THAT'S CREEPY!

DEATH CAME FOR ME

The air in my room began to rapidly cool, and one by one the lights dimmed away. Death came for me.

Maybe it was my time. And maybe this was the natural way of it. But maybe I'm just too stubborn for my own good. So I fought death. I fought with punches and kicks and shouts and thrown furniture, with tackles and grapples and high school wrestling moves I thought I'd long ago forgotten. I fought with all the fury I'd ever put into anything, and the determination of the same.

It went on for hours, with neither of us getting the upper hand. My lungs burned, my arms and legs were numb, my head throbbed, my mouth and throat were parched, and I started to just want it to end as the battle dragged on through the entire night with no end in sight.

As the first rays of sun peeked through my window, I seized victory. I smashed the grinning gray skull on the floor, and it crumbled away into chalky dust, leaving only tattered black rags. I collapsed, exhausted.

I lay on the ground for close to an hour, panting, sweating, and laughing. I finally dragged myself up and into the shower to wash away the exertion and tend to my wounds. I had many sprains, cuts, and bruises, and was fairly sure I'd cracked my ribs. But I was alive.

That night I got in bed, still thinking about my victory. Then the air in my room began to rapidly cool, and one by one the lights dimmed away.

You see, you can fight death. Right up until you don't want to anymore.