My life is normal, or at least relative to it. Really, how normal does life get, being the offspring of the most murderous of beings, the undertaker himself?
Being Death's daughter isn't easy. Existence itself is a trying subject; even more trivial when it's based around taking the lives of (mostly) innocent people.
The word mostly is an asterisk for people like Sam and Dean Winchester. My father informed me of them at a young age after a reaping that had obviously gone sideways.
"If you have the chance," he instructed me, "drag those obnoxious cock roaches down to Hell, and leave them there."
Then, one day, two flannel-clad idiots and their angel on a leash wander into my jurisdiction of the veil.
My life has never been the same; my life has never been the preconceived notion of 'normal' that it once was.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or plot lines from Supernatural.