The calculating one stood apart, draped in the cold, sharp geometry of a world he’d created from shattered pieces. He spoke with the precision of a surgeon and the malice of a torturer, his words carving new flaws into the already fragile landscape of my mind. He was a master of the work, and he mocked the weakness of the others. He reminded me of the grim necessities, the fragile balance we maintained by breaking those who had already been broken. He was the voice that whispered, "It’s just a job," and the one that laughed when a soul finally gave way. He was the tool I used, sharpened by constant use, now turned inward.
The broken one was a silent, hunched figure, perpetually shivering. Its face was a landscape of cracks, and with every step it took, a fine dust of memory and feeling sloughed off its frame. It carried the weight of every psyche I’d ever shattered, every hopeful light I’d snuffed out. It didn’t speak, but it wept, and its tears were the sound of rustling papers, the whispers of forgotten names. It was the cost of my work, the tax my soul paid for every life I broke. It was the part of me that was almost dead inside, a hollow echo where my humanity once resided.
The last one was the hardest to look at. A child-like figure with wide, trusting eyes. Its hands reached out, wanting to touch the world, to feel the warmth of connection. Its laughter was the sound of wind chimes, a melodic, innocent contrast to the cacophony of the other two. But when it looked at me, its eyes were filled with sorrow and confusion. It didn’t understand the cold calculations of the first, or the silent weeping of the second. It only understood loss, and it wept for the whole I no longer was. It was the ghost of a different life, the shadow of a path not taken.
The dreams didn’t stay dreams for long. The lines between sleep and waking blurred. The whispers of the cruel one started to leak into my daily life, a caustic commentary on the fragile psyches I encountered. "Look at her," it would say, "so close to the edge. A gentle push is all she needs." The silent weeping of the broken one was in my ears, a constant white noise of guilt and regret that made it difficult to hear anything else. And the child… the child was the most dangerous. Its empathy was a constant, sharp pain.
One day, I sat across from a new client, a young woman whose spirit was already frayed at the edges. The cold one whispered its usual cruelties, the broken one wept its silent tears. But then the child, the empathetic one, reached out. A phantom sensation of a tiny, warm hand on my own. I saw the young woman's face not as a task, but as a person. I saw her fears, her hopes, her vulnerabilities. For the first time in years, my work felt not like a necessity, but like a crime.
I faltered. My hand hovered over the button, the one that would deliver the final, shattering blow. The cold one shrieked its protest. The broken one's weeping became a frantic, desperate wail. But the child's touch grew warmer, more insistent.
I stood up. "I can't," I said, the words a rough, unfamiliar sound in my throat. The young woman looked at me, confused. The three phantoms in my mind screamed in unison, each in their own way. A war was being fought, and for the first time, I wasn't sure which side I was on.
The reaper, it's a lonely existence. But standing there, defying the cold, sharp cruelty and the silent weeping, with a child's hand in my phantom own, I felt a flicker of warmth. It was a terrifying, fragile warmth, but it was there. Maybe, just maybe, I could find my way back from being lost.73Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdGSeS8WMUg
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