Derek’s POV

The argument with Becca steams up. I can feel anger rising in my chest as she keeps poking at my insecurities.

Why can’t she just admit that she’s wrong for once?

“I’m sick of you never taking my side.” I grit my teeth. Becca scoffs.

“Maybe if you stopped being such a whiny baby, I would take your side more often,” she shoots back.

That does it.

In a flash of rage, I clench my fists so tightly my nails dig into my palms. I take a menacing step towards her. For a moment, I can see a flicker of fear in Becca’s eyes, and I relish it.

She should be afraid of me.

All the pain and frustration overwhelm my senses, drowning out reason. I don’t see the woman I once loved - I see only red.

Becca backs away, hands raising in surrender. “Derek, please,” her voice trembling. “Let’s just calm down before we say things we’ll regret.”

But it’s too late. I’m past the point of no return. With a wordless growl, I lunge at her, grabbing her neck in a vice-like grip. Becca screams and struggles against me, nails raking down my arms, but it’s no use. I’m stronger, consumed by a primal fury.

I slam her against the wall, eliciting a pained cry. Becca’s eyes lock with mine, wide with terror. I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction as I see the fear in her eyes, mirroring the darkness within me. I tighten my grip, feeling her bones pressing against my fingers.

“Derek, you’re hurting me!” Becca’s voice cracks, but I don’t care. I lean in close, my breath hot on her face.

“You should’ve thought of that before pushing me, Becca. Maybe now you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.” My voice is low and dangerous, even surprising myself with the malice I hear.

She tries to speak, but I cut her off. “Save your breath. No one’s coming to your rescue this time.” I shake her violently, enjoying the power I hold over her.

As I shake her, Becca’s screams turn into pitiful whimpers. I feel a surge of power, an intoxicating rush that fuels my rage. I tighten my grip further, feeling a sick sense of pleasure as her struggles weaken.

“Please... Derek... Stop,” her voice hoarse from the exertion. “You’re... hurting me... so much.”

“You should’ve thought of that before. This is all your fault, Becca. You bring this out to me.”

Her eyes, once defiant, now reflect a defeated soul. I sense a shift in my control, a fleeting moment of clarity where I see the monster I’ve become. But it’s too late to turn back. I’m consumed by a darkness that yearns for release.

With a final, vicious jerk, I throw her across the room. The coffee table shatters under Becca’s weight, scattering fragments of wood and glass across the floor. She lies there, unmoving, a tiny figure amidst the debris. Her once vibrant eyes are now lifeless, staring up at the ceiling, reflecting the emptiness within me.

“Becca?” My heart hammers in my chest, and I realize with a start that I’m trembling.

What have I done?

I take a tentative step forward, my legs feeling like lead. I never meant for it to go this far. The rage had consumed me, clouding my judgment, and now I’m left with the aftermath.

Kneeling beside her, I touch her cheek, half-expecting her to snap back to life, to slap me and call me names. But she remains still, her skin cold to the touch.

“Quite the mess you’ve made here, Derek.” The voice startles me, and I jerk my head up, my heart pounding. A figure stands in the shadows, tall and cloaked, its face hidden in darkness. I squint, trying to make out its features.

“Reaper and Scythe,” I mutter, my voice laced with disbelief. I try to process the surreal situation, my mind struggling to make sense of the macabre duo before me. “Are you... here for me?”

Reaper’s laugh is a low, chilling sound, devoid of humor. “Oh, Derek, you could say we’re here because of you. Your actions have consequences, and we’re here to ensure they are... addressed.”

I glance down at Becca’s lifeless body, my mind reeling. “Consequences? But... I didn’t mean to...” My voice trails off as I realize the futility of my words.

Reaper continues, its voice carrying an air of authority. “Mortals like you rarely understand the weight of your actions until it’s too late. And now, the scales must be balanced.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Balanced? What does that mean?”

Reaper steps closer, its dark cloak brushing against the shattered remains of the coffee table. “Your soul, Derek, is in a unique predicament. You see, when a life is taken prematurely, the balance of the universe is disrupted. It is our duty to restore that equilibrium.”

I stare at the mysterious figure, my fear mingling with a growing sense of curiosity. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Reaper gestures to the Scythe at his side, its presence eerily silent. “The Scythe will decide your fate. It is the judge and executioner, a force beyond your comprehension.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I take in the Scythe’s intricate curves and gleaming edge.

“But beauty is deceiving.” Reaper continues, its voice sending shivers down my spine. “And so can fate. Scythe’s decision is not one I can predict, nor control.”

Reaper’s words hang in the air, heavy with foreboding. I find myself transfixed by Scythe, its allure both captivating and chilling. As I stare, a thought crosses my mind—a desperate, irrational plea.

“Can I... can I hold it?” I ask, my voice cracking. I’m not sure why I make this request, but something about the Scythe beckons me, a dark curiosity I can’t ignore.

Reaper’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he might refuse. But then, with a swift motion, he hands me the Scythe, its handle cool against my palm. I feel a surge of power and dread as I grasp it, as if I’m holding a breathing entity.

“It chooses its wielder, you know,” Reaper’s voice echos in the silence. “It has a mind of its own.”

I swallow hard, the weight of Scythe’s power pulses through me, an electric sensation that courses down my arm and into my very core.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Reaper’s voice cuts through the air, sharp as the blade I now hold. “The Scythe is ancient, a tool forged from the essence of death itself. It knows your heart, Derek. It knows your desires.”

I stare at Scythe, its sleek, dark handle fitting perfectly in my grip, as if an extension of my arm. The metal shimmers in the dim light, beckoning me to unleash its deadly potential. My breath quickens as I imagine the power it holds, the power to decide life and death.

[TOD - May 7th, 1983, 7:30 p.m.]

Becca’s POV

“You jerk. I can’t believe you’re making jokes about this.”

“What else can I do?” Scythe gleams, his lightheart tone at odds with the grim scene around us. Police and paramedics swarm my small apartment, taking statements and photos. “Laughter is the best medicine, yeah? Or is it milk—no wait, that’s for broken bones.”

I let out a mirthless laugh as Scythe jokes about my death. “Ha, yeah, real funny.”

“Oh, come on, Becca, you’ve got to find the humor in this,” Reaper pokes at my still-warm body with the blade of his scythe.

<To be continued>