I stare at the old man.
His head is bald but for a few white hairs that dot his shiny scalp; sunken cheeks blow out gently as he tries to breathe, his dry lips quivering softly as he prays for salvation. His eyes, filled with tears, are locked on mine, gleaming because of the light I know he sees behind me.
For his sake, I hope he was a good man in his lifetime.
I hear a yell and my hooded head turns to see his middle aged daughter and son standing in the doorway of the tiny room. They rush to their father’s side, panicked and scared. They do not glance at me, they do not acknowledge my presence and I know the old man is not surprised that they cannot see me.
He just keeps his eyes on mine, his lips continuously mouthing prayers.
As his children try to grab the old man’s attention, I check my watch. There are still a few minutes left.
Still, the man’s heart starts to thump faster and he draws short of breath. Sweat begins to pour down his body, soaking his shirt. His children begin to lift him up. They have a car running outside, waiting to take him to the hospital. The son lifts him up along with a few other men and they carry him to the vehicle outside; there is no time for an ambulance.
Another car pulls up into the driveway, its tires screeching noisily. An eighteen year old girl bursts out of it, her eyes disbelieving and fearful as she sees her grandfather being loaded into her mother’s car. Her hands shake and she bites her lip, an expression of desperation on her face.
“Please, God,” she whispers. “Let him be fine. Let him live.”
The man is loved.
The car takes off and I follow, my robes billowing behind me in the silent wind, my hood unmoving so that it doesn’t show my face. The car screeches into the parking lot of the ER and I check my watch. A small twinge of sadness pricks me as it often does at this point but I quickly eradicate it – emotions can only get in my way.
It is time.
I glide down to the waiting man and in a single gesture throw back my hood. His eyes widen but they do not look surprised or afraid. They look accepting. And this coaxes a hideous smile out of me. The moment slows down as I speak to the man. His children seem to be moving in slow motion but we both ignore them. This moment does not include them. This moment is only between this man and me.
The old man nods in reply to my words and I hold out my bony fingers. His own fingers reach out and grip mine. Heat seeps out of him and into me and when his hand falls back down, it is lifeless. He is lifeless. Because, now, his life is in my hands.
Time starts moving again and I leave, my job completed.
From a distance I am aware of the old man’s children carrying him into the ER. I am aware of the doctors telling them that it is useless. I am aware of the son’s grief, of the daughter’s grief, of the granddaughter’s grief. And when they scream and rave and weep and cry that is when I am most aware.
And that is when I am the most distraught.
But I expel these feelings from my chest. And I tell myself that I am forbidden to have such emotions  - nay to have any motions. 
For, I am to have no heart.
For, I am to have no life.
For, I am a slave.
For, I am Death.
For, I am the Reaper.