Pen's Story - The beginning

Stardust bounced across the sky in skipping jumps that fell to the ground in a multicolored puddle of ink. Pen stood at the edge of the cliffside, fists clenching at their side. Pinks and blues and soft glittering purples dripped down into the void, swept away to somewhere far off to make galaxies he would never see. Pen kicked at a rock by their foot. The kind that had worked its way towards the cosmos in hopes of becoming a cornerstone of a world not yet awakened. With one fell swoop, Pen shifted its fate.

And wasn’t that just the crux of it all.

Flopping down, they put their feet over the edge, kicking back and forth, and watched the dust swirl around them. Destiny was one of those tropes that was hard to take stock in. This nebulous idea where life was preset. Pen believed that the ones who called for the word used it as a way to not face the consequences of their actions. One could not possibility be upset if this was destiny’s will, right?

They snorted. Oh, how easy it was to just let a delusion rule life.

“You look sad.”

Pen startled, looking around them. The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. A voice so childlike that it matched their own.  But they could see no others floating about. Other than father, Pen had been alone for the short amount of his life.

“Are you sad?”

Again, it came from nowhere.  But the one trait that had been instilled in them, the one they actually agreed with, was that an individual should always answer a question posed to them.

“I’m not sad,” Pen said, still looking around. “Disappointed, maybe. Confused. Absolutely angry. But not sad.”

Wind brushed against their cheek. “Why aren’t you sad?”

Pen frowned. Such a funny way to ask a question. “I– I’m just not?”

“But you’re crying.”

A hand formed in the stardust, reaching out to brush against their face. A wet trail stuck to the wavering fingers, opening a rift into another galaxy. It was so small that the rift would ultimately heal as if it were nothing more than a scratch. But for a minute, Pen saw an escape. Or maybe, they just didn’t want to admit that they were crying to this formless creature.

“Is that what tears are?” they asked.  Pen had heard of the concept before. There was a vague memory where they thought they remembered their parents shedding these tears. But Pen couldn’t quite remember.  Maybe it had been a dream.

“Your tears look special,” the voice said. “Or, I think. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen tears before.  Or others before. Not in a body.”

Pen looked around, the wind now twirling around them in a dancing embrace.  “What are you?” 

There was a puff of air. Laughter.  “I don’t know.”

“Are you new?”

“Perhaps.”

Pen frowned, trying to recall if there had ever been stories that their father had told. Perhaps of visitors.  “Are you from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” Pen’s voice was more curious than anything else. This odd little creature, flitting about, who seems so curious with them.

“I don’t know,” the voice giggled. Pen found it absolutely charming. They didn’t think they had heard a sound quite like it before.

“Do you have a name? Or a form?” The hand had dissipated after wiping their tears. Pen had a new urge to just see who this was they were talking to.

“Maybe? I could? What a fun series of questions this is.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“My turn! My turn!” A gust whipped by them, sitting at Pen’s side. “Did someone hurt you?”

The light in Pen’s thoughts went out.  Hurt. What a funny little word. Were creatures like them allowed to be hurt?

“No,” they said. “Not on purpose at least. I think… I think I’m supposed to be growing up.”

“That sounds like a nasty word.”

“Two words, actually,” Pen commented. “But I am told it's a part of life.”

“Life.” A burst of color shot across the stars, cascading downwards to form a path of multicolored ice. It formed little crystalline steps up towards the rest of the stars. “Life,” the voice repeated. “What is that?”

Pen tipped their head towards where they thought the voice was coming from. “It’s living,” they said simply. How were they supposed to explain life to someone who didn’t know the basic concept of it all? “I guess it’s a series of actions.”

“Oh! Like flitting through the air?”

Pen could have sworn that he saw something flip in front of him. “Well, yes. But it’s more. It’s also emotions? How we react to everything that happens in the world and to us. I’m… I’m not explaining it well. Life is different for others.”

“What is life like for you?”

Pen didn’t know. Life for Pen was supposed to be to serve. It was what reapers did and if Pen was supposed to be Death one day, was life even an option? “I don’t think I’m supposed to have a life, actually.”

“Oh.” The world went a bit darker. “That is sad.”

“Yeah.”

Pen had fought. They had spoken to Death and said that this was not the path for them. And what got to Pen the most, was that Death did not even disregard Pen’s words. Instead, Death looked at Pen sadly, his own child, and told Pen that he wished he could change the future.

“Well, what if I become life for you?”

Pen stopped. “Huh?”

“I could do it. I could become life. And then you could watch me.”

“I don’t know if that’s…”

“Oh, what fun life would be!”

Pen didn’t have the heart. As the world began to shift around them, they knew that the little creature was trying in the only way it could understand. It was creating hope. An emotion that was lacking around them.  

Curling their knees to their chest, Pen watched as the creature laughed and skipped across the stars, a small outline of something on the horizon.  And Pen just ducked their head onto their knees, and felt something slip down their face once more.