I am super late buuuuuuut, that is the way that I roll.
Here is my submission for the Angels/Demons prompt for minkweek. Happy Birthday, you cinnamon scented old man!
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Death; It creeps up on us, slowly or quickly entwining its long black fingers around our necks until we struggle to breathe. It rips the air from our very lungs, yanking it out so violently that we can only look up in horror at the swirling darkness dancing before us as the world becomes black like those pitch black fingers. The fingers that cloud our vision- the very same that stole the breath away from our lungs- also softly touches our hair as our hearts pump one final time. Like the gentle touch between a mother and her newborn infant, the touch eases us into the darkness and far away, like a small maternal whispering caresses in our minds, we hear the soothing sounds of a peaceful voice.
This is inescapable. This is the end of every living creature, and you know it. You ignored me for the longest time, pushing the thought of death away until I was like a legend. I am not a legend. I am death, as natural as the air in your lungs.
But, Death, as seemingly inescapable as it is, can be a comforting thought. In death, one ceases the journey one choose in this life, and begins anew. It is a beacon of light in the darkness; the light at the end of the tunnel that one struggles to reach. It can be comforting. It can be reassuring. It should be reassuring. It has to be reassuring, especially for a certain someone who claimed in his soul that he was already dead. How can he go on living if he already embraced death and only counted the days in which he would willingly go to the creeping tendrils and sleep more soundly that he has in the longest time? He choose to live to die, and die to live again. Then, why, is it now, when he is so close to death, instead of tasting the fine wine of death he wishes, he tastes overly bitter and burning premature alcohol? Is it because of that seed?
Don’t die. Live. You are alive.
Alive? This walking shell in form of a human body is alive? How could he call this living? No, he has not been alive since the metallic and charcoal scent filled his mouth. He no longer hearing the deep voice of his stern and scolding father, or smelling the soft but particular flowery scent from his sister’s ever increasing dried flower collection. When he no longer heard his father scold him but scream in horrifying agony, he screamed in agony too. When he no longer smell the fresh fried flowers lingering in his house, but instead smell the charcoal metallic bitterness of burning flesh and bone, that is when he ceased living. He became a shell. But, this simple sentence, “You are alive”, buried deep inside him. When he spoke that line, when he- the blue haired man who stayed when others would have fled- uttered those words, it was like a small fire flicked to life in his stomach. I am alive. I am alive.
Is he? Physically, his heart beats against his ribs, and his touch still leaves traces of heat. But, is he really? Can he truly live again? With purpose? With happiness that was so brutally taken away from him by someone who’s blood coats his hands? Can he be happy if he embraces death later instead of sooner? Can he be alive once again by waiting for the cold, lingering black fingers of death caress him not as he is now but as a graying old man? The man looks at the bloody hunting blade in his hands and sees the sharpened bloody edge. The metal shines dully but promisingly in the newly exposed darkened moonlight night. Slowly, he raises the pointed edge to his neck, nothing but the sounds of hushed crickets singing in the nearby field to accompany his turbulent thoughts. With the flick of his wrist, the man cuts his dreaded hair, feeling the lightness return once again to his head.
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