You do not want to know my name. Like the true name of the bear, it has been forgotten, for speaking our names summons us. But of all the angels, I am uniquely blessed—or cursed—with free will. Mortals have, all through the millennia, asked our Master, “why do You allow the wicked to live?”

The fault is mine.

I often let the wicked live beyond their time, in hope that they might repent and avoid the fate that awaits them. I regret that decision more often than not, but the Master is merciful and I shall emulate Him to the best of my ability.

Mortals, as we reel toward the death of the old year and the birth of the new, I confess unto you: I am weary. So many souls I have had to take home before their time. The ones I weep for are those who give their lives trying to save the rest of you. Others… so many thousands, and yet I can scarcely believe it. I stand before their eyes, as they try not to look at the husk of their mortal bodies, and deny my presence to my face! What madness has befallen you?

No, I know not their fate. They shall stand before the Master, and judge themselves. And yes, some choose Hell rather than to lay aside the lies by which they led their lives. If they say not to the Master, “Thy will be done,” He tells them, “Then thy will be done.”

Today, I was called to a particular bedside in a crowded hospital. There lay a man, in the grip of the virus that so many deny exists. I read his past: as a man of politics, he has encouraged the denial. He knew better, but chose to ignore simple precautions that would have kept me busy elsewhere for a decade, perhaps two or more.

I walked away, leaving him there. I can take him later, but his suffering might lead to a rare repentance. I do not prolong his suffering in any case—if I took him to his fate, he would suffer far more. And likely he will. But perhaps the travails of his living body could serve as a lesson to others.

Wear your masks, mortals. I have enough work already. And I might leave you to “enjoy” your consequences a little longer.