Why Do You Deserve To Live? Have you ever heard of the grim reaper? A black hooded figure that will come for you the die you die and collect your soul with a scythe, like wheat to scythe it gets cut and collected. This tale is about the god of death himself and a moment, that will all be lost to the sea of time. The grim reaper is everywhere but nowhere at the same time, collecting souls of the dead for all of eternity, for the reaper is death itself created by humans to make death seem less scary, less frighting. A nice thought that when you pass, the reaper himself will come for you. On a cold snowy night, in a town not known lies a single man in the alley between two dark buildings that are in such disrepair that could resemble ruins. The snow falling becomes a blizzard filling the dark empty streets with sheets of white, the blizzard fills the air, like a dense fog it cannot be seen through. The man lies in the alley, leaning against the wall, he is protected from onslaught of snow that resembles a river going through the streets, consuming everything. The man lets out a sigh, not a sigh of annoyance but a sigh of acceptance, for the man knows what will soon happen. The man raises his hand from his chest and emptily stares at the crimson that stains his fingers and palm, the crimson that marks the time is near. The man closes his eyes and inhales deeply, preparing himself for what he knows is about to come. The blizzard is raging on past the ally, the wind howls like wolves communicating to each other, the snow is falling so hard it becomes a white wall, the air is cold, a cold that doesn't make one shiver but a cold that touches deep into the body that can be felt in the soul itself. Between the howls of the wind, a sound can be heard, a footstep that echos across the howls of wind, a footstep so unnatural and eerie it makes the hairs on the back of the man stand up. The man knows what is coming, he has known since the crimson blood started flowing out of him, dotting the snow around him, like flowers to a grave. The footsteps stop and the man slowly raises and opens his eyes and he knows already what he sees. A black hooded figure stands before him, scythe in hand, the black gown of the figure ripples in the wind. All the man can do is tiredly stare at the figure, tears start running down his cheek, freezing even before they can fall off his face.