Spring has sprung.

That's the phrase, right? Flip a vowel and get a quirky little alliterative saying what people say without thinking of the logic behind it. How can a season have sprung? It implies a suddenness that descends unexpectedly. We're taken unawares. Winter's fresher sibling leaps out and shouts 'BOO!'. Spring springing doesn't give the impression that winter reluctantly passed on the seasonal baton, knowing its time was done and it needed to return to hibernation, ready for its return at the end of the year.

I suppose Spring springing can make you think of rabbits bounding across a grassy hill, dragging the sun sleepily behind them. It could be an energetic transition into the effective rebirth of the world. I mean, it's like Life becomes pregnant. The days are lighter for longer. They're fuller. Lambs are a-leaping. Calves are a...doing whatever calves do? Like the flowers stretching their petals as they emerge to welcome the sun, we stretch our metaphorical arms to embrace a fresher time of year.

Autumn is my favourite period. Leaves are a-falling, They crunch underfoot, like the bones of the dear departed, which they are, effectively. We become nostalgic, thinking back across our years as temperatures cool and the air turns crisp. Our past selves are the fallen leaves of our lives, and are the bones we break while we walk towards more.

But, Spring is here, and I shall allow it to renew me. I shall be refreshed. Perhaps, even reborn. It will be done in the best of ways. In the only way.

For, with life, there is also, and there is always death.

And, I am death.

Well, not in the scythe carrying, skeletal figure of legend. I only take lives, not souls. I leave that for the big guy. Not that I haven't thought about it. He, Death, has skills I do not, however, such as immortality and supernatural power. I believe him to have a sense of morals, something else I do not possess. He takes those on his list, when their time has come. I have no list, and I take when it is my time. When I choose. When I decide. That makes me more powerful.

So, I am death, if not Death. I am grim and I reap.

I imagine I would be called evil, and I accept that. I don't feel evil, but the things I do must be. No, I'm not deluded. They are. People die because of me. For no other reason but that. I accept that, too. I have no divine purpose behind my actions. I feel no pride, nor any sense of achievement. Feelings are for those who can benefit from them, whether that be with joy or sorrow. Even the latter provides a victory of sorts. It proves they exist. There is a sense of purpose in that existence that carries them from day to day. I don't need it. I know what and who I am. I am me, and that is enough.

So, why?

Does there have to be a reason? People say there's always a reason, and I suppose that's correct, even if said reason is 'just because'. If that's the case, I do this 'just because'. Because the feel of a blade cutting through flesh and trachea is unmatched. Because the look of horror or, though I do try to avoid it, pain, is a glimpse into something otherwise undetectable. Because, as long as I do this, there will always be victims. Because the living need death to be able to live. Without the promise - and it is a promise, whether by my hand or not - of an end, there'd be no impetus to create or to, indeed, feel that joy and sorrow. It's the knowledge, even if not directly observed, that our finite time needs a legacy to show it was ever there.

I am under no such illusions. One day, I'll meet that dark cloaked figure, and he'll lead me on to whatever comes next, if anything. Until then...

Well, Spring has sprung, and it is my time. And theirs.

I ready my blades and, like a rabbit taking itsfirst steps beyond the burrow, eagerly step out into the new season's sun.

Spring is a story based on a prompt from the brilliant writing group I'm a part of, with 'Spring' being the actual prompt!