Before we get started, hiya! It's been awhile, huh? This was a story originally written for my Creative Writing class. So, yeah. I have a habit of writing a wee bit too much for that class, so I had to restrain myself on this short story. If you notice I'm not as wordy, or descriptive as I usually am, that's the reason. Oh, and suggestions for a different title is welcome!

Warnings: SUICIDE is present in this story, along with DEATH...in many forms. There is also CHILD ABUSE.
You have been warned, no complaints.

Full Summary: Ezra Baxter, a fourteen-year-old boy, committed suicide in hopes of leaving behind life. What he didn't expect was the Grim Reaper to offer him a position as one of Death's many helpers, aka a Reaper. All Ezra has to do are pass some tests and he's home free. However, there are some among the Reapers who do not want a young, obnoxious boy in their ranks.

Helper of Death
Prologue: Choices

One, two, six, thirteen aspirin pills were popped into his mouth and washed down with a glass of vibrant green mouthwash. With a wrinkle of his nose from the strange taste, Ezra Baxter fell back onto his bed and waited for the little capsules to do their work. He hoped he'd be too drugged up to feel the other effects the medicine was about to bestow upon him; getting sick or sent into bouts of delirium weren't high on his list of things to experience. Soon, as if answering Ezra's worry, the boy's eyelids began to droop and he felt the siren call of sleep beckoning him into oblivion. He relaxed and fell into the darkness as his eyes shut, hardly noticing the warmth of another hand reaching over to grasp his.

Helper of Death
Chapter One: Malfunction

"For ze last time, you little zit, you do not kill anyone! You simply grab zeir hand when zey are about to die, and out pops zeir soul."

Ezra couldn't stop his amused smirk as his Reaper mentor was attempting to teach him how to deal with his first assignment. The French woman, Giselle Beaumont, was obviously angry. Her black chin-length hair was fluffing out in rage - it reminded Ezra of an angry cockatiel, in all truthfulness - and her icy blue eyes were glaring at him. Obviously, this woman didn't like anyone under the sophisticated age of twenty who didn't appreciate the elegance of smoking a long cancer stick. Underneath the white powder that caked her face, Ezra could make out a slight tinge of anger to the woman's cheeks.

"Okay, okay," stated the Ezra, who was having fun irking his superior, "So, how do I kill this guy if I can't touch him, talk to him, or let me see me?"

"Augh, you little imbécile! Bah, zere is no time to repeat myself, your assignment iz coming." snapped Giselle, crossing her arms, determined not to say a word to the little annoyance who was standing beside her.

Ezra took the hint and ceased his entertainment. There wasn't any use in upsetting someone who was going to grade him on his performance. Giselle already thought he was too weak and young of a person to handle the strenuous job of ushering souls into their specific Afterlives. The fact that some Reapers thought a fourteen-year-old was too immature or sensitive to be a helper of the Grim Reaper got under Ezra's skin. He wanted to prove he could do this, even if no one else his age would have the slightest inclination to agree with him. That's why he was here, doing multiple acts of a normal Reaper as a test to his ability to be a Reaper.

It still didn't change the fact some of the other helpers of Death irritated him with their discrimination against his age. They even tried to use his method of escaping life as an example of how Ezra was unable to handle problems. The boy shook his head, trying to dislodge those particular memories. He ventured into death to be rid of that life, not to continuously remember it. In an attempt to ignore those thoughts, Ezra started to look around. He had been too busy being a nuisance, he hadn't really looked around to see what kind of death he'd have to deal with.

It was, against all clichés, a bright and cheerful day. A clear blue sky dotted with the occasional bird stretched out over Ezra and Giselle. You could even see a plane slowly plowing its way through the air. A slight breeze was blowing, bringing with it the scent of an ocean, which Ezra could hear beyond the cliff behind him. Judging by the sharp curve of the road, Ezra figured that a car would come speeding around the corner and slam into the cliff face.

Satisfied with his idea, Ezra leaned against the rock behind him, and waited for fate to deal its hand on the poor, unsuspecting sap that was about to die. Out of the corner of his eye, Ezra glanced to the French Reaper, whose black robe was dancing about with the wind, to see if she knew which direction the assignment was coming from. Oddly, she was looking skywards. Raising an eyebrow, the young man brought his green eyes up to stare into the sky, and realized that something, or probably someone, was coming hurtling towards them.

"Oh frick," muttered Ezra as his stomach knotted into dread. Over the sound of the ocean, Ezra could hear curses and screams of desperation as the figure tried desperately to get their parachute to open. Just as the figure crunched into the ground on impact, the sickening sound of bones crunching overwhelmed all other sound that was going on. Ezra flinched and hid his eyes from the initial scene by bringing up his arms; a car crash he could handle, but a skydiving accident churned his stomach. Giselle, on the other hand, didn't even cringe at the sight.

When Ezra didn't show any signs of going to go to the bloody heap that had landed smack dab in the middle of the road, Giselle nudged the boy in the side. Hesitantly, Ezra peeked at the woman from over his elbow, before he realized he had a job to do. Slowly, his arms fell to his sides. The boy was trying to prepare himself for the sight that as about to grace his eyes: a bloody heap of bones and internal organs spewed over the road. Yet, some powerful controller of fate seemed to take pity on the boy, and had an act of irony on its part. Apparently, after the person crunched into the ground, the parachute chose that beautiful moment to explode open.

'Lot of good that did this poor guy,' thought Ezra as he forced himself to edge closer to the splayed figure. Through the white parachute, a crimson red stain was bleeding its way through the fabric. 'Where the heck is his hand?!'

A hand, obviously broken beyond repair, was actually peeking from under the parachute. Ezra quickly grabbed it, remembering the chat he had had with Rebecca before leaving. If a soul was left in its body, it was still connected to the pain. More than anything, this wasn't one of those times where patience was a virtue applied. As soon as Ezra's fingers clasped around the hand, out popped the soul.

"Where am I?" screeched the smoky-white soul. It was some celebrity that Ezra had always heard about. Huge nose, skinny little body, and the heir to some string of exquisite malls; either way, Ezra cared less who this person was. It was obvious that this guy wasn't about to enjoy any major decision making, though, once mother dearest kicked the bucket.

"Welcome to death, sir," stated Ezra, forcing a soft faux smile towards the hysterical man-soul, "Now, if you'd kindly follow me, I shall escort you to your Afterlife."

"What! Kid, do you even know who you're talking to? I'm Harris Pilton! I'm too rich to die! I demand to see my lawyer!" On and on the soul ranted. Harris had already fallen off the edge of panic and into sheer, shrieking, insanity. Ezra sighed, and rolled his eyes. He tried to keep his cynical indifference from interfering, however, since Giselle was watching.

"Harris, you are dead. See that parachute?" Ezra waited for the celebrity soul to nod before going on, "Good, now you see that stain? That stain is you." Harris's ghost seemed to become even more pale with this shocking bit of information. Ezra reached out a hand to pat the young man on the shoulder, "I'm simply trying to do my job, which is to help you into your Afterlife. Now, if you'll please follow me."

Still shocked, Harris simply nodded and allowed himself to be led away from the scene of his death. Not far away, a mirror had slid up from the ground. It would've looked like a normal mirror, if it hadn't been for the fact that, beneath its glass, colorful smoke seemed to roil and churn. Finally, Ezra felt he had accomplished a job well done, but just as he was about to shove Harris through the mirror, which would be the doorway to an Afterlife, a huge creature hurtled through the mirror. The young teenager had no chance to react between Harris's screams and the creature chomping down on the petrified soul in one bite.

Ezra just stood there and stared as the train-sized shadow that glared at him with yellow eyes. This thing didn't even seem to have a specific form and kept squirming in and out of shapes. It turned to leave through the mirror when it found Ezra to be an insufficient after-meal mint. The boy was too shocked to register anything beyond the fact that Harris's poor soul had just become monster chow and that this might cost him Reaper-ship.

Behind Ezra, Giselle placed her hand on his shoulder and simply murmured in her eloquent French-accented voice, "Soul Reaper; it eats souls that are tainted with too many bad qualities. Ze good pieces will be spewed out, while ze bad, which is most of ze soul, shall suffer in Oblivion where whatever happens to ze body on the mortal plane is relayed to ze soul, decaying process and all."

"Oh." whispered Ezra, an involuntary shiver bolted down his spine. The boy's expression was all Giselle needed to indicate that he was empathizing for the poor soul. For the first time, the French Reaper felt a little bit of affection for the boy as the need to comfort him was awakened.

"Let us return, Ezra," sighed Giselle, as she squeezed his shoulder awkwardly, and guided him towards the mirror that would return them to the Reaper world, "You still have one more assignment."

End of Chapter One.

Yes, I'm breaking my short story up into chapters. Much more easy on the poor fools who read my rubbish. D