Death is the greatest mystery to ever plague mankind in the history of humanity. A cloaked shadow holding secrets only known by the deceased. What happens when a heart stops beating? Perhaps souls are carried to the sky in a golden chariots; taken to a place flowing with milk and honey. Angels playing harps and cherbum singing sweetly. An eternal heaven of joy only for the most faithful saints. Or maybe we are dragged below the ground by clawed rough hands. Thrown into a pit of never ending blazing flames and gnashing of teeth. Demons shrieking and sirens wailing for all of time. An eternal he'll only for the most wicked sinners. Or perhaps we come back as another earthly form. A new body that holds endless possibilities. A fresh chance to fix mistakes or create new horrors. Perhaps we just return to the soil in which we were born from. Regardless, death is no hooded skeleton man with a silver reaper. She is beautiful, seductive and enchanting. I should know, I have met her.
I was seventeen when it happened. At age fifteen I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and severe insomnia. Life wasn't exactly a straight paved road for me. Then again, life isn't easy for anyone. It wasn't uncommon for me to have intense hallucinations or episodes of sleep paralysis. As terrifying as it was when that happened, it was just a side effect of insomnia. I recall one night when I was sixteen. I thought there was a man with a mask in the corner of my dark bedroom. The doctors told me if I saw things, squeeze my eyes shut for a few minuets then open. Sure enough, when I did that, the figure was gone.
As time went on, the depression for worse. Two months after my seventeenth birthday, my father got into a head on car crash with a semi on his way home from work. I was pulled out of school, but didn't reach the hospital in time. The nurse told me his head had split open. The brain swelling and blood loss is what took him. I hit rock bottom after the funeral. No amount of therapy can soothe lonleyness. No pill can cure heartbreak. If this was the case, I wouldn't have done what I did. I kept telling myself I would get better. I could heal. I worked so damn hard. But one day I just stopped. I can't explain why, I just couldn't keep fighting. Imagine all the saddest, scariest, loneliest, weakest memories were up into a box. The box is always with you, locked up tight. Then one day, without warning or reason, it explodes. All the past memories flood your head so fast and you just want, no, need it to stop. How can that be done? There is one option.
It was a Friday evening. My mother was working late. I had a long, heartfelt letter on her pillow. On the door I taped a piece of paper that said in bold black ink
I AM SO SORRY.
I had the rope attached to the Celing fan. The end was tied into a necklace of relif and regret. I stood on a creaky wooden chair and pulled the noose tight around my throat. My eyelids fell shut. A single tear run down my cheekbone.
I felt a hand wipe it away.
Startled, I opened my eyes and felt a gasp escape my mouth. Before me stood the most unbelievablely beautiful figure I had ever witness on my entire life. A tall woman stood before me. Her skin was dark like the bark of an oak tree. Long wavey black hair fell from her head. Her face was absolutely flawless, not a single scar or blemish. She wore a long scarlet dress that fell to her ankles. Her body was chisled as if sculpted by a goddess in heaven. What truly captured my attention was her pure sapphire eyes, so bright it seemed to dim the pain coarsing through my head.
No one could be this perfect. It had to be a hallucination.
I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. I thought she'd disappear like all the other hallucinations did. Part of me hopes she wouldn't. I opened my eyes. She was still there.
Is she real? I wondered. Slowly, I reached out my arm twords her face. I ran my fingertips down her smooth, warm cheeks.
"Are you real?" My voice was choked out by the noose still gripping my neck.
"I am real my darling, you just don't want to believe I am" her voice was so stunning, so strong but so so gentle.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?" I spat out the words somewhat bitterly. The breathtaking woman brought her hand up and held the back of my pounding head, running her thumb down my jaw.
"My child, I am a rescuer to some and a monster to others. I am the savior to the broken and the hurting. I am a nightmare To the wealthy and the greedy. I am a sacred redeemed and an unforgiving reaper. I am the cancer in the lungs of an old man. I am the bullet on the head of a soldier. I am the brusies on her ribs, the vodka in the blood of the driver. I am the anger rooted in your brain. I am the voice whispering and begging inside your skull. The noose around your neck and the chair under your feet. Your greatest desire but biggest regret. I am Death."
Tears rolled down my lips and chin. I was speechless.
"Why do you cry my child?"
"You can't be real" I sobbed softly. She gazed longingly at my eyes, as if examining every molecule that mad up my sad body. "Do I feel real? Look real?" Death leaned closer to me.
"Yes" my voice was shaking so badly.
"Indeed" she put her other hand against my head.
"I am here to tell you it isn't your time." My heart skipped a beat.
"Please, I can't do it. Please take me away" I pleaded with Death.
"Someday my darling, but not today." She pressed her lips against my forehead. I closed my eyes and cryed hysterically. When I opened my eyes she was gone. Vanished without a single trace of existence. I ripped the rope of my head and inhaled, burning and filling my lungs.
I cannot seem to forget what happened that day, ten years ago. As I tuck my baby girl into bed, I can hear the sound of my wife playing the piano gracefully and singing passionately echoing through our home. Sometimes I can't help but cry, because I want the woman I saw to be real. I don't want her to be another piece of my illness. Without her I wouldn't be laying in bed listening to my wife play with our child. Regardless, I am alive and I saw Death. She is beautiful, seductive and enchanting. She may be the one who ends lives, but she saved mine.
-SH
