There’s a reason nobody talks about the retirement plan for the Grim Reaper. And that reason is a four-day long contract that nobody reads until they’re a few centuries into the job and their bones start creaking like a haunted house. No one ever checks the fine print because, well, who expects a lass who snatches souls from the mortal realm to have anything resembling a pension Nest? It’s only after centuries of scything that the harsh truth hits you: You’re stuck, like a fly in amber, except the fly is you, and the amber is eternity.
The Grim Reaper sat hunched over a sad, cluttered desk in a cubicle that looked like it hadn’t seen a thorough cleaning since the Black Death. In the corner, her scythe was propped up like a forgotten umbrella, gathering dust. The dim, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an angry wasp that wouldn’t go away. The place smelled faintly of mildew, stale coffee, and something else—something that could only be described as “existential dread” mixed with the unmistakable stench of being stuck.
“So,” I said, sliding my mug of coffee across the desk to avoid looking directly at her. “You’ve been doing this for howlong?“
The Reaper didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Oh, since time started making sense. Roughly. Give or take a few eons. I’m not really sure, to be honest. Time’s a bit… fluid when you’re me.”
I blinked. “So, a few billion years. No big deal. Are you like… a contractor, or is there a boss?”
The Reaper chuckled, the sound like glass marbles clinking against granite. “Oh, there’s a boss. We all report to a higher… authority. But let’s not get into that, alright? They don’t pay enough for me to discuss their leadership style. Trust me, you don’t want to know what it’s like working for The Upper Management.“
I nodded solemnly, unsure if I was about to hear something scandalous or terrifying. “Gotcha. So, um… when do you get a break? Like, a real one? You’re probably due for some time off after all these years.”
The Reaper’s skeletal fingers paused on the form she was filling out, and for the briefest moment, I saw something that could have been despair—except it was so ancient and hollow that it became something I don’t have a name for. “Breaks? You think I get breaks?” Her voice was a rasp, but there was an edge to it. “I don’t get breaks, kid. I get paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” I echoed, trying not to let out a nervous laugh.”
Yeah, paperwork.” She leaned back in her chair—a creaky, ancient thing that probably had faded lots of long-dead office workers in its time. “You think this job is just about reaping souls, huh? That’s the fun part. The paperwork? That’s the nightmare.”
She picked up a stack of forms and tapped them on the desk with a sound that could’ve been mistaken for the rattling of bones if you didn’t know better. “I’ve got a filing cabinet full of complaints. And forms. And surveys. Do you have any idea how much I hate surveys? And don’t even get me started on the soul rating system.”
I blinked again. “Soul rating system?”
“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes—which, as a skeleton, is a remarkable feat. “After I take a soul, they rate me on a scale of one to five stars. If I don’t get five stars, I have to go back and explain myself. All the way back to the beginning. And if they’re really unhappy, they get to file a complaint. That’s where it gets ugly.”
“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “So, you’re not just collecting souls—you’re also doing customer service?”
The Reaper stared at me for a long moment, then sighed like an old woman on a porch who had been asked the same question one too many times. “You think this job is glamorous? Let me tell you about the last time a soul rated me poorly. It was an angry guy named Jono who didn’t like the fact that he died in a potato sack race. He gave me a one star review. One star! After all the effort I put in, Jono thought I was too abrupt. That’s the level of entitlement we’re dealing with. Do you know how many forms I had to fill out? Three.”
“Three? You filled out three forms for a one-star review?” I asked, incredulously.
“Well, technically four, but one of them was an ‘escalation form.’ You don’t even want to know about that. I had to go all the way up to middle management in the afterlife. Do you know what a nightmare it is dealing with bureaucratic souls? They’ll argue about everything.”
I took a long, thoughtful sip of my coffee. “And you can’t just… retire? You’ve been at this job for—what—eons, and you can’t clock out?”
The Reaper paused, then leaned forward, her skull gleaming in the dim light. “I would retire if I could. But the paperwork is… well, it’s not just the filing. It’s the rules.” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling, as though the cosmos itself were watching. “You don’t just walk away from this job. There’s no pension, no retirement fund, and definitely no insurance. And if I retire, someone else has to take over. Someone who might not be as good at it. Someone who might decide to get all compassionate and mess up the whole system.”
I stared at her. “Wait. So, you’re telling me you don’t get a retirement plan?”
“Nope. No pension. No sick days. Not even any kind of decent job expenses. I’ve tried. They told me to ‘go to HR,’ and when I did, they handed me a brochure about ‘spiritual wellness,’ then tried to upsell me a 10-step program for feeling at peace with eternal existence.”
“Wow,” I said, incredulously. “That’s… terrible.”
The Reaper sighed deeply. The kind of sigh you make when you’ve just realized there’s no way out, and it’s fine because you’re used to it. Or it’s not fine, but you gave up. “Yeah. I tried taking a personal day once. Just one. I was feeling kind of down, you know? It happens. So, I filled out the proper forms and— bam —they denied it. ‘You must attend mandatory transcendence training first,’ they told me. So I sat through six hours of a cosmic wellness seminar where they handed out pamphlets about ‘letting go’ and ‘embracing the void,’ while I was expected to meditate in the presence of 500 other souls who were also dead but in varying stages of denial about it.”
“That sounds… horrible,” I said, cringing.
“Tell me about it. Do you know how hard it is to meditate while holding a scythe?” The Reaper shook her head. “And the worst part? When I got back, they made me fill out a post-wellness survey.”
I choked on my coffee. “A survey?”
“Oh yeah. They made me fill out a satisfaction survey to gauge how ‘centered’ I felt after the experience. Then they asked if I’d recommend the ‘transcendental meditation for soul-harvesters’ program to a friend. I said no, and they made me write a comment explaining why. Do you know how long it took me to type that comment on this keyboard with these skeletal fingers? Two hours.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Two hours? To fill out a comment about why you hated transcendental meditation? For a mandatory wellness program?”
“Exactly,” the Reaper grumbled, shifting in her chair with a clink. “And after all that, what did I get? Nothing. No vacation. No relaxation. Just more forms. No one ever told me about this side of the job. When I signed up for the gig, I thought I’d be, you know, snatchingsouls and delivering justice. Instead, I’m stuck here in a cubicle, collecting complaints and explaining to souls why they can’t have another chance at life. It’s like I’m the customer service representative for the afterlife, only I don’t get any of the perks.”
I stared at her. “So… why don’t you just quit?”
“Quit?” The Reaper gave a humorless laugh, her skeletal face creaking. “Quit? If I quit, the system falls apart. That’s why I can’t retire. There’s no one else who can handle the soul-collection business with my level of efficiency. And do you think anyone else could deal with the sheer whining from the newly deceased? No. I’m the only one who can keep things running smoothly. I’m too good at it.”
Talking about being a victim of your own success.
“But you hate it.”
“Of course I hate it! Who wouldn’t? You think I want to spend eternity managing paperwork and listening to souls gripe about their afterlife experiences? All I wanted was a little peace and quiet! A beach vacation with a cocktail, maybe, while I read The hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy for the hundrenth time. Just a dayoff where I don’t have to face an angry ghost or deal with… well, whatever you call this situation.” She gestured at the chaotic clutter of forms and file folders.
I leaned back in my chair, finally putting my coffee down. “I think you need therapy.”
The Reaper chuckled dryly. “I’d go, but… you guessed it: paperwork.”
And with that, she grabbed her scythe, adjusted her robe with a sigh, and turned to leave. “Duty calls. I’ve got another soul to ‘gently escort’ to the afterlife. Wish me luck with the ‘customer satisfaction’ form afterward.”
As she shuffled toward the door, I called after her, “Hey, next time you’re filling out a form, please remember to rate your experience with me. I’m aiming for five stars.”
Without turning, the Reaper gave a mock salute. “Yeah, yeah. If I survive the paperwork, I’ll make sure to give you a glowing review.”
And with that, she disappeared into the abyss of her eternal, paperwork-filled existence.
There are few experiences in life as universally terrifying, as deeply existentially unsettling, as the sheer, soul-sucking horror of attempting to leave the sanctity of your bed. The kind of experience that takes you to the very edge of sanity, where you teeter on the precipice of defeat, staring into the yawning chasm of another day, wondering whether it might just be easier to remain motionless for the next 12 hours. Because, let’s face it, the bed has everything: warmth, comfort, a lack of judgement – a sanctuary for the hopelessly lazy. But alas, society insists that you must leave it, to do things like work, eat, or, dare I say, “live”. And so it begins: the battle of wills.
Phase 1: The Negotiation (aka The Denial)
As the alarm blares – an affront to your very existence – you make the decision to cling to the warm cocoon of your duvet as if it were your last shred of human dignity. You know you should get up, but the brain, that feeble organ, insists that a few more minutes of unconsciousness is all it really needs. And so, you lie there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling as if you were contemplating the meaning of life. “Just five more minutes,” you whisper to yourself, making a mental note to ignore the fact that the ‘five more minutes’ you asked for twenty minutes ago turned into a full-on siesta.
At this stage, there’s an internal struggle. Your body is telling you that staying in bed is a victory, a triumph against the absurdity of modern life. “Who cares about work?” your body asks, a question that echoes the despair of the human condition. “You could just lie here forever, where it’s warm, where it’s safe, where you don’t have to do anything except exist.” It’s tempting, truly. But then your rational mind kicks in – mostly because it’s been subjected to the alarm’s relentless shrieking. “You’re an adult. You must contribute to society,” it says. Or perhaps it’s more like a cry of desperation: “PLEASE, get up, or we will be unemployed and living in a cave by noon.”
Phase 2: The Physical Assault (aka The Banishment)
And yet, the war is not yet won. Because as much as you attempt to rationalise your situation, your limbs refuse to cooperate. They are heavy, unyielding sacks of inertia, designed by some cruel deity to thwart your every attempt to get out of bed. You try to push yourself up, and immediately your back protests, as though your body is saying, “No, no, no. We had an agreement. You stay here. We lie down forever. This is our destiny.” Your muscles, apparently bereft of any memory of how to stand, groan and screech in rebellion.
You manage to roll over – an impressive feat, really – only to find that gravity is conspiring against you, dragging your body back toward the mattress as if it has its own agenda. At this point, you’re aware of just how humiliating it would be if anyone were to walk in and witness your pathetic, half-formed attempts at rising. The act of getting out of bed is no longer just a simple physical motion – it has become an art form, a tragic comedy unfolding in slow motion.
Phase 3: The Moment of Victory (aka The Reluctant Realisation)
Eventually, you do it. You move. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold air of the room hit your skin like a slap in the face. You stagger to your feet, disoriented, convinced that you are now an entirely different, less functional being. There is no elation at this point – no sense of accomplishment. Just a deep, existential weariness that sinks into your bones, and a nagging thought that perhaps you should’ve just called in sick and become one with the duvet forever.
And as you shuffle towards the bathroom, still blinking against the harsh light of the world, a sobering thought strikes you: you’ve only just started. There’s a whole day ahead of you, filled with things to do, none of which you will truly enjoy. And the thought of crawling back into bed later, where your body and mind can cease pretending to be functional for a few blissful hours, is the only thing that keeps you from contemplating the futility of existence itself.
Phase 4: The Deep, Dark Aftermath (aka The Regret)
Then, just as you’re about to face the grim reality of your day – emails to read, meetings to attend, the long, slow descent into a mundane routine – you feel it. That pang of regret. You were so much happier in the bed. Was this the right choice? Was it worth it? You’ll never know, because by now, it’s too late. You’ve crossed the threshold, and the bed is but a distant memory, mocking you from afar. But tomorrow, oh tomorrow, when the alarm rings, you’ll be ready. You’ll negotiate with it, bargain for another few minutes. And in the end, you’ll lose again.Because let’s be honest – getting out of bed is the hardest thing you’ll do all day.
Cantankerous Cockerel 