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You call them emotions, feelings, disorders.

I know them by other names.

That which you call anxiety, I call Nina Lowery. Died at age 27. Overdose.

I see her hovering over your shoulder as you study, biting your nails one by one, as if you think it will relieve the strain. You think it’s just a feeling. I know better.

Only I can see them.

I can see Nina whispering in your ear as you work, telling you your efforts will be for nothing. Telling you despite all your preparations and hard work, you will fail your test anyway. Telling you that you will amount to nothing.

She knows this feeling better than anyone. At age 27, she couldn’t handle it anymore. She took a pill. Now her shadowy form sits over your shoulder, waiting.

Across the library, I am nearly invisible in a shadow of my own. I nock an arrow on my bow and shoot. My aim is true, and Nina comes apart at the seams, dispelled. A visible weight is lifted off your shoulders as you study harder than ever before.

I see you next on the street, head down, scurrying along the edge of the sidewalk. A sketchbook is clutched to your chest as you breathe heavily, bangs askew. Earbuds tucked into the front of your ears, you have no care in the world at first glance.

I take a closer look and am able to make out a figure behind you, moving as you do. Every step you take, he takes. Every person you dodge, he dodges.

I recognize this one. He has gotten away from me before, back when I was new to this ordeal. A whole page in my notebook is dedicated to him. Simon Andrews. 58 years old at the time of death. Cause of death- drowning.

You call it depression, I call it Simon. Those waves of sadness that crash over you are the same ones that took Simon down in the end.

I let another arrow fly. He can’t get away from me this time, not when he has latched onto you so heavily. The arrow passes harmlessly through the humans surrounding you, finding a target exactly where I intended it to. Another one down. You will breathe free another day.

Coffee shops are the worst. The figures like to hang out in the corners, waiting for unsuspecting twenty-somethings to come in alone, insecure enough already. Then they strike.

I see one latch onto you from behind. Your eyes grow wide as you panic, looking around with a suspicious glare. Everyone sitting in the shop is surely stalking you.

Paranoia. Also known as Trinity Gibson. When she died, she was 35. A schizophrenic woman, she spent her life thinking that she was being followed- made so many false alarm calls to the police, they didn’t take her seriously the only time it mattered. She was mugged in Central Park after trying to report suspicious activity.

It hurts me to see you this way. An arrow through the heart takes care of Trinity. I wish her peace as I push open the door to leave, the cafe bell dinging behind me.

These cases are tricky. The same troubles that plagued these people in life prompt them to spend her time in death passing it onto others, making them feel the same way.

It happens sometimes when they die. They become a reincarnation of the things that held them back in life and pass those onto others, the evil left of their soul hoping the same fate befalls you.

My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.

I’ve never had trouble with the ethical aspect. Besides, I am the only person left to carry out this job. No one knows about what I do besides me, meaning that I have the whole world to take care of.

It’s a tough task. Sometimes it pains me to see the people who struggled in life struggling in death. Sometimes it pains me to loose the arrow and hope it finds its target, closing my eyes as it does so. Sometimes it weighs down on my shoulders as I see the people I wasn’t able to save as shadowy figures, taking the place of the one that finally pushed them over the edge.

All these people want are to move on, but it’s a life for a life. If they get someone to die, the newly dead takes their place. One death on their count promotes them to the other side. They’ll do anything to get there.

But if I get them, it’s game over. They’re just... gone.

It doesn’t usually bother me. They don’t ever speak to me, don’t do much more than whisper in your ear, their voice sounding like crumpling parchment. Aged. They don’t have faces, just swirling darkness where their features would be. Somehow I know who they are.

I’ve been preparing for this since I was born in the rift between the worlds. The Spirit Gate, the pathway between the realm of the living and the dead. I was meant to do this job. It’s up to me to preserve the peace, to protect those who cannot do it themselves.

This is my job. This is my life. Without me, the dead would reign. The Spirit Gate would be ripped open and chaos would ensue. I keep order. I am the only thing preventing an inevitable death for everyone.

I can kill them all in time.

Except the one that haunts me.