puts the weight right back onto mine.

I can’t do this anymore.

It’s a heavy burden to bear. To know people’s terminal thoughts. To never know the answers to their final questions. To see the regret in their eyes. ‘Just one last time’ they beg. Such an illogical request. You already had your one last time. ‘But I didn’t know’ they say. What a waste that it takes knowing to truly taste the sweetness of it. ‘If I’d only known’ they say. Others claim to live every day like it was their last, but they lie to you and lie to themselves. In their last moments, every man begs for more.

Do you know such a burden? I hope not. But perhaps you do. One thing I’ve learned doing this is that everyone has a story, and every story has a sadness. No life is perfect, and tragedy tramples us all.

But tell me, please, enlighten this wanderer. What is your story? What was your burden? Who did you pray to? Did it work? Was life worth living? Who did you love? Yourself? Another? A parent? A child? This is it. Get it off your chest.

Tell me, please, future wanderer. What do you think you’ll find? Are you scared? Excited? One of the many people I met once told me the difference is in your attitude.

Tell me. Please. For I too have questions, and perhaps your answers will help me to find answers to mine. Who do I serve? And why am I? Among the many other things I don’t know, and likely never will.

I can’t do this anymore.

To hear the story, to feel it in my chest, wrenching and tearing at my soul. And then we do it again. And again. Each day, each job, we listen. We take your stories, your fears, your life. And then we do it again.

And what more do I know other than your pain? Nothing. I don’t know where we take you. I don’t know if you live on in eternity, or if you are nothing, from dust to dust.

I don’t know why you die. I only know that without death, life has no meaning. That you must die, or you will never have lived. I know that much, but it justifies nothing. The guilt I feel for being the bearer of this fate is too much.

I can’t do this anymore.

By now I imagine you understand a little. No? My Father is death. His father is time. In between there have been many of us. Mothers and sisters. Fathers and brothers. Daughters and sons. We become the horde. A drove of death. Yet we are but three. We are time, and death, and I. The messenger. The chauffeur. Errand boy. Steward of souls. A reaper, never a sower. The many iterations. The countless reflections of the existence we serve.

I am the scythe in the night. I am the last breath. The crow calling. The candle flickering. I am death’s child. His herald. I am Azrael, Angel of Death. The last thing you will see. The last thing you’ll know. The last thing.

And I quit.