Death

Four. I have courted Death on four separate occasions. She was a charitable host, welcoming my intrusions and sympathetic to my sudden departures. As amicable as she may be towards my visits, disappointment often flickered across her gentle facade, deliberate in their aberration. Deep down, I knew that her leniency was due to her confidence that I would return, that someday I will be unable to leave.

Death appeared as a woman to me, perhaps an attempt to be appealing, to invite a longer stay. She was attractive, unnervingly so. Her skin was pale, a white resembling wind-scoured bones. Her dark hair was unnatural in its ethereality. Her eyes were icy blue, an abyss of ancient wisdom. But still they shone with a childish curiosity, as if anticipating that I might show her something new. She always sat stoically at the head of an empty dining table. She never spoke, either due to inability or a lack of desire. No, it was her silent company you were expected to enjoy, and any attempts to converse would only result in the manifestation of her acknowledgement, a polite nod.

She was my personal Death; I’d wonder if anyone else would die while she was with me, for it was always solely the two of us. I had suspected that I was sparing some unfortunate soul a few more breaths of life, until I realized that Death does not know Time; for all she cared, I was there for an eternity. For as long as I remained in her presence, I was her only object of interest.

Perhaps that was why farewells were especially hard on her. After all, the longer you possess something, the more difficult it is to let go. Yet each time I would tempt fate, pushing the duration of each stay slightly further than the last. Indeed, each time, Death clung tighter to my soul, and that exhilarated me.