“I have never killed people. What do I need this for if you are doing an excellent job with this mission yourself? You yourself are killing each other. You! You can kill for notes, for your anger and hatred, you can even kill just for fun. And when this is not enough for you, you start wars and kill each other in hundreds and thousands. You just love it. You are addicted to someone’s blood. And you know what’s the nastiest thing about all that? You can’t admit it to yourself! It’s easier for you to blame me for everything,” he paused for a while. “You know what I was like before? I was a handsome man. I met the souls of people warmly and accompanied them to the place where they were destined to be. I smiled at them and helped them forget about what happened to them. It was a long time ago… Look what happened to me!”
He cried out the last words and, jumping up from the bench, threw off the hood from his head.
A face of a deep old man, covered with wrinkles, appeared Before John’s eyes. Sparse gray hair hung in tangled strands, the corners of chapped lips drooped unnaturally downward, revealing lower teeth that peeked out from under the lip in crooked shards. But the most terrible were the eyes. Completely faded, expressionless eyes stared at the blacksmith.
“Look what I’ve become! And you know why?” he took a step towards John.
“No,” he shook his head, shrinking under his gaze.
“Of course, you don’t know,” he grinned. “You made me like this! I saw a mother kills her children, I saw a brother kills a brother, I saw a person can kill a hundred, two hundred, three hundred other people in one day! … I sobbed looking at that. I howled from misunderstanding, from the impossibility of what was happening. I screamed in horror…” Death’s eyes glittered.
“I changed my elegant suit for these black clothes so that the blood of the people I saw off would not be visible on it. I put on a hood so they wouldn’t see my tears. I don’t meet people with warmth anymore. You’ve turned me into a monster. And then you blamed me for everything. Of course, it’s just that simple…” he stared at the blacksmith with an unblinking look. “I accompany you, I show you the way, I don’t kill people… Give me my scythe, you fool!”
Having snatched his tool from the blacksmith’s hands, Death turned and headed towards the exit of the workshop.
“Can I ask you a question?” was heard from behind.
“You want to ask why I need a scythe then?” stopping at the open door, but without turning around, he asked.
“Yes.”
“The road to paradise… It has long been overgrown with grass.”
