December 11, 2012
The Dying Girl's family gathered around her bed. She was pale like the bed sheets. Parched lips in desperate need of water. Hair like twigs, sticking out. Eyes looked tired. Skin sagged in places. She looked miserable.
She looked like Death.
She wasn't dead yet. She laid there, eyes looking up towards the ceiling, refusing to look at the people surrounding her bed.
There wasn't much noise, except for the sniffling and occasional wail from her parents.
The Dying Girl was never close to anyone in the room. And they never made an effort to try to be close to her. Some wished they did, others were glad the never did.
A doctor shuffled in, breaking the noise of sadness. He cleared his throat,"I am sorry. But this is the best way," Which earned a few more wails but no reaction from The Dying Girl.
The doctor walked to the plug. Only now did he feel the guilt of what he was about to do. He took a shuddering breath, and reached out toward the plug.
Everyone, and everything stopped. Except for the single tear that rolled down The Dying Girl's cheek.
Just then, Death walked in. No one heard him. Even the girl who was dying.
He was a mop of darkness, just like the girl's soul. He was tired from it all, just like the girl herself.
He stood away from everyone, into the corner. He crossed he arms, impatient to the doctor.
"Just do it," the dad barely whispered, voice trembling.
The doctor gulped and pulled the plug.
The Dying Girl then became The Dead Girl.
But not before turning her head to the corner where Death stood. He realized that she could see him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then her eyes glazed over. Dead.
It took a while for everyone to leave. There was lots of screaming and wailing. But eventually everyone left.
Making The Dead Girl's words true.
Sighing, Death walked over to the side of the bed. What a waste, he thought. He felt her skin. Warm. Sliding his fingers down to her hand, he felt something. Looking down, he four pieces of paper. Prying if from her clutching fingers was tough, but he got the paper free. He had no time left but to simply glance at it. He tucked it away into his pocket, bending down, he picked The Dead Girl up, carrying her away.
It wasn't until after he got rid of the girl, did he truly look at the paper. He read every word. He reread every word.
And he understood it all.
