Everyone has a reaper. The further away it is, the
longer you have left to live. Every day it inches a
little bit closer, but it is always there. Except
yours, which disappeared three weeks ago
I pulled over to the side of the highway, legs
aching from sitting so long. I was in the middle of
nowhere, and I'd driven hours to get here.
I steeled myself and turned off the car.
Everyone's born with one. A reaper. People say
nobody's reaper looks the same, like everyone's
personal terrifying snowflake of death. No one
knows for certain, though, because you can only
see your own reaper.
Very little is actually known about them. It's hard
to study something you can never touch.
The car door slammed shut more loudly than I'd
intended. Now that the engine was off, the only
other sounds were the wind softly trickling
through the brown grass and the soles of my
sneakers on the pavement.
For miles around me, there was only grassland,
flat, empty. I turned, round and round, searching.
And saw nothing.
When you're born, your reaper is far away. From
that moment, it starts to move closer.
Sometimes it's slow, not even an inch over years.
Sometimes you look up, and it's standing face to