Death, A Mistress.
Updated: Dec 26, 2020
by guest blogger, Spyder Collins
Death stalks me. Not as my Reaper, though. She seems to want something else. What, I have yet to understand. It is dispiriting, however, that she does not wish to aid me in ending my miserable existence. To snuff my life and carry me to whichever Deity she pleases. Death is with me, seemingly every eve, and I imagine she is watching me as I sleep.
She looks sad; her orbital eyes filled with despair. Her brow furrowed with concern. Long black tresses that hang from beneath her black cloak frame her eyes. Her cheeks, nose, and mouth are skeletal, but her eyes remain much as I might imagine they were in life. Those abysmal eyes held vigor and color at one time. I was sure of this. Now, they are as dead as she. There is nothing else to her. The cloak hid everything, long sleeves that concealed her hands. She hovers above the ground like a wraith without a scythe, and nothing more to her than her soulless eyes. What could death want with me?
I sit in a dark room without a light bulb in the overhead and no lamps. Only the moonlight that filters in through the drapes. Enough light to see most of the room. It is empty, a spare bedroom in my home. No reason to furnish it. I never have guests, nor do I want any. Because of its emptiness, this room brings me comfort each evening. The darkness is like a blanket that covers my insecurities and hides my fears.
This room is my killing room. It holds a razor, a full bottle of sleeping pills, a noose, and a loaded revolver. I sit in this room each night before I retire. I contemplate ending it all. I turn off everything, television, music, my phone, all of it. It is just me and the darkness. It feels so interesting, sitting as I do. The moonlight pushes shadows of trees up the walls. They look like specters watching me, as if I am in an operating theater. Both the doctor and the patient. The tools spread out on the floor waiting for me, the doctor, with me, the patient.
Death is also there, as she has for more nights than I can remember. She huddles in the corner each night. She blends well in the shadows, but her abysmal eyes are brighter and I can see her staring at me. Her eyes are filled with sorrow and it weighs heavily on me. I am teeming with curiosity and committed to approach her, should I gather the nerve.
But for now, I leave her be.
Each night, when I leave my killing room and go upstairs to bed, she follows me. Another night of failure. My pre-bed routine flashes by like an old rerun on television. I lay in bed and she hovers over me. She’s so close I can smell the tang of death on her. It’s not becoming, so most nights I roll over onto my side. If I pretend to sleep, sometimes she will lay behind me and pull me close. It comforts me and leaves me hopeful, yet each morning, I wake.
One evening in my killing room, I thought to speak to Death, to gather why she followed me but never completed her duties of Reaper. She was sulking in her dark corner, but as always, I could see her as if she stood in the light. “I can see you, Death,” I whispered.
This night I chose the revolver. I hold it in my hand and each time I pointed it at myself I could see the sorrow in her eyes deepen. I lowered the revolver, “Why don’t you take me?” I asked.
Death remained where she was.
Impatience grew in me. I held the revolver to my head. I don't know what passion struck me at that moment, where the rage came from, or why this evening I gathered the courage to confront her, but I demanded, “What do you want? Why do you just watch me and never take me?”
She moved away from the corner. Her eyes welled, her tears twinkled beneath the moonlight like radiant gems. She reached out to me, her hand grabbing for the revolver desperately. Her swatting wasted, she simply passed through my hand and the revolver. I could feel her pain. Her deep heartache. It caught in my throat as I held back my own tears.
I lowered the revolver and set it on the floor. “You are Death, are you not?”