[ WP ] Write a story with the grim reaper/angel of death ( a position that can be passed on ) as the protagonist .

Bored. Bored bored bored. 
 
 My monitor stares at me as I stare gormlessly back at it, feeling my lower lip slide lower and lower, feeling the drool start to collect and slowly, sloooooooowwwwlllyyy, start to slide into a droplet. Then it ’ s a quick sudden splat right down onto my silky blouse and I suck in abruptly, leaping a hand to my mouth and wiping. 
 
 “ Jesus Christ I ’ m disgusting. ” 
 
 There ’ s spit on my blouse. I ’ m just sat here behind my fancy, high polished, dark mahogany desk, looking at my huge flatscreen computer, wearing high heels with a nice fancy trouser suit, and there ’ s spit on my blouse. A big old stain of it, right there in the middle. 
 
 I hate my existence. I fucking hate it. I ought to work and I force myself to type another few words before I find myself staring transfixedly into space again. My mind escapes because the body can ’ t. I ’ m chained to this fucking desk, this life and I ’ m so BORED it hurts, like a literal weight just sitting on me. Sometimes I feel my eyes fluttering closed no matter how hard I try to keep them open. The amount of times I have woken up with my head pressed on my mouse mat, snoring, breathing in the accumulated fluff and dirt under my keyboard. The amount of times I ’ ve sat here with a fresh cup of coffee in hand and found myself already thinking about when I ’ ll be needing the next one. Emptying the ash tray for the thousandth time. Blowing smoke rings around the lives I ’ m tracking on my screen. 
 
 My screen. My eyes focus unexpectedly, as though they have taken it upon themselves to get back to work even if I haven ’ t. Suddenly I ’ m looking at my work, at my life, at the stuff that defines my whole existence with a coldly objective eye. I tell myself, don ’ t think about how much you hate it, just do it. Just keep doing it. 
 
 The list of names is, almost literally, infinite. The screen is constantly moving, with new names plopping onto the bottom irregularly, making the whole list shuffle upwards. When I move the mouse to hover over any of the names, a dull grey window pops up, offering me my options with a cold greyness that has come to hurt me almost unbearably. 
 
 I hover over ‘ James Reid. ’ 
 
 The window appears with a cold efficiency. 
 
 James Reid: Male, 32, Marketing Executive. 
 Current status: Married, one child. 
 
 I scroll down the window. To the only important bit. The only bit I ever need to focus on. 
 
 Current situation: Crossing the road. Tumour developing in brain ( unknown ). 
 Potential danger: Oncoming speeding lorry. Onset of brain cancer. 
 Death by: A ) Lorry – Immediate. B ) Brain cancer – Two years. Choose death now? 
 
 I stare at the screen. I stare at those words. ‘ Choose death now? ’ And I burst into tears. 
 
 It feels good, you know? Finally, letting it all out in massive gulping sobs that seem to tear me in half. I ’ m screaming into my hands with the weight of it. I ’ m pressing my knuckles into my eyes. I can feel my chest heaving up and down and I can hear myself shouting incomprehensibly, manically, hoarsely, half crazed – “ I ’ M SO FUCKING BORED I HATE MY JOB I HATE MY JOB I HATE MY JOB I HATE IT. ” 
 
 I ’ m still crying when I become aware of another presence in the room. I know immediately who – or what – it is, because no-one ever really comes in here, apart from me and them. No-one up here likes this bleak little room of death. I don ’ t say anything, don ’ t look up, just go all silent and keep my face down because I ’ m aware that I must look a real pathetic mess right now. I just sit and snuffle gently to myself. And wait. 
 
 - You hate this job - 
 
 Fear rips through me. Still I don ’ t dare look up. I keep my eyes fixed on my keyboard and I whisper faintly “ I – I ” 
 
 - You can be replaced - 
 
 “ No! ” I whisper, gripping the edge of the desk, feeling its smooth polished surface, suddenly frantically committing every grain to memory, feeling my nails bite into the wood. “ Please – I ’ m sorry – don ’ t send me back - ” 
 
 - We must have a death angel. - 
 
 I can feel the world around me slipping. Suddenly my monitor is all out of focus. My hand is gripping at nothing. I try to scream PLEASE but I can ’ t hear my own voice any more, all I can hear is his voice surrounding me 
 
 - Plenty of others will want to take your place – 
 
 Everything is black. 
 

