37 years ago Death was born. Snow fell like ash onto the homes of hallowed saints. The chimney a grey sepulcher marking his house. Lights duplicated and reproduced on this day, as you would expect for such a season. Round frozen hulls stood outside on the lawns waiting for a soul to fill them with life. The child cried out to the earth and heavens, begging for sweet release.You see, the cottage had a leak and as each drop of frigid hell fell upon the child, his skin squealed and singed. He was different. Unknown. Perhaps even evil, some would say. Well not for a few years, he was an angel still with wings not yet blackened by the reality of life. First years are normal, and they were. His childhood friend became his goldened hair sidekick earning them selves punishment for their chalkboard crimes. His deeds became more serious as he aged. Sarah his first victim lost the ability to be loved. Jeremiah his nemesis became mute, and this was all good.
Good for him. Good for the world. Good. Or was it, is the benefit to death a crushing blow to life?
She was life. She was the light in his eyes, the warm blood to his chilled body. The yin dancing with yang. Creating a balance. The power couple was the envy of all the elite sociallites of upper New York. Soon one reproduction became two, and two, three as the perfect balance replicated themselves. These children kept their mothers spark of life, and their fathers grit of reality. Soon yhe young life was threatened in such a way even death could not protect. The three prisoners of unholy war remained devotiaries of unity until the end. The end was that, the end. A deadly viruses that replicated itself in the DNA of humans. Most deadly to children, there was no cure. The adults would be infected but most survived. Most.The five became two, and the two, one. Casandra lost. Or was lost. She left him alone in the world. And with light gone darkness took control.
Snow falls again, and the ice singes his soul once more.
Men died but he did not.
Everyone cried yet he could not.
The world stood still but he would not.
He became the gripping reality of life. Death. And it only got worse.
You see death does not die, and neither did he.
With this malevolent immortality,
came other hellish qualities.
His frozen gaze perverted compassion into a hard hearted bitterness. His touch burned, houses into cinder. His words slithered from his silver tongue and coalesced into haunting poetry that no thought could comprehend before they met their end. Vengeance or mercy, a thin line is drawn between and he hovers over both neither side does he lean. He is Death, he knows how and when you will suffer before you die. So he kills you before to prevent any anguish. Men fall too, who were named for the catastrophic sickness that sealed mans doom.
He replaced the fates, and grew yours on his head,
he'll pluck you too, and soon you will be dead.
Don't worry though, you cannot stop him. He is death, and he does not die.
He outmatched the gods of old, in legend and in power.
Soon nothing will stand but a single flower
He will pluck its existence
To complete his vengeance
Holding it out to galaxies far above
Giving the last beautiful thing to his love
YOU ARE READING
The End and its Begining
Short StoryShort story about the beginning and end of the wrath of Death. Love and loss is a factor of life and what it means to be human, but what does it do for death. For death is alive. It is humanity for without it we can't be human. So is life and death...
