I know you do these little things for me that simply go unnoticed, not always but sometimes. I know how often you eat what I like simply because I am having a bad day. I know how often you cancel your plans with your friends simply because I want to see you. I know how often you try to do things to make me smile because thats your favourite thing in the world. I know how often you call me, just to check up on me because i’m stressed out. I know how often you hold my hand so that I don’t bite my nails. I know how often you start kissing me because I’m about to cry. I know how often you tell me you love me because you know if you don’t, i might just start to overthink about every little thing. I know how often you try not to fight with me, even though everything I do makes you mad. I know how often you hold my hand while crossing the road because you’re scared that someone might run over me. I know how often you do these little things for me and I know I don’t tell you this often but each one of those little things makes me smile a little more and makes my day a little better. I know you do these little things for me that simply go unnoticed, not always but sometimes.
Tumblr is addictive. You stare down at your phone and refresh the page again with a flick of your thumb, gazing down expectantly as if something is about to happen. Nothing does, of course - it’s just the same old posts, reblogged by half of the people you follow. Your friend has hashtagged her familiar ‘pretty sure I already reblogged this, pretty sure I don’t care,’ and you smile to yourself as you step out into the road.
Bad decision. You really should have looked first.
A blaring honk sounds from somewhere nearby and you look up, suddenly terrified as you see the truck speeding towards you. There’s a screech of brakes, a blur of blue, and then something slams into you.
The breath is completely knocked out of you, but you feel it when the truck whooshes on past, the driver shouting profanities. It’s confusing - apparently, you’re right back on the safety of the pavement, though you don’t even remember moving. You look around desperately, searching for the answer, and that’s when you see it. The Grim Reaper.
Or at least, you assume it’s him: he looms behind you, tall and cloaked, his face shrouded in shadow, but you catch a glimpse of white bone under his hood as he shifts, peering down at you.
“I - I died?” you blurt, though it doesn’t make sense. You can still hear your heart hammering in your ears.
The cloaked figure doesn’t move for a moment, and you might have run away if your legs didn’t feel like jelly. You’re glued to the spot as he slowly brings a skeletal hand upwards, the sleeve slipping down and revealing more bone. You’re just about to ask what’s going on, when he hits himself right on the head with a hollow 'thunk’.
“Dammit,” he says in a voice that reverberates all around you. “I wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“…Pardon?” You ask politely.
“Oh, you know.”He waves his hand. “I’m meant to just collect the souls and not interfere.Idiot.” He sees you staring and hastily corrects himself. “Not you. Well, maybe you. That was a bit stupid, wouldn’t you say?”
You’re forced to admit that yes, it was probably quite stupid.
“Justmake sure you look left and right next time, okay? Otherwise I’ll have to come back and hold your hand, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”
You look at his hand again, the fine bones of it moving delicately, and you think about it. You wonder what the bones might feel like, moving against your hand - whether they’d be cold, whether the joints might pinch at your skin, whether the fingertips would feel sharp.
He clears his throat and repeats himself, sounding a bit awkward. “You… wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Maybe it would be a good idea. Like you said, I’m kind of stupid. Maybe I do need to hold someone to hold my hand when I’m crossing the street. For safety reasons, of course.”
“Ah. Of course.” He says, nodding so exuberantly that his hood flaps up and down. You catch sight of a bony jaw line and a set of grinning teeth, and you grin back.
“Great - you can start now. I need to put this on my blog,” you tell them, holding out your left hand and unlocking your phone with the other.
“Blog? What blog?” The Grim Reaper asks curiously.
“My tumblr blog. It’s about how much I’d love to fuck monsters,” you say, and the hard, cool touch of bare bone closes around your hand.