[ WP ] Tell me who the grim reaper used to be

Johnathan sat at the worm eaten table in the small kitchen, ladling soup into his childish mouth. He could hear the swing of his father's scythe in the fields. The heat inside swelled almost as much as his stomach, this was his first meal in many days. 
 
 Moments later, a tall, sunburnt, sinewy man entered his own with a straw hat on his balding head. His brown eyes scanned the room, to ensure nothing was out of place, then they finally rested on his son. He looked up from his empty bowl and smiled. 
 
 `` Morning, father. How were the crops?'' 
 
 Without an answer, he strode across the room, down an uneven hallway, and into his room. Silence returned, then Johnathan could hear the water running. Peeking his head down the corridor, he could see his father's scythe propped against the wall, and felt the faint cool breeze of the cold water flow out underneath his door. 
 
 This was not unusual for the boy, for his father could not speak and his fist was iron. In his bedroom was the only shower, that only he could use. In the boy's room only a sheet of steel with handfuls of hay laid out filled in its small moldy wooden walls. 
 
 Day in and day out his father would cut the wheat fields from dawn to dusk, and each day Johnathan would sit at the table, either eating what he could find among the dust filled drawers and cabinets or idly sitting, forcing back the hunger that seemed to gnaw at his bones. 
 
 There were beatings, oh yes. When the boy asked questions, or begged for food, or pleaded to be taught to farm, so he could earn a wage to provide for the family, his father was ruthless. He would beat him with a whip, the child had scars to prove it, and if the crime was too heinous, like taking the Lord's name in vein, Johnathan was forced to live outside in the blaring sun, without a trace of shade, for days on end. 
 
 Time went on, the boy grew into a tall, gangly looking teenager, with straw colored hair. His muscles grew, despite his lack of movement, and he was coming to the point of being able to overcome his father. But all was the same. It appeared to him even time did n't affect his father. He continued to farm the wheat with the scythe that never seemed to rust, and continued his beatings and punishments when he believed they were fit. The once boy still barely ate, and had n't been cleaned in many years. 
 
 But one evening, as his father stood over him, gripping in his wrinkly calloused hands the handle of the whip, Johnathan had enough. He sprung from where he cowered and sprinted down the hallway, snatched the scythe from its position and faced his father. 
 
 Sweat beaded his large forehead, and the sides of hair stuck to his skin. They eyed each other for some time, but when the child's father ran at him, whip held high, Johnathan closed his eyes tight and swung the the blade. All he heard was it piercing the wall, and the thunk of something falling onto the floor. Slowly opening his eyes, then them widening on their own, he released the scythe, ran over to heap of flesh and bone that was once his father, and wept. 
 
 Years went by, and in that time, Johnathan grew to become a strong and sturdy man. His father was buried in the wheat field near the shanty house, and Johnathan always paid his respects when he farmed. Through the wages earned from selling the wheat, he afforded himself food for each day, and showers every three days. 
 
 This continued on for decades, until he was an old man, unable to farm. 
 
 He sat up in his father's bed, his chest heaved with every breath and his sunken glossy eyes glanced across the room for no particular reason. His liver spotted bald head was covered in a cold sweat, and his limbs felt like they were filled with cement. On the wall next to him, leaned the scythe. It was an heirloom now, despite it not having a predecessor following his death. Childless, wifeless, penniless he was to die. 
 
 Johnathan closed his eyes, and an image swirled into vision against the black backdrop of his eyelids. It was a tall pale man, adorned in a black hood and cloak, much blacker than the background. He lifted his arm out towards Johnathan, his ghostly hand slithered out from the sleeve. It was as if he merely wanted to shake hands. 
 
 The man's light blue eyes twinkled under no light and his porcelain skin seemed to have a glow. Was this Death? Johnathan asked himself. Is it my time to go? The tall pale man shook his head. Without moving his mouth, he spoke. 
 
 `` Like the wheat field, use your scythe to farm those souls passing on. Take my hand, and the line will continue. Do not take my hand, and you will pass onto the afterlife, like your father before you.'' 
 
 Fear crept up into the back of his mind, and sweat covered his frail body. To become Death? He asked. Does it hurt? Does the pain leave? 
 
 `` Yes, you will feel younger than you have in many years. There is no pain, nor pleasure, once you accept the offer.'' 
 
 Johnathan was n't educated, born and bred of ignorance, but he knew the offer, despite his mind telling him it was n't real, was too good to ignore. He was old, he was dying, there was nothing left to do but to accept. With one wrinkly hand, he reached forward in his mind and grasped the cold hand of Death. 
 
 And so it was done. Life swirled and twisted up into his saggy fleshy limbs, embedded into his heart and brain, and lifted him up from his deathbed. He snatched the scythe from its position like he did before, and moved from his father's bedroom, down the hallway, and out into the wheat field. The sky was ablaze with yellows and oranges, and the ball of fire on the horizon gave the field's a golden hue. 
 
 He stood at his father's grave, his eyes never wavering from the irregular lump of soil in the ground. As the sun moved down below and the moon made its way up, his flesh began to fall from bone, his eyes evaporated into nothing, and his straw colored hair left with the cool breeze. 
 

