[ WP ] You have been the Grim Reaper for the last 2000 years , and have always viewed and experienced the entire life of the person you 're to take the life of . You 've never shown mercy and have always collected the life when time ends . Until you experience the life of a sicky old man .

He just wanted to sit outside one last time. 
 
 When I touched him, he spoke to me, as if he knew I was coming. Not once in my many decades of existence has anyone ever spoken to me, but his voice was clear, and frail. 
 
 `` Can I sit outside, with the birds, one last time?'' He asked me like he was a child asking for permission. 
 
 I could n't bear to tell him that technically, I was n't allowed to let a soul live past its expiration date, but the way he spoke to me... it was without fear. It made me wonder how many nights he had laid in that bed, closed his eyes, and reached out to me, trying to let me know that he was at peace with his fate. How long had he awaited death? 
 
 I knew the answer, I could see his whole life displayed right before my very eyes, and still the question pulled on me in ways I could n't describe. His childhood was filled with happy memories, but overflowing with bad ones. Loud arguments muffled by doors and pillows flooded my ears, and strategically placed bruises lined his arms and legs. Some of his teeth were missing, and the kids at school called him Checkerboard. 
 
 Then the scenes changed. He was an adult now, strolling down the street of a big city, the scent of morning coffee and fresh gasoline in the air. A woman with her head down rushed by, slamming into his side, sending his coffee splashing onto the parked car next to him, and the only good suit he owned. She apologized profusely, handed him a twenty-dollar bill, and stormed off in the other direction. Another scene change. The man and the coffee-spiller had somehow ended up together, their love as bright as it was during their first kiss. But then the arguments began, and the familiar feeling of dread returned. 
 
 It was little things at first, but it only grew from there. Soon they were locked in a shouting competition, and in tears, she dashed from the apartment, and his life, leaving him wondering just where he went wrong. Were n't arguments healthy? He thought, prayed that she would come back. She did n't. And he knew she would never when he saw her two years later at that same coffee shop, a diamond ring on her finger and a million-dollar man wrapped around her waist. 
 
 She had moved on, why could n't he? Dropped into a world of depression, confusion, and alcoholism, he wandered aimlessly, looking for a light that was only ever advertised, never sold. Deeper and deeper he sank into his own mind until one day, he found himself under a light. The light of a doctor's flashlight. It was bright, and annoying, and a man was asking him if he was okay. He did n't know. He could n't remember. 
 
 Decades passed in between empty cans and hospital rooms, until one word stuck in his mind: Dementia. It was like a big fat F, like the ones he used to get on his report cards from school. He hid the word just as he did with the grades, and continued on with his life. He was given medications, but they did n't help with the pit he was in, and eventually he was admitted to some kind of psychiatric ward. He was n't crazy. He was depressed, though he could n't remember why. 
 
 There, he spent many years, where he made some of the best memories of his life. Like the one where he went outside to feed the birds just as the sun was waking up, and one of them hopped into his hand to eat the seeds. Or the one where he got to visit with some animals from the local shelter, while other patients visited their family. It would've made him sad to think he had no family to visit with, if not for the memory of his childhood nickname. The animals were kind, and gentle, they were better than his parents, and the coffee-spiller. They understood him, and listened to him. 
 
 I had to pull away from his relaxed form. His closed eyes and rickety breathing was too much for me, where normally, I'd have no qualms about taking his life. His eyes opened slowly, and searching through the darkness of the room, they found mine. 
 
 `` Please,'' he whispered, `` just one more sunrise.'' 
 
 Thinking of the birds he had held, I nodded. `` One more sunrise.'' 
 
 With a gentle exhale of breath, he smiled softly, and in what little light there was, I could see he was missing a few teeth. 
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 So this was longer than I intended, but it was fun to write!
