The Reaper of the Sunrise

Today, as I do every morning at 5:35, I sit on my favorite bench in the park to await the sunrise. It’s a worn out old thing, this bench. I wonder today, as I run the tips of my fingers carefully over its emerald-painted wood, the stories it would tell if given the chance.

I take only a moment, though, to wonder. Because today, I’m here to see her.

Every morning, she is here before me. She is here before me, sitting quietly in the soft grass that encircles the park’s small pond. She is here before me, hunched over a sketchbook, scribbling intently away at her chosen page. She is here before me, sunrise orange headphones adorning her dark curls like a crown, letting her block out all of the world except what she chooses.

Every morning, she is here before me. Every morning, I am too afraid to do anything but observe.

But not this morning.

I take my lucky hair tie, a light pink and orange polka-dot scrunchie that my best friend gave me for my birthday, from around my wrist and secure my hair in to a ponytail with it. I adjust the small buds in my ears, taking in a deep, comforting breath as low, deep violin song flows from them and in to my bloodstream, lowering the swift speed of my heart as it beats against my ribcage.

Am I truly ready to do this? No. Am I going to do it anyway? Yes. So here I go.

I stand from the bench and look down both ways of the path between her and I before making my way towards where she sits. I can’t help but grip the straps of my backpack with an intense tightness before removing the pack and setting it down in the grass before sitting myself. The blanket I’ve brought with me to sit on is my favorite one from childhood, a large, threadbare, white thing with beautiful watercolor flowers hand painted all over. Well, they were beautiful once.

I can feel my deep, painful shyness reddening my face and making my hands tremble slightly as I lay the flimsy, sad-looking blanket on to the grass beneath me. Thankfully, she pays no mind. She pays mind only to her sketchbook.

I finally take my spot on the blanket, crossing my legs and taking a moment to steady my hands and heartbeat before taking my journal from my backpack. Another favorite thing from my childhood.

It’s a thin book now, much more so than it was all those years ago when I first received it. Days and days, times and times of pages, gone forever. The cover is worn, the corners permanently bent and the bright orange hue slightly discolored from years of touch. It’s covered in faded, smudged ink doodles and names of old friends long forgotten. A string of charms hangs from a small hole in the top of the journal’s spine. Charms of daisies and hearts and stars, and a large orange pom-pom dangling from the end. It’s dirty and kind of clumpy now, the pom-pom is. But it brings me comfort nonetheless.

I need this comfort now as she is here before me.

I duck my head as I ponder my journal’s empty pages, the tiny golden stars on the ends of the thin dangling chains of my earrings brushing against my cheeks as I do. It’s not cold, but I pull the sleeves of my overly large cable-knit sweater over my hands anyway.

A Mona Lisa smile graces my lips for a moment as I look down at my sweater-swathed hands. My favorite colors adorn me this morning, light pink and orange. She likes orange, too, it seems.

I’ve just begun writing in my journal when she appears before me.

“I know who you are, and I know why you’re here.”

The statement takes me aback, but only for a moment. I look up from my journal and my heart sinks in to the grass, tangling itself in the loose threads of my blanket.

She’s terrifying.

Her skin is tan, covered with constellations of freckles. Her hair is dark and curly, taking a long, graceful fall down past her soft-featured, otherworldly face. Her headphones still rest over her ears, and I can hear faint piano music coming from them. Everything else about her is a bit of a blur. Except her eyes. They’re all white. No iris, no pupil. All white. And she knows who I am.

“Well, you have me at a disadvantage,” I answer, surprised at the steadiness of my voice and cleverness of my response. “You know who I am, but who are you? What are you drawing?”

She smiles and the constellations that decorate her cheeks are temporarily cloaked in pink. My cheeks are colored pink in turn.

“I’m exactly who you think I am. But, I’m also not. I’m never what anyone expects. No scythe, no black cloak, no skeleton, no ferry crossing the River Styx or anything like that. Just me. Oh, and my drawing?”

She hands me her sketchbook. On the page is the most beautiful barn owl, her wings spread wide as she flies in to a pink and orange sunrise. My favorite animal and colors. Written on the the bottom of the page in perfect cursive is my name and the details of my birth.

Beneath this, though, is today’s date.

“What is this?” I ask her in a small, shaky whisper. Tears fill my eyes as they scan over the picture. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second to let the tears fall, and when they do they land on the picture. But they just roll right off of the barn owl’s wings, as if the tears were never there.

She reaches a gentle hand out to wipe the stray tears from my cheeks, but when her thumbs graze over the sensitive skin beneath my eyes I feel nothing.

“What is this?”, I repeat. “Who are you?” Fear keeps my voice quiet and unsteady. What’s happening to me?

“I’m here to guide you,” she replies, taking the drawing back from me for a moment. I watch as she writes in the details of my last few moments. Where I am, what time it is, what ended my time. Then she hands the drawing back to me.

“You’ll need this for your next time around, okay? Please, whatever you do, never let go of this drawing. Never forget who you are, what you’re meant to do, who you’re meant to be. You may not have reached your destiny in this life, but I promise you, you will in the next.

“You will be who you’re meant to be, if you let yourself. Now, are you ready?”

She reaches her hand out again, this time expecting me to take it in my own. I wonder why I should, knowing I won’t feel it, but I reach for her anyway. This time, I feel it. Her grip is inexplicably strong, and somehow it comforts me.

She is here before me, and now, I am finally ready.