For years I had watched him. Him and his wife. Even now, I don't understand why it was this particular man who had caught my attention.... he wasn't that much different from any other mortal man. Perhaps it was his soul. Perhaps it was something else. I felt nothing for him in the beginning. As I spent my time watching them, I could see the love he felt for her in his eyes... the sight of it making me cringe as I think of it now. To him, their love was eternal, but to me it was merely a fleeting moment in their short lives. Nothing in the world of the living was eternal. Nothing. And his beloved wife proved that.
The day she left him I saw the fire dim in his eyes... and the day that he had learned of her death, that light turned into a fading ember. Every day after that he refused to look at any other woman, shunning them as though they were the foulest creatures. He believed that she was the only woman for him- that no other woman was like her... and that none would be able to mend the hole she left in his heart. I hated it. Despite his pathetic mindset, I stayed with him- keeping him company... though he did not know it.
When I had returned to him one night, he had been sitting in his usual arm chair- the place where he often stayed most of the day- though this time there was a kitchen knife hanging loosely in his hand. His shirt was thrown on the floor by his feet along with the faded photograph of her. All over his body- wherever he was able to reach, were messy cuts. All were scarred over now, leaving behind thick uneven pearly white lines over his light skin. How many times had he harmed himself? Why had I not seen them before? As I gazed at the scars, I noticed the two deep cuts that marred the undersides of his forearms. They were fresh. From the self-inflicted wounds, an endless stream of vermillion poured out from them slowly, staining the chair and floor red with his life.
From where I stood, I could see the fresh tears drip from his dampened lashes- slowly running down the harsh lines of fatigue and stress that were etched into his handsome face. It was evident that he had not rested in a long time, and for that I blame her. But whatever happens to those of the living were of no real importance to me. What was important was death.
As I could see the life slowly vanishing from his once lively eyes, I knew that his ties to the living world were slowly starting the wear thin. Emerging from the dark, I moved to him as his head began to nod off to the side. Placing my cold, pale hand gently against his cheek, I slowly moved his head back to rest against the chair. Any moment now and he would be embraced by me, by death.
His last few words came out as a slurred mumble, what sounded like an apology. Moving my hand to his, I slid my hand into his opened palm. I offered no words to him, for my words were not that of comfort, nor would he have heard me anyways. However, I felt surprise grip my heart as his hand squeezed mine hard- as hard as a dying man could squeeze. Perhaps it was a coincidence? Or perhaps due to his thin ties to the living world, he was starting to feel me.
For a split moment, I felt sympathy for him. Actual sympathy. In truth, I did not wish for him to die. Not yet. Not this way. Not because a woman drove him to do this. With a sigh, I pulled the knife from his other hand and tossed it down before turning his arms face up. Pressing my palm to the cuts, I slid my hand over the opened wounds, mending his flesh and returning his blood. Still, life was fleeting from him and in my peripheral, I could see him slowly starting to appear out from his flesh that I held to. "No. I do not yet want you." I whispered, moving my mouth close to his. Pulling his chin down with my thumb, I easily opened his paling lips. Closing my eyes, I opened my own mouth and slowly sucked out my death from him.
When I finished, I released him and stepped back. For the first few minutes, there was nothing... only silence. Then... it was like he was breathing for the first time. He coughed, choking on the air he breathed in and doubling over before looking up towards me. I said nothing at first, just merely watched him. "Y-You..." he choked out, looking at me in shock. It was a look I was accustomed to getting- though only from those who were dead. "Who are you?" he asked, staring at me with wide eyes.
This surprised me. I pulled my death from him and returned his life, so he shouldn't have been able to see me. How peculiar. Slowly pulling down my cowl, I showed my face to him. "I am death." I said simply, my voice neutral. For a moment, he seemed to relax before looking at his arms. "Am I dead?" he asked me, his voice calming. "No." I replied simply, shaking my head. "I will not bestow the gift of death upon you." I responded. For a moment, he looked skeptical before his shoulders slowly shuddered as he laughed hysterically. "She didn't want me... and neither does death?" he asked, rubbing his hand down his face to keep from breaking. "What have I done to deserve this s**t?" he asked, his voice weary.
Moving to him, I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Tis not what you have done. It's just not your time just yet." I said to him gently. That was a lie. It was his time, but it was my own selfish desire not to see him die. It was my misjudgement. Perhaps I could take this chance to makeup for my wrongful actions. "You must take care of some business before I will take you." I said simply, thinking of what he could do for me. When he looked up at me, he looked weary. "I have no business to finish. This was it for me." he protested. I know, I thought. In return, I shook my head. "You have much to take care of first before I will give you the death you so desire." I said to him. "Business for me."
View User's Journal
The Dream Journals
Simply a record of the dreams detailed enough to write down
 |
Bryn Grimhildr
Community Member |
