The Girl Who Cried Wolf.

N

Her shoulders hunch, her eyes wide.

Death glances at her quivering fingers and snatches them, but she flinches away, her teeth chattering.

She hadn't been wrong.

Her eyes weren't wrong.

It had been him at the beach.

Death grabs her fist and forces her hand open to wipe them down.

The smooth strokes he makes on her skin wildly contrast what she knows he's going to do to her.

The acidic taste of her imminent death ruins her tongue, and her ears strain against the silence as if hearing the muted cries and screams of those who'd died by his hands.

Why was this happening to her?

Should she have been a more religious person?

Was she that bad of a person?

Did she deserve to die?

"You couldn't have escaped me even if you tried. One way or the other, late or early, you still would have found your way to me. So, don't beat yourself up over it." He says.

She averts her eyes and wonders if that was supposed to make her feel any better because it doesn't.

"I'm not going to live, am I?"

His head rises, and he turns to her. "Erase all your humane thoughts, girl. You'll find your answer then."

A slight spark of fury burns in her eyes, but as quickly as it comes, it's gone, doused by the tears collecting on her lids.

She relaxes her muscles so easily that Death pauses to glance at her.

A sob bubbles from her lips, soft and pained, before it transforms into giggles.

Her shoulders shake, and tears slip into her ears as the giggles grow into full peals of laughter. Had her hands been free, she would have bowled over, hands around her middle as she rode the laugh out.

Her brows knit as the lighthearted sound continues to flow out of her. She couldn't stop herself even if she tried.

She feels so free, so weightless, like she's rising, like she's falling but never landing.

She feels whole and cleansed, as if the hate and bitterness has been scraped off her chest, leaving her as fresh as a newborn.

Life has never tasted so sweet.

When she finally settles from the high, Death is perched beside her on the bed.

His eyes narrow at her lingering smile. "Having fun?"

She sighs. "Like you wouldn't believe."

"What's going on?"

She takes a moment to think but realises that nothing is in her head.

For the first time in her life, the noise is gone.

It's not loud.

Her head is empty.

There's nothing, no one to stop her.

"I was thirteen when it happened."

"When what happened?"

She ignores him. "Since then, I've hated everyone and everything. My bed was my only safe place, but even then, I hated sleeping in it some days. I could only talk to people by playing the victim, making them feel sorry and guilty for me even when everything was my fault. They fell for it every time. It didn't take long for the pain to start."

She wants to rub her chest but stares at the bland ceiling instead. "It was like a void, wide and dark and greedy. It swallowed everything I gave and didn't give. It made me hate who I was, hate those who cared about me because they cared, and hate those who didn't care because they didn't. My mom and I used to fight almost every day. We always had something to bicker over, and she'd always say hurtful things, regardless of the fact that I never did."

Death stares at her, his brows dipping slightly, but he doesn't interrupt.

"So, I got scared. I was scared I'd treat my kids like my mom treated me, so I didn't want to get married even though I didn't mind a relationship. I was scared my mom was not as bad as I thought she was all the time, and I was just being rude. I was scared to talk, scared to trust even though I did it all the time. Scared I was always just pretending and victimizing myself. Scared...just scared. And sad. And tired. Always tired.

"Nobody had to tell me." She smiles proudly. "It was obvious I was worth no one's time and effort. I always wanted to run away and hide. It was then that Voice started to push me every day. She convinced me to cut once, cut thrice, cut ten times. I thought it would make me feel better, but it only made the void wider. It never felt good, and I never felt better. I'd force myself to believe it was what I wanted.

"They say if more than one person agrees to the same claim against you, you're the problem. So, I thought I was the problem because it was my mom and myself against me.

"At the same time, I felt I was not the problem. I felt I was misunderstood and uncared for. I wanted to be free. I thought I was an ungrateful brat. But I didn't care too much because, at some point, I didn't have to force a smile.

"It's ironic but the less happy I look, the happier I actually am. I can actually show my real feelings. Apathetic. Content. Slow. Unbothered. Problems. Demons. Haunted. Sad. Pain. Tears. I wondered why people couldn't see me. I wondered why they couldn't hear.

"Voice called me all sorts of things: stupid, ungrateful, twat, shut up, die, you're annoying, don't die, you'll cause problems, attention whore. But then, I'd get tired, try to be happy, believe I was, then I'd fall back and start again. My head was always noisy and loud, but it all doesn't matter now."

Death crosses his arms, and she notices that he'd gotten a smoke somewhere along her rant. "Not that I care but do you even know who you are?"

A pause, then she mutters, "I never did. And I don't think I ever have."

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