Distant gray eyes that show nothing and reflect nothing. Hair dark as the horizon in the dead of a moonless night. Pale skin. Tan lips. High-arching cheekbones, and a square jawline that define me as decidedly, threateningly masculine. Mine is the face you will see when you have breathed your last breath. My body is the vessel from one harbor to the next; and from the time of your death to the time of your placement in Heaven or Hell, I am the keeper of your soul.

Most call me the Grim Reaper, though I have been named Ankou, Shinigami, The Destroyer, Yamaraj, and Thanatos. The list of titles stretches back to the first death on the first Earth and continues to expand, yet few who see me guess what I really am. Unlike my bright and shiny counterparts, I am hardly seen as a Heavenly creature. 

My name is Nox, and I am an Angel of Death.

Most think me needlessly cold, however, most don’t have my job. Imagine harvesting people’s souls day after day for all eternity. I don’t carry them in a special soul-collecting bag. I literally house your essence—everything you ever were in life—inside of my body, until the man upstairs tells me whether or not you will spend eternity in Paradise or Purgatory, and I either condemn or exalt you. Until that time, we are essentially the same being. I get to know who you were, whether or not you were a good person, how you died, and the fear you experienced when you saw me come to take you away. Then I have to let you go; either up or down, it’s not my decision. 

So, no, I’m not the life of the party; but you wouldn’t be either in my place. 

From Ch 1:

    Every night I dream about flying. Not like you, probably, who might imagine yourself floating over all you know, who might get a jolt when you go too high or dip too low, then wake up and try to fall asleep again. I dream as if it's happening. I spin the world beneath me. I'm faster than the birds, more agile than a gymnast. The wind pushes back, makes catching breath a fight―but it's exciting that way. Each night I see the same things: a crescent-shaped island, a ship, a lagoon, a forest. The details never change. The dream is always more vivid than my life.

   When I wake, I'm sixteen. The paper clipped to the foot of my bed says my name is Andrew Smith, that I have "hostile tendencies," "schizophrenia: residual," and that I'm on a handful of medications. I'm in a room with nine other students, (inmates), at the Belleview Academy for Young Men located at 2142 Forest Street, London. The year is 2015, and my memories start in 2010. Before that: nothing. My existence as I know it begins with a concussion, three shattered ribs, and a pair of useless legs. The first half of my eleventh year, I was wheeled about like some grandpa who's next big adventure is death. The second half was spent swatting away nuns and nurses and breaking wheelchairs just so I could walk on my own again.

   Everything about that year was infuriating, but mostly the fact that the nuns wouldn't let me jump off the roof. I told them I'd be fine, that I could fly; but I never got the chance. The school's security guards were always there to pull me back. The dark, stone walls of Solitary were always waiting to swallow me whole. So, after a while, I gave up. But I still dream about flying. Every night.