Written Death

Spiral

I caught myself shrouded in darkness and destroyed by silence. His arms, wrapped around my body, felt cold; I could sense his hesitation, his regret. l, even now, feel different; my entire being had been altered by the event. Their screams filled my ears. Their cries echoed in my head. The feeling of isolation lingered in the air. I am one of only a few survivors. My Friends. My family. Everyone I had come to know: they're all dead.

His voice touched me. His tone – it soothed me. Even now, after all that has happened, I can't help but love him.

I have to see him, I thought. I have to see who is trying to save me.

          I awoke to find myself in his arms. I missed this. Him holding me as if I was all he could ever need. The feel of his fingertips sliding down my spine sent me into a state of euphoria. His touch was addictive. He held me like I was the immortal fountain that could stop death. It was seductive. His energy gave me a purpose. His feel gave me a reason to keep turning. My vision was still impaired, but the scene was coming together; it was as if a child was coloring in this man's silhouette; carelessly put together, it defied the number one rule of coloring: "Stay within the lines." The longer I looked up at him, the more detailed the picture became. At this point, it looked more real; less of a dream and more of a nightmare. Flames that gave light to the heavens were accompanied by the smoke that blanketed the stars and hid the moon; blood which painted the streets ran down the pavement; and not a man, but a boy stood over me, staring with a grave expression on his face. His tears fell on my face as his grip tightened. My body, numb to this pain, felt neither relief nor fear. He looked at me with so much hope, but I couldn't help but feel responsible.

It's my fault the people of the world lost hope; and it was my words that gave them a reason to bare arms at one another. I am the evil that hides deep in the unconscious mind; I am the being that destroys all who try to uncover my secrets; and I am the book who's soul purpose is to show the true nature of all who reads the words written on the page. I am the journal that belongs to the demons and my story reveals the final days of this world.

        They call me many names, but I go by Death. My body is his body and the words written within the covers that bind me are his scythe. This boy - the one who's pen detailed the end of his people - now cries at my feet; every tear falls with a piece of his regret.

My handler, the boy that once looked at me with so much devotion, ran his fingers across my cover. His gaze of hope and promise soon faded and transformed into a look of hatred and disgust. He picked me up – just like he used to do. He held me – just like he used to do. He looked at me – not like he used to. And in one swift motion, he threw me into the fire.
         I didn't scream.
         I didn't cry.
         I was set free.
         The words that I held captive were now nothing but dancing embers that were partner to the harsh wind. I sat there and watched the end of their story, but now it was his turn to watch the end of mine.
        My final words are nothing but a fragment.

      

       If only...