I see the two of them walking around. They are the holders of the sickles. No one wants to meet their eyes. Where before their presence was welcomed and laughter shared, today no one wants them to visit. His face is red from the stress of having to swing that sickle, her face is white and doughy. Both their eyes are hollowed. Neither are pleased with the jobs they have been assigned to do. Yet these tasks they must complete to keep themselves from the sharp edge of the sickle.

Another one bites the dust.

I sit here like the shadow of the boatman on the River Styx. Watching each one cross over as the tally rises.

There is some surprise at those who pass, those who have been (and I assumed would have continued to be) a real value, yet others I have wondered how they survived so long. I'm afraid to call out to anyone, not knowing what their faces would look like should they turn to me, yet I want to comfort them. Sadly, there is nothing to comfort to them. The burning in their bodies will only be diminished by tears, screaming or alcohol. Perhaps a mixture of all.

I watch the tragedy unfold before my eyes. A train wreck. An earthquake. A plane crash. Only in this disaster the destruction comes painfully slow and the bodies of the dead are walking.

Myself, the shadow, am still not safe. I feel the sickled clouds may cover my sun at any breath and I too will cease to exist.

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