Death had a sister named Rose. Rose thought his job was stupid and took every opportunity to tell him so.
“Only a loser would get off on killing people,” she would sneer.
“It’s not killing,” Death would sigh. “And I don’t get off on it.”
Death use to get mad at her for saying these things until he realized that she did it because she was unhappy. Somehow it made her feel better about herself to put him down.
One day the worst possible thing happened. Death was given Rose as his next victim.
Death thought a long time about their growing up years. Rose was older and had always been mean to him. She had teased him, hit him, called him names. But none of this was any reason to want her to die.
Of course it was not his job to decide who would die. He was only the messenger. And once he was given a victim, there was no turning back.
He tried to draw it out by actively avoiding her, but she was the kind of person who would push herself on someone if she felt like they were avoiding her.
She called him several times a day. Each day the messages got meaner and meaner. She started bring up things from his childhood, things that had really hurt him. Like the time his prom date canceled at the last minute. Or the time a kid punched him in the stomach and stole his shoes. Or the time his class gave him the nickname Boney.
Death started to think maybe it would not be so bad if she were gone. All his life, all she had ever done was terrorize him. If she only knew what he had to do to her. How would she treat him then?
The day came when he could no longer put it off. So he sadly walked the distance to her apartment, sadly opened her front door, and sadly stepped inside to greet her.
“Why are you wearing your stupid death robe?” were he last words. Suddenly he could not feel anything. His only thought as he looked down on her was how peaceful she looked. He had never seen her look so peaceful in all his life. It wasn’t such a bad thing, seeing her that way.