Saturn is a nonbinarygoober

Chapter 1: Flashback

“Bell, what are you doing…”

I wake up crying. Again.

It’s been a month since the world ended. A month since we buried Mom and Dad behind the old church.

Bell never cries.

She’s only thirteen, but she’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Even with the red cloak pulled tight around her, even with her small frame and quiet voice, she faces monsters like they owe her something.

She wears that same black dress every day. It’s torn at the hem now. Her horns poke just slightly through the hood when she forgets to hide them.

My sister. Half-demon. Completely human where it counts.

She saved me that night.

I don’t know how, and she won’t talk about it.

But when I woke up in a burning house—bones where my right hand used to be, and two scythes crossed on my back like they’d always been there—she was the one standing between me and that thing. It's blood still steaming on her cloak.

She held a sickle then, curved and black like obsidian, etched with glowing red runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. I’d never seen it before. She said she didn’t pick it up. Said it was just there, in her hand, like it had been waiting for her.

Bell calls it Phillap. No explanation. No story. Just Phillap.

She talks to it sometimes, like it understands her. Maybe it does.

The way it hums when she’s angry, the way it cuts through shadow like it’s alive… Yeah. Maybe it really does.

I’m not human anymore. Not fully. They call me a Reaper now. At least, that’s what the dead keep whispering when I pass too close. I hear things. See souls. And when I hold my scythes—silver and black, curved like crescent moons—I know exactly how to use them.

I’m eighteen, gay, and probably more goth than emo these days. I wear ripped black jeans, a hoodie two sizes too big, and ghost earrings that bounce when I walk. Bell says they’re “weirdly adorable for a death god.” She says it like it’s a compliment.

We don’t talk much about what we used to be. Because none of it matters anymore.

Prologue

“Hey Mom, I’m going to Kelly’s. Be back at nine,” I said, picking up my phone.

“Okay, Ezra. Make sure you're home by ten,” Mom said, smiling.

“I said I’d be home at nine,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Bye!”

I walked out the door grinning—little did I know, it would be the last time I ever talked to my mom.

Kelly’s place was loud and full of laughter, but I couldn’t shake the strange feeling tugging at me all evening. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I was just tired. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, I said my goodbyes and headed home, the quiet of the night a stark contrast to the noise I’d just left.

As I pulled into the driveway, something felt…off. The porch light had gone out, and the house looked darker than usual. I frowned.

“Mom, I’m home!” I called as I stepped inside.

No answer.

I flipped on the hallway light and screamed.

My dad was slumped against the wall, his neck slit open. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and dark, soaking into the carpet. My breath caught in my throat as the world tilted. I stumbled backward, tears already blurring my vision.

“Mom?” I whispered.

No response.

I crept farther into the house, each step heavier than the last. The living room was too still. That’s when I saw it.

Long, spindly fingers curling around the doorframe.

They were pale, almost translucent, with nails like jagged glass. Slowly, they pulled something forward—a shape too tall, too thin, its eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

I tried to scream, but a searing pain shot through my skull like lightning. My knees buckled. The room spun.