Names

idk what to name this lol !!

I am many things. I am an executioner for recompense. I am a wren of death that leads others away from this world. I am a demon to some, an angel to others. I am the bullet as one pulls the trigger, perhaps. Perhaps I am answering the wrong question.

It’s an interesting thought. One which was invoked within me many months ago. I was brought to an above-ground junkyard by a letter on my desk . A sickly yet muscular man greeted me, leading me to an isolated metal shed behind the yard’s fencing.

The man turned to me. “These rats ransacked our food this morning. Found them, didn’t know what to do with ‘em, so I brought ya. I don’t take pleasure in killing, but they need t’ learn their lesson.”

I nodded, and he turned the crank on the shed’s side, opening the wide door. A light turned on inside, revealing three people, restrained, their bones fighting their thin flesh. I removed the tape that muted them, and the young man on the left of me shouted,

“We didn’t do anything! He’s lying, I swear! We didn’t do anything wrong!” I crouched down in front of him. “Maybe. I am not a judge.” I said. A woman to the right of him who looked to be around the same age asked, “Then who are you?” A question I hear every day. I tilted my head to her. “I am a messenger of death.” My typical response.

A new voice sounded from the far right. “You are death.”

Those words set themselves into my mind, blocking any other thoughts to pass through. I became a machine, running through my routine commands.

“Last words, if you have any,” I whispered to the man and woman. “You will die for this!” the woman shouted.

I grabbed two knives from my coat, plunging them into both of their hearts. I turned to the voice that my mind absorbed. It was an elderly woman, her body shivering in the cold, yet a fierce expression was painted across her coarse visage. I then did something I rarely do. I asked a question.

“Do you have any?” Her frosted eyes met mine, and her sincere voice said again, “You are death.” I nodded and granted her the same fate as the ones before.

I stood, gathered my payment, and traveled across the arid land to a rectangular hole in the ground, filled with stone steps. I walked down into the now-empty main plaza and entered my office, directly located on the descending left. I stepped inside and looked into the mirror that was placed above my desk. I saw a mask, resembling that of a bird. The mask was enshrouded by a tattered cloak and a trench coat, accompanied by my leather shirt, gloves, pants and white-laced boots. All black, disregarding the blood that soaked my chest. I saw myself. I saw many things, none of which were death.

Another notable event, far more recent than the last, uncovered oddities of humans that I had never experienced before. It was particularly uneventful so far that day, and eventually, I was tasked. A thin businesswoman paid me to give a visit to a man who had supposedly scammed and brought down her market square. She gave me his address, and I walked through the hordes of people that lined the halls like insects, swarming across buildings. I reached the modern brick home and tried the door. It was unlocked and I stepped inside. A middle-aged, clean-shaven man stood before me, a smile beaming from his smooth face. “I see,” he said with a nod. He offered me tea, which I declined. I sat down in a chair parallel to the sofa he now laid in.

“So,” the man started, “What did I finally do? What was the nail in my coffin?” he chuckled.

I was taken aback by his seeming joy. If at all, most I meet accept their end, some even thanking me. None have expressed the happiness this man did, though. I explained and he arose. I did the same, and he walked up to me, still showing friendliness. He took a sip from his cup.

“Bitter, but I guess it’s fitting.” he laughed. He set his cup down and looked up at me. “Well then, I ask that you do it quickly.”

He gave me a firm, yet searing smack on my side. His smile faded. I pressed my fist to my heart, telling him, “You have my word.” He then whispered, “You are my savior.”

I grabbed a knife from my coat pocket and thrust it into his neck. I stepped out of the brick-laden home, a crowd of people in front staring at me, shock filling it. I went to my office, now feeling fairly light-headed. I looked down and saw blood trickling down my side, pooling below me. I looked behind me. A trail of blood had been following me. The blood was not the man’s. I was doing something I do not recall ever doing before. I was bleeding. I tore out the man’s knife that dug into me. I stared into the mirror. No savior stared back.

I have been thinking about this for quite a while. These people, they are all different. Yet one of two things likely happens at each of my encounters, sometimes both. One asks me, “Who are you?” Another tells me who I am, or rather who they think I am. They are always wrong, though I don’t tell them that. Well, I have. Once.

There was a fierce storm above-ground, a rarity. My office was closed that morning. After reading a book about the wonders of the domestic cat, a species I am quite fond of, I set to visit the local shelter. I have always wished to be accompanied by one of my own, though I fear that the usual occurrence of someone attacking me out of revenge may harm it. I spent an hour or so observing the various animals, watching them go along their lives. It is much similar to what I do with humans, though more vehement. After I was satisfied, I opened the door, only for my satisfaction to be undermined by the appearance of a rugged, musty mob with five people, their eyes drowned with determination and rage. I attempted to walk away from them. A mustached man pulled me back to my original position, now surrounded by the group. The man raised a spiked bat above me. When he swung down I caught the bat's handle, shoving him back with it, sending him toppling into the one behind him. Each person attempted an attack and subsequently failed, except one. She stood with valor between her fallen allies, forming a mist of courage one could almost taste. She spoke.

“You are a monster. You are nothing but evil, your heart is nothing. You are nothing. That mask you wear, it’s to hide your cowardice. You are a cowa-”

My hands wrapped around her neck, grasping tightly. I lifted her, her life seeping into mine. Coward. Monster. Savior. Death. The words blanketed my mind. I stared into her eyes through my own, made of mauve glass. I then did something I have never done before. I told her my thoughts on what she said. “I do not wear a mask,” I told her. The rest of her life was sent with a reverberating snap. I sifted through the mass of fear emanating from the people watching me. I reached my office and slammed the rusted overhead door down behind me, now leaving the lantern inside to be my guide.

I have decided. The phrase “Who are you?” is not a question. It is merely an introduction to other, actual questions, such as “What is my occupation?”, “What is my name?”, or, the one I favor, “How do I judge myself?”

The shrieks followed me to my office, some turning into weeps and pounds on the wall. I doubt they’ll get through, though they try. There was no monster in the mirror. No sinner. No killer. As of now, those have yet to appear. The noises have died down now, however I expect they shall continue in the morning. I sat down in my wooden desk chair, thinking. I thought for a while. I then raised my head and asked, “Who am I?”