It’s entirely unavoidable, entirely inevitable. While some choose to take death into their own hands and choose to take away their life on their own time, the majority of people aren’t in control of the overarching process or the outcome. They don’t know how or when they’ll die. They don’t know if they’ll be alone when it happens or if they’ll be surrounded by family and loved ones. They don’t know if they’ll be in pain as they gasp for their last breath of air or if they’ll live in bliss for that last moment before they simply close their eyes for the final time.
The fear of death is the second most common fear in the United States, wedged right in between public speaking at number one and spiders at number three.
Three hundred and twenty-three-point-four million people, and two hundred nineteen thousand, nine hundred and twelve of them are scared of dying. It’s a combination fear, one that isn’t simply fear of just the obvious, a fear of just death. It’s more than what it seems on the surface. People who fear death aren’t solely scared of the act of dying in itself. It’s a deeply profound fear, a fear of darkness, seclusion, and the unknown. It’s a fear of the Valkyries of Norse, Thanatos of Greece, the Grim Reaper of modern times.
Today, that fear is of Miles, a short little immortal being that lives in the uppermost level of Hell. Harvesting most souls and tasked with protecting the lives and well-being of three others, he can’t help that sixty-eight percent of Americans fear him. Inherently, he’s the bad guy in all of their stories, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
After all, the little Reaper’s just doing his job.
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