And it is with great care and honesty that I decide the fate of my friends. When a man is handed power, by whomever, he must be careful, and use it wisely. Opportunities like this aren’t exactly the easiest to come by, and I must say I hadn’t heard of such a thing until now. Why, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I suppose, if it were I whose fate was being decided, I would like for it to be by someone I knew. No one wants to die, but if you must, shouldn’t it be at the hands of someone you greatly trust? This is what I thought about in the moments before I began this pivotal time.
Years, it seems, I have known them. This isn’t true of course, but it feels so. This boat has held us, like prisoners of war, bringing us closer together. When our souls try to wander apart from the ship, the water clamps us inside. It drives us mad, like trapped rats, but we boarded of our own free will. Though excruciating, this can be useful to me. We met just a few months ago, but I now know these men better than their own parents do.
My duties on this ship, the St. Beatrice, are very simple. I’ve never been a particularly essential part of the crew. I suppose I’m just a cabin boy, but I have slaved on this ship like no one else. Our purpose was to trade goods with England. It isn’t a difficult route for ships, but I must add our captain wasn’t exactly the most competent person I’ve known. A bit of a drunkard, too. Needlessly, were turned about in a storm, and became quite lost. Another casualty of cruel, powerful, Lady Ocean. We all expect to die. Last night, I spoke to the first mate. He’s become a good friend of mine. Rather, they all have.
“We expect to die out here,” he had said. “Don’t tell the captain I’m saying this. The coot hasn’t got a clue what he’s bloody gotten us into, sailing through the storm. He’s costing us our lives!” He slammed his callused hand on the table, toppling a bottle of cheap ale. The ship let out a great creaking sigh. I have thought a lot about this conversation (for this was only the beginning of it) and how it will help me with my assignment.
This assignment began while I slept one night. We had lost our way only days ago at this point, and the ship was feeling more like a prison by the minute. Try as we might, and try we did, we found nothing to do but sleep, and long for land. So I slept, the underdeck still wet with the trepidation of the crew, and the storm dying down far above. It was then, in a dream, that I met him. You see, I remember nothing until then. Not a sign he was coming. He was just there, like this was the first dream, though I knew I’d been asleep for tens of minutes already. I cannot describe him, for no description fits, but all he was screamed out death. This was the Reaper, come to take my soul, I was sure. And well, I happened to be quite right about it. He was the Reaper, indeed.
I’m not here for you, he told me. But I fear I cannot do this myself. I’m not as terrible as you might imagine. I have no soul, but I have a mind therefore I understand, like you, human emotion and thoughts.
This is about how it went, maybe not exactly, but it was hard to remember. He explained to me that I didn’t have to be just a lowly cabin boy. I could be like him, feared and sometimes worshipped. He gave me a task, something that only I could do. I was to kill the thirteen surviving men aboard the St. Beatrice.
I don’t mean any of this to sound cruel in any way, and I know it sounds like I shall enjoy killing my friends, but it isn’t so. As I have explained, we are already bound for death! Survival is not a possibility, and we will surely brutally kill each other if left to our own devices. My point of view on the matter is just a simple, if it must happen, why not like this?
So now I’m here, planning. I don’t know how I’ll pull it off, but I expect it to be fairly byzantine. I’m rather good at schemes.

…

I have invited the whole crew to gather in the lower decks with me tonight. I’m sure they don’t think much of it; a meeting called by the cabin boy, but tonight will be momentous. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but I’ll give you some hints. One of our imports is nutmeg, nearly 100 grams of it.
They began to trickle down into the underbelly of the boat by dusk. Just thirteen men, captain and crew, plus a cabin boy with a grin on his face, making fourteen.  Tightly packed in a dank, floating prison. It appears to be a gathering among friends, just a last goodbye before starvation and disease seal the fate of the remaining. But something else goes on underneath, and dark, labyrinthine plot. A plot instituted by the Reaper’s own tyro.
Time moved quickly as the moments of the finale approached. The cabin boy handed out wine in cups, from a new bottle.
“Where did this come from? And why?” Someone asked.
“I’ve been saving it,” he told them. “This is a celebration.”
He made a toast, and they drank to life, and living, and having nothing else to do. Little time had passed before thirteen men’s hearts were grasped by cyanide, and they fell to their knees.
“Poison,” they gasped, and looked to the cabin boy. “But what have you to gain?”
“The love of the Reaper,” he told them, as they all slipped away.