The gentle breeze brushing against my skin came unannounced, prickling it as if dressing up had become a mystery I couldn't solve. It all but appreciated my existence; it cooled every step down the road. It carried with it an emptiness I could relate to. An emptiness that mirrored the void in the back of my mind. I tried to reach for fragments of memories, even the simplest one—a face, a voice, a place—but it all summed up to nothing, like an abyss swallowing everything I once knew.

It felt like sand being caressed by wind—gently yet unyieldingly—leaving behind no traces. Each fragment of who I was had been reduced to mist, mist that soon vanished into thin air. My entire existence had dissolved into a void, with nothing tethered to the other side of who I once was.

A burning sensation flared in my throat, caught between both dryness and pain. I couldn't feel my limbs, but I knew they were still there—just not my slaves anymore. After all, I'm the angel of death. I can't lose what is bound to me. My eyes were sealed shut, but as soon as they earned their freedom, they burned. I couldn't tell what or how, but light—or whatever it was—scorched them, cutting through the darkness efficiently.

For a brief, absurd moment, I felt like I’d drunkenly fallen off a mango tree. The pain on the better part of my torso could attest to that. But I didn't drink. I never drank. For all I know, mortal drinks couldn’t get me on cloud nine or eight if there was any. How could I be so oblivious? 

The air surrounding me had a faint odor of dead pinewood. Dead pine wood that still had enough potential to hold my weight. Silence surrounded me—unnatural silence. This was neither hell, nor heaven, trust me I've been to both. Silence is not on their menu.

Once I managed to break the cheat codes to my limbs, I cocked my head and made a second attempt to open my eyes facing a different direction. I almost quivered at the sinister ambiance of the place. It was like one of the creepy cottage houses depicted from a horror film.

The floor beneath me was pockmarked and tiled with wood that looked half-dead, as though suffering from a serious virus. My gaze landed on a half-open, creepy door that didn't make a sound until I faced it. It grew more ominous the longer I stared. It led out to a poorly lit landscape, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon.

I braced myself on my right arm only to invoke more pain that relished the torment. My nerves felt assaulted, but instead of activating my defense mechanism, they accelerated the ache. I wished I could drop the f-bomb but my throat couldn't allow that.

In the midst of the discomfort, I realized I had entirely forgotten something paramount—my life-long ally. The Romeo in Juliet’s story, the Marc Jacobs in Cleopatra's story, and of course the Squidward in SpongeBob’s story: Ye, my scythe. My talent in naming was worse than my comprehension in zodiac signs.

Instinctively, I stretched out my arm. Ye was typically supposed to gravitate towards it. She didn't. The angel in me seemed dead. My wings could no longer ripple beneath my human skin, my halo was gone, and all my tattoos were invisible to the normal human eyes.

I teetered in my shorts and bra—like a celebrity in ridiculously high heels—for a mirror that had been placed on one end of the room. A room that had been rendered half empty. One that had forgotten to perish during the dinosaurs' extinction and had never been used ever since. With my sweaty palms, I managed to wipe just enough space to see my reflection.

Whoever stared back at me was a mess. If my sleep schedule was a person, I couldn't think of a better definition. My hair stood in wild disarray, like that of an electrocuted mental lunatic. My cherry-red lipstick smeared across the sides of my cheeks, and black mascara did its worst around my hollow eyes. I was like a woman who just realized her husband was cheating—on her wedding day.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

According to the mirror, I looked like a gen Z, but according to my back pain I was older than my great grandmother. Worse yet, two of my nails were broken. The middle finger hits differently when its nail is well done, but guess what? It had to break.

I reached out again for Ye, but my scythe remained elusive. Perhaps a snack would restore my powers. Yet, against my expectations, there was no scent of a kicking soul nearby. None, not even in the distance. Whatever had happened to me had weakened me more than I could imagine. I hated the thought of hunting without navigation, but it seemed that’s exactly what I’d have to do.

Normally, Ye always found her way back to my palm. She was more than just a weapon; she had chosen me, willingly. So, I couldn't worry less about leaving her behind. 

Still, some part of my physical existence was returning to life. I could feel mere malevolent energy running through my veins. Nevertheless, I hated the way I couldn't remember the better part of my life, or better how I found myself in this shit hole; a countryside cottage.

The angel of death deserved a red carpet, confettis, lights, and camera. If they couldn't afford that, I could use a mansion.

I glanced around vetting further. This wasn't even a countryside cottage. My bad. It was a graveyard house. It was surrounded with graves. Perhaps graves of all the people's souls I had consumed. 

Dicky McDoggy. Not to be evil, but I wouldn't mind knowing where that name came from. Sure my memory had been tampered with, but I couldn't recall consuming the soul of a mortal by that name. Frankly, I would have enjoyed doing it.

The graveyard was unnervingly alive with death. As the angel of death, I preferred a more dramatic touch. The term "RIP" was too cliché. An insult to pop culture. A better epitaph would be, "Still dead, thanks for checking," or "Don’t laugh, you're next.”

As I mused on this, something shifted. The soil of one grave began to wiggle. My curiosity piqued. I stepped closer, squinting under the dim light of the crescent moon. Without warning, a hand broke through the soil with an unsettling intensity, clenching a fist instantly.

I whimpered, stepping back. My soul-sniffing radar, that was quite cloudy at this point, had not detected any form of life, leave alone human. I stepped back a single more step. Some part of me was unwilling to leave. It was the better part hence, made the judgment.

Another hand followed, this one stripped of flesh, leaving only skeletal remains. Dirt clung to its bones, like a grotesque glove that didn’t fit quite right. A zombie. I froze. What the hell?

Who thought that I would ever live to see the dead resurrect—especially when I was somewhat the cause of many deaths. It wasn't coming for revenge, was it? Because Mavobella had a knack for kicking ass. 

The zombie's grotesque form finally surfaced, spinning to face me like a top. One eye was missing, the other flickered with a faint luminous green glow. Its nose had been eaten away by decay, leaving it half-skeleton, half-flesh. And it wore tattered pajamas clung to its decayed skin like a noose.

Pajamas, seriously?

I had seen worse, but I couldn't help but barf.

The zombie stood, swaying on its decayed feet, staring—or at least facing—me. Zombies body language is not easy to read you know.

Alright, the show is over. I stretched my arm in the air to summon Ye. To my disappointment, my angelic traits were still asleep. How hard could it be? I clenched my fist and paused in a perfect warrior stunt. Brace yourself Cinderella, it asked for it.

It wasn't the slow, stumbling, disoriented creature I thought it to be. In a blink, it was sending a fist my way. I ducked and took advantage of the open ribs giving it my best. The creature only twitched but didn't flatter. Suddenly, the idea of fighting with a dead being felt irrational. Could it feel any pain?

I hadn't digested the food for though, when it sent another fist which met mine with an equal force. Flesh to flesh—okay, skeleton to flesh. This was the part where the two blades meet and sparks fill the air around them. In this case, I was the one that got hurt. The zombie was like a seasoned warrior, one with power to pin me down.

It launched itself up and spun like a ferris wheel, reaching out its fist. I sidestepped, ducked, and ricochet, punching its ribs once again. It tottered short of balance and grinned. Game on were the words his broken jaw was looking for. I wouldn't mind ripping it off.

It launched itself, I sidestepped, ducked, and punched a rib. Same dance, but I was getting more tired. Something odd must have happened to me. I hated to imagine that maybe I was no longer an angel.

Its right foot cut through the air for my face. I whipped back missing it and aggressively shot my leg at that that was holding it balanced at the moment. It went on its knees. I didn't hesitate to rip off its jaw and sever its spine from its flesh-escaped skull. 

Exhausted, I slumped against a headstone, catching my breath for the first time since the fight began. The taste of victory was sharp in my throat, but the moment of relief only short-lived. I watched in horror, the zombie's head began rolling back to its body. The dead were truly dumb. I hated learning things the hard way, but one thing was clear: dead things didn’t stay dead.

Rising to my feet, I braced for another round. I clenched my fist as I stepped forward, ready for whatever came next.

“Hi,” my voice was scrappy, like smoke struggling to walk out of a dusty chimney.

Of course, it didn't reply. It had no jaw to do it. I clenched my fist. It didn't clench its. Why? Was it tired? Instead, it raised both its hands up in the air, a gesture that reminded me that I was in the middle of a graveyard. One hand after another, its family started respawning. Including Dicky McDoggy. Nevermind, he was entirely consumed.

On second thought, running didn't sound like a very bad idea. 

I spun around, only to meet a towering zombie, twice my size. It leaned

down, whispering in a voice that sent shivers down my spine: “You are dead.”