The Grim Reaper Visits the Coffee Shop
Updated: Aug 21, 2023
Written by Elizabeth, one of our literature writers, and edited by A. Ni, one of our editors!
To get to Destiny Centre, located alongside a busy main road, from the subway, you have to take a series of right turns. A 90 degree angle across Main Place, before crossing 52 metres of cracking asphalt. Wait at the zebra crossing for 30 seconds and then abruptly turn 45 degrees right to place your gaze on the awkward rectangular structure.
At 50 years old, Destiny Centre’s white exterior has faded into a creamy eggshell yellow, and it looks particularly out of place amidst the tall, sprawling blocks of newly renovated apartment buildings. Still, it bustles with life. Humans cloaked in passionate reds, mellow blues and bubbly yellows shift in and out of its hazy glass doors.
Amongst them, I too, head in. It’s a strange and senseless habit, one that doesn’t fit my story or my station, but as are many nonsensical things dictated by the universe, it’s one I cannot seem to kick.
It’s been roughly 50 years since I took up my post as the Guardian of the Undead, since I forsook my humanity to prevent my own life from being reaped.
The thing with death is that it isn’t necessarily its own thing but in fact one stage of a cycle. Death is a void created by reaping. At birth, the universe plants a life into the fertile soil we call bodies. Across a century, this seed is nurtured by happiness, grief and life experiences. And in due time, it blooms, fluorescent petals unfolding delicately, into a vibrant portrait of what we call humanity. Most of the time, though, as with all life, comes natural selection.
In a tiny flat, one may watch a stronger plant steal sunlight and nourishment from a sapling, irreversibly weakening their roots. In fifth grade, one may witness a plant wither after absorbing a plant’s venomous nectar. And in the stage of budding, a plant with even the whitest collar may be ruthlessly cut at the stem by an unpredictable storm.
My job is to reap these sickly crops, to accept the burden of having failed to nurture them, and to accept the consequences. Plants that bloom need not be detached from the soil; oftentimes, the angels effortlessly shepherd them into Eden. God likes pretty things, but he feels guilt when he realises that not every flower comes to fruition. That’s why I exist, to pay him back for allowing me to exist in a broken state. I will gladly recycle broken bodies and protect the beautiful ignorance that Eden promises. In a world as contradictory as this one, at least one place should remain untainted.
And so, I move forward.
The brass bell that adorns the door of the café door rings jauntily as I push it open, and immediately, I feel at home. The earthy aroma of roasted cocoa beans permeate the air, and my attention is directed to its source. Behind the counter stands Lori Steer, resident barista. With the swift movements of an expert, her hands show her love for her craft. Her honey brown hair is messily strung up in a topknot, and her features are furrowed in concentration as she carefully lifts up the kettle. Like magic, a stream of dark coffee pours in a beautiful arc into the cafe’s handmade mugs.
Of all the baristas I’ve encountered over the years, she is the best—by far.
My last human occupation was being a barista—in fact, in this very same coffee shop, so I can appreciate a good coffee. Coffee acts like a drug;, it focuses the world. When I drink coffee, I feel awake, and I can feel the pressure of my blood even if I can’t feel its warmth.
When one becomes a reaper, they forsake their humanity. Their face and identity is obscured, their aura of life stolen, and their existence is trapped in a vacuum.
That’s why I always wonder what baristas see when they take my order. Is my face blurry and indistinct—a shadow that fleets from their gaze? Or is there nothing left of me, their eyes lost in the endless darkness between my eyes and theirs?
In the same manner it is weird for them to see me. It's weird to see generations of juniors pass through these doors, to compare my obsession with the café’s sepia hues to the nonchalant way they view its walls—just a temporary shelter in a long journey ahead. It conjures an emotion in me I can’t quite name, one more reminder that inside me still lies a human.
The trouble with having your humanity confined from the rest of the world is that without practicing it, it erodes. How can you feel love when you cannot connect with someone else? How can you feel sadness with no one to teach you what there is to be sad for? How can you grow angry with no expectations? As the Grim Reaper, I am not allowed to feel, to be anything but solemn in the face of impending disappointments—though I’m sure that may arguably be much better than bending to flimsy human wants.
I first met Death when I was 18, after graduation. Everything about me had been gangly back then, my limbs stretched comically thin and my face distorted like a carnival mirror reflection. Death seemed so enticing back then, its vast emptiness a home for a boy who felt as if the world had no place for his ever-expanding sadness. Every human sensation had felt overwhelming, and they gnawed at me, making my skin fume, my mouth twitch between happiness and regret, and of course, my heart thunder so loudly it had been a miracle my mind was ever capable of logical thought.
That day, I had battled the same vicissitudes. Customer service was a nightmare, and I can’t remember their name or face, but what I do remember is they ordered a rainbow chocolate latte. I remember gritting my teeth at their snarky comments grinding lumps of imaginary human flesh. I imagined blood slathered against my teeth, flooding my mouth metal tang.
And, soon enough, I had my wish. I had bitten my tongue, and in the greatest, most ironic example of human frailty, killed myself by no noble cause or lack of skill.
In detaching from my mortality, I saw Death clearly. He, previously camouflaged somewhere far from my vision, appeared as an extension of the viscous black liquid that cloaked his fingers. He reached out to me longingly, carefully separating me from my mangled body, and stared into me with blue eyes. My gasp of surprise became a shuddering cough as my soul jerked violently with the rumbling of a coffee machine and screams of panic.
I saw Death observe me coolly, bringing his inky hands up to draw glossy black crosses on my face and pulls his hands back to steal a neighbouring table’s cup of espresso.
He takes a long sip.
Two seconds later, I found myself in God’s Chamber, crowned to take his place.
As a new barista at a new coffee shop, in search of a new destiny, I had wallowed, wondering why I had been trapped in a position I did not apply for. Hence, kickstarting my investigation on how to escape.
50 years later, I find myself close to the answer.
“Next!”
Smoothly, I glide across the chequered tiles of Purgatory the Café.
“How do you do today?” I smile, as charmingly as I can.
Lori beams to reveal a gap toothed grin. “Not bad, not bad. Business has been slow, so it’s been a good rest. What can I do for you today, sir?”
My heart pounds so quickly I can count each beat. Carefully, I reach under my cloak to finger the edge of my iron sickle. My blood runs down my fingers.
She looks at me expectantly, and unable to disappoint her, I whip out jet black fingers and grasp her by her cheeks.
Her eyes glint with fear and her body shakes as death looms over her. My viscous black blood engulfs her limbs and permeates her insides, disguising everything that makes her human.
While she is stunned, I grab the newly poured mug of the previous customer’s coffee and gulp down the espresso.
And, miraculously, for the first time in a long time, I feel pain. Sharp, stinging pain. Vaguely, in the periphery I see wicked yellow eyes, and cannot help but feel my skin prick with danger.
Shit.
My knees buckle and I wake up in an empty coffee shop. Face to face with Lori Steers.
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This piece was written by one of our literature columnists, Elizabeth. Reach 'em at @molesnout on Instagram!
This piece was edited by one of our editors, A. Ni. Reach 'em at @lukareyknees on Instagram!
