Patron Saint of Suicide

Imagine life measured as sand in an hourglass.  Cliched, I know.  Unbearably so.  But imagine, if you could, an hourglass for each person: sifting away the time they have left.  If you could reach a hand in, scoop out the years of one human, and give to another... would you do it?

I can.

But it must be consented.  After all, I wouldn't be the hero if I could just take as I pleased.  And unlike that sweet-talking demon down in Georgia, I have nothing to bargain but goodwill.

That is why I frequent the young and suicidal.  They have the most to offer.  

Madame Noct-mortem, some call me.  Fair Lady Lifetaker. Seen when I want to be seen; heard when I want to be heard.  As the legends promise, I come in the night.  I hold your hand as a lover would, and see you gently to the other side as you bid away the years you don't want anymore.

In the morning, some lucky soul will awaken.  Perhaps freed from a coma, or cancer; now full of fresh decades, and finding a feather on their bedside dresser.

And yet...

I've found that, as the last few years slip into my care, each and every donor tends to have a change of heart.

"Wait!" they cry, realizing their will to live is not quite entirely gone.

And I could give it back, if I wanted.  I could return the sand, and let them cherish it anew.

But I don't.