One-paragraphe fiction: The Reaper.
I care about them, love them even. Purpose is their gift to me. Vanity is their curse. They don’t see the big picture. They don’t see that they are just atoms held together by strings of fate. I am the scissor. I see them fall and fade. My gift to them is an ending, a finale, a reminder that they have little time to achieve and be something. I give them a purpose, to fight me, to slay me and inevitably take my place.