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First Draft of a Reaper Report

First Draft of a Reaper Report

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Published by Jeremy Hu
An early draft of a grim reaper's account of his latest case: a suicidal man by the name of Wallace. As he recounts the events that came to pass right before Wallace meets his fate, he attempts to understand why Wallace would take this course of action. And it is there that he struggles with this foreign concept called love.
An early draft of a grim reaper's account of his latest case: a suicidal man by the name of Wallace. As he recounts the events that came to pass right before Wallace meets his fate, he attempts to understand why Wallace would take this course of action. And it is there that he struggles with this foreign concept called love.

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Published by: Jeremy Hu on Feb 13, 2013
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First Draft of a Reaper Report.Wallace actually took the time to slap his own face, probably thinking the piercing wind
on his cheek wasn’t enough to numb the shame that he was feeling.
His tear ducts ran dryas every drop that emerges from his eyes are instantly evaporated by the sheer heat of theafternoon air.
Damn, he thought. They’re not kicking in yet. Drugged up and thinking
happy thoughts just a minute ago, he was now in a downward spiral, succumbing to thenightmares of the exact agony he was trying to escape when he took those pills.Soaring past windows in freefall, watching all them oblivious faces in their tiny littlecubicles; a part of him looking at them in disguised contempt in the form of pity at howminiscule their lives turned out to be, forever unaware of the other prospects of happinessthe life can bring other than the pursuit of dollar bills and the supposed comfort that itought to bring. Money is something that Wallace has plenty of, since he could muster thecourage to leave it all behind and not be worried about leaving the rest of the peoplearound him in dire straits.Yet another part of him watches in quiet, boiling jealousy, as he envied at exactly howoblivious they were to the cheeky bites and petty tantrums that those other possible routes
to bliss often carry along. They’re lucky, he
thought. For the less they know, the less theywill hurt and be hurt. The less they know about the unintentional wickedness thathappiness actually hides under its glorious façade, the less of those selfish choices theywill have to make.Happiness is not overrated, contrary to popular belief.
It’
s just not for everyone.Because happiness requires a certain level of innate buoyancy to go along with the usualfloats that them mortals lug around their backs and their hearts for protection. And once
those floats come off, usually through a conscious act by the mortal, it’s tremendously
difficult to
stay afloat when joy’s
lovely sirens come beckoning you, pulling you deeperin their depths, where its beauty grows proportionately with its danger.Wallace is one such individual that lacks that inborn capacity to keep him from
drowning, because it doesn’t help that he was instead entrusted with the gift, or curse, of 
plunging straight towards happiness whenever he sees it. At his current circumstance, it isstill unsure whether this was yet another act of pleasure, or whether it is a cold, calculateddecision that he made after Silvia found out that he had slept with her best friend. Oh,Silvia. A fine young woman, one must admit. She also happened to be the love of his life.According to his experiences, the trouble with Wallace is that he is capable of doing suchgreat evil yet does not possess the emotional detachment from his wayward deeds. Inot
her words, he’s
thoughtless enough to go around committing those deeds that landedhim in his current state, yet thoughtful enough to be feeling guilt. And shame.Too soft, he was.
 
 It is a silly reason to be committing the greatest sin, yet once again I reiterate, there wasno guarantee whether he was actually in his right mind at that present moment. But therehe was, floating in suspended animation, floating as though for the very first time, asthough those floats never came off, as though he might cou
ld’ve actually possessed that
buoyancy after all. It was difficult to determine the default mood he was in, because otherthan the rather obvious facial expression implying sorrow, there was also a tinge of delight, maybe gratitude, as he tightened his grip on an item in his right hand the faster hewent.Then with such comic timing and delivery, he suddenly burst into song; a patheticattempt at entertaining himself, perhaps, with skewed melodies and barely in pitch half the time. With the wind in his ears and misery in his veins, one would reckon that wouldbe the least of his worries. Because upon closer inspection, whatever coherent words thathe could string together told a tale. Of a time when things were not complicated. Of atime when Wallace and Silvia were just two pieces of driftwood on a calm river,knocking against each like mating stags. And of a time when magic was real, and waswithin grasp just through the act of a simple, tender kiss.And after an eternity of fleeting memories of times worth remembering, he embraced theearth.Poor Wallace.For he will never know that exactly one minute and thirty seven seconds after he met theconcrete floor, the item clutched in his right hand started to sing. The song was MusicWhen the Lights Go Out b
y the Libertines, as it was Silvia’s favourite song, as far as he
could remember. He will never know that the item sang because it was actually Silviacalling him on the phone. Technology these days continue to flabbergast. And he willnever know that Silvia wanted to tell him that she has forgiven him and she just wantshim to call her back because she has not heard from him for days.The irony of tragedy.
Some may say that this was Wallace’s own sick twisted way of seeking redemption.
From the mistakes of his past, from the suffering of his present. This was no martyrdom,
no, for he wasn’t saving anybody with this act. This couldn’t be categorized as an act of 
nobility either, for he knows that she will live on without him just fine. So what exactly isthe verdict of this whole episode?Unlike the angels up high who take sorrow upon the suffering of mortals, or the demonsdown below who take pleasure upon their misery, I am left feeling indifferent, unmovedby this waste of life. For I cannot begin to comprehend the significance and the effectsproduced by this intangible force that them mortals call
love
. The abundance of lofty, if rather empty, metaphors in this report is just my earnest attempt at depicting this so-
called ‘boon of mankind’ in layman
terms associated to the idea of beauty. And even that

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