The screams.

The loud screams all around, just loud. Overwhelmingly loud.

It was like seven thousand banshees got together and screeched at the top of their lungs, trying to rip my ears off of my head. Their voices grabbing tightly and forcibly trying to yank them off. Wishing to see the gruesome aftermath, to revel in joy at my suffering, to use their despicable voices to pierce through my ears over and over again. Impaling my brain, shoving and stabbing it with the needles of their screeching.

Everything felt... horrible. Awful. Absolutely harrowing. Every scream resonated throughout my entire body, as if waves upon waves crashed against my very organs. Washing away at my heart, my lungs and stomach- each agonizing scream simply just coming one after the other, ready to rip me apart and crush my entire being in its malevolent fury.

Cold... endless... agonizing... a feeling of pure, utter suffering with not an ounce of respite. No signs of anything but my own misery as I drown in this despair.

But then, one single voice calling out, in the sea of screams... calling out to me, pulling me away from this hell, grabbing my hand and yanking me out, and with a bright flash of light...!

"... it just all... went to black, right before I could get out. I can't, for the life of me, remember whoever it was that- that was pulling me out. Their hand was- wrinkly... really wrinkly. Like touching a raisin in... in man form."

"..."

Quietly, in the silence of an empty cafe, a man in a suit sat in a booth with someone. Sitting atop gray, plaid cushions with five empty glass mugs. Each one had droplets of coffee still on the rim, with different coffee beans in each one. Different brands, different shapes, different flavors- all of which were given to him on request.

An unusual choice of beverage for a ghost to have, but one that the ghosts of Nihil were permitted to enjoy.

"I just... I guess if I really... think about it, if I had just swam upward ever so slightly, if I had struggled through it, I- could have survived, I guess... it's... it feel awful, knowing this. Harrowing..."

The man stared at his empty cups for a while, as well as the dozens of opened sugar packets he's opened for them. His hands fiddling with one in particular, fingers pinching the thin torn parts of it. Having played with this packet to collect his thoughts, to... to comfort himself as he recounted the tale of his death. A nervous sweat trailing from his forehead, down his cheeks, the strong taste of sweetened coffee the only thing that felt good right now- he just... silently processes all of that. Finally getting the words out to someone.

And that someone was, for lack of a better term, the last thing in Nihil that could ever understand death.

Staring at him from the other side of the table, a brown haired girl with a soft ruby gaze. Life flowing through her veins as a living human, yet her eyes as dead as a doornail. A morbidly calm look on her face as she holds her steaming cup of hot cocoa, taking occasional sips throughout the entirety of the man's spiel.

The man seemed too focused on himself to really... care about the extremely casual outfit she was wearing. Compared to the ghosts all around, this girl wore some sort of cozy brown sweater that reveals her shoulders, a pair of black shorts that only reaches down to a third of her thighs, two long and black leather thigh boots, and striped brown and black arm warmers.

For conversations like these, a professional in a suit would be better at hearing him out, but... no, she's been a wonderful listener. She's listened ever so attentively, and- he felt a slight peace in his soul, having said all of of it. It felt like she truly- cared that he died, that she was someone that could understand him better than he understood himself... to sort of- help him through this tragic time in his new lack of life.

And he... he sighs as he takes a sip from his empty cup, having got all of it off of his chest, and- he looks at the clock hanging in the corner of the cafe. If the scale of time is accurate, he had about five minutes to leave. Not enough time to continue talking with this... miracle worker of a girl.

"... w... well then. I should be off now," the man tells the girl, getting up from the booth. Floating two inches off of the ground, letting out a sigh as he gently leaves a few coins atop the table. "My examination is actually in a few minutes. Thank you for listening. I... appreciate it a lot, uhm... whatever your name is."

"Yvette, and..." the girl begins to speak, taking another sip of her hot cocoa. "... good luck with your getting your name and all."

With that, the man- picks up all the empty sugar packets as he thanks the person across from him. His body floating through the door and leaving. Leaving the girl by her lonesome in an empty cafe.

Yvette lets out a sigh the moment she's left alone, her apathetic gaze coming out as she- yaaaawns. Left with just her mug of hot cocoa, a feather pen, and two notebooks. One of then being the most dark, Victorian era-esque covered notebook possible. Metal skulls, dangling chains, bleeding hearts with devil's wings. The other being a pastel pink cartoon kitty notebook.

Quietly, sitting at that table, Yvette processes what she's listened to for the last forty minutes or so. Holding her feather pen, dipping it in her hot cocoa, and writing...

... "Gwimbly Schlimbly went dimbly bimblying before sombimbly plymombying into the plimbobly fombibly," she writes in the gothic notebook.

That's a good account of that soul, the girl thought. Summarizes his plight very vividly, in the most eloquent and detailed way possible. Dipping the tip of her feather pen several times in the midst of writing, as she writes this most eloquent of accounts.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"... Yvette. For void's sake, Yvette, you're not writing that."

And right before she dots the end of that sentence... the girl looks over her shoulder to see a black cloaked skeleton standing over her, holding a withered scythe with the most pristine silver blade over it. His hollowed out eyeholes glaring at the notebook as he lifts a finger and the cocoa-writing lifts off the page, disappearing completely.

Standing right before the girl- the living incarnation of the Grim Reaper. The collector of souls, the guide to the afterlife, a being of ominous tranquility as he carries out the horrifying inevitable. A figure many of the living fear, a representation of human mortality in monstrous form.

And yet, the human girl before him, the one that sits quietly with her hot cocoa, is unfazed. Yvette stares for a while, apathetically sighing. "And here I thought you trusted me to account for the amnesiac souls, Death..."

"Well, let's see what you've done with that 'trust'. I want you to recite what you wrote and tell me exactly what that says about that man's life story, Yvette..." the Grim Reaper demands.

Yvette- takes one quick look at her writing before answering. "... obviously, his name is Gwimbly Schlimbly-"

"No it is not," the Grim Reaper interrupts.

Yvette continues. "And he was dimbly bimblying at the plimbobly-"

"That is not an action," the Grim Reaper interrupts again.

Yvette continues again. "Then he ended up plymombying into the pool all sombimbly-"

"Sombimbly isn't an adverb," the Grim Reaper interrupts again.

Yvette finishes. "-into the plimbobly, all fombiblied and all."

The Grim Reaper holds his hand to his forehead, an exasperated sigh sounding out... as he twirls his finger and erases all of the "cocoa ink" from the page. "Yvette, not only are you writing nonsense..." Taking a moment to look around, before reaching into the girl's pocket and taking out a bottle of black ink. "... but you are writing nonsense with cocoa."

"It's sweeter than ink," Yvette responds.

"Yvette, we've been over this. All I ask is that you just write what they tell you in the Death Journal. No summaries, no big interpretations, just notes - in proper ink - about whatever you can get, Yvette. That is, quite literally, all I ask of you."

"Well-" Yvette sighs, her eyes narrowing. "This is dumb. This is boring. You're entrusting me with the most boring crap possible."

"It's highly important, Yvette. Nihil is responsible for big things, making sure the souls go to the right afterlives..." the Grim Reaper explains. "It may be 'dumb' or 'boring' as you so claim, but you're... effectively saving billions, upon billions of souls from utter oblivion and nothingness."

"..." The girl takes another sip of her hot cocoa, letting out a sigh. "If it's so important, why don't you do it yourself...?"

"I cannot be in every place all at once, Yvette-"

"But you had the time to figure out I wrote the tragic tale of Gwimbly Schlimbly in its full entirety wirety."

"-aaaand..." the Grim Reaper continues, clearing his 'throat'. "While I am out gathering the dead, I am entrusting you with just one- ONE small realm to supervise," the Grim Reaper demands, holding up one finger. "That's all you have to do. Watch over the amnesiac souls, help prepare them to pass on, and- ... Yvette, are you listening?"

Right after the Grim Reaper began speaking that part, Yvette has passed out. Ever so conveniently knocking herself out, somehow, snoozing away and simply tuning out the whole lecture and rant that the incarnation of death is about to tell her.

"... DON'T YOU DARE KNOCK YOURSELF OUT, HUMAN!" the Grim Reaper then angrily shouts out, his resonating voice echoing out and unleashing a small earthquake solely on the girl's seat. Forcibly waking her back up with a portion of his might, flames burning in his eyes.

Yvette- lets out a yawn as the earthquake happens, sighing. She's already used to the earthquake, it's nothing new... reaching out for her cocoa and taking another sip.

In a fit of rage, the Grim Reaper slaps the cocoa out of the girl's hand, the cup launched right across the table. The mug hits into the wall and shatters to pieces, spilling and splattering cocoa all over the window- the Grim Reaper roaring out in pure rage. "YOU DO NOT DISRESPECT THE GRIM REAPER WITH INSOLENCE! WHEN I SAY SOMETHING, YOU LISTEN WITH YOUR FULL ATTENTION. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

"..."

The Grim Reaper glares for a bit, lowering down and looking the girl in the face. Peering into her soul, and...

... and watching as she stares back. A listless gaze in her eyes as she took several- several moments to process what just happened, feeling... like...

"... Yvette? Do you- understand?" the Grim Reaper asks again, his voice softening.

Yvette silently stares at the remains of her mug, gazing at it as it's remained broken. The messy remains of that mug just... spread about. Basically destroyed to bits and shards. The chill of Death's touch or rage isn't what upset her... it's the fact he took it out on the mug, in particular. The one thing that she's brought from home, her own personal mug that she... that...

"..."

The Grim Reaper- stares a while in shock, just... cautiously backing away, index fingers touching as he awkwardly backs away. Just... sighing. Taking a more gentle tone with Yvette, as he puts the bottle of ink down on the table. "... I... must be off now. I'll be back in a few hours. Can... can you please just... try to do a little better, Yvette?"

Yvette... sighs in exasperation, and answers. "... I- I understand. I'll do better, dad. Just go."

An uncomfortable tension between the two, the Grim Reaper and his... apparently, "daughter", before- the cloaked skeleton just makes his way out. "Well... alright, then. I'll be back in a few hours. Just... be good," the Grim Reaper responds, before he fades away.

Disappearing off to get back to business, and... and leaving Yvette to her own, again.

"..."

Yvette stares at the bottle, and... and...

... she just begins to write, as instructed, just to get Death off her back about it. Visibly annoyed and irritated as her eyes glance to the side, staring at the bits of mug that still remained- she just scribbled whatever she could about that guy, writing out each excruciating detail.

Yvette already knows the whole spiel, how Nihil is the realm of the souls that have no identities, that houses and keeps track of those who died and lost all semblance of who they were. What they did, what they worshipped or believed in- the works. And, thanks to the Grim Reaper, she's pretty much in charge of their "spiritual therapy" or whatever it's called.

Before Yvette got to work on anything in particular, here she was... leisurely enjoying some hot cocoa... and then one of the amnesiacs just shows up. Apparently liking the coffee this cafe serves, and- well, she was obligated to let him speak when he sat down and started venting his whole life's story spontaneously.

Eh, she's just going to write about how he feels like he's some sort of pool guy who fell into the water while the people around him screamed... he was about to be saved by someone, and then just- bleh! Dead.

That's all. One page of notes, nothing much going on with how much that guy remembers...

... eh, he's got an examination. The exam folk will take care of it all, Yvette thought... and- that was it. She lets the ink dry on the page, the amnesiac ghost guy's story written out.

And all that's left for her to do is just- clean the remains of the hot cocoa mug that got smashed.

"..."

Ugh.