Death

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
What happens in death? Who knows but the dead?

Submitted: September 18, 2015

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Submitted: September 18, 2015

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 I stand upon the brink looking out at the abyss before my feet. The dark void calls to me with a soothing song of an eternal embrace. I sought it out as it has sought me, for in life we go to death and when we are done with life, should we not seek it?

My heart clutches at my throat and I find it hard to swallow. The butterflies in my stomach know no peace. Sweat begins to bead in the anticipation of what is to follow.

One more step and all my woes becomes none, all my problems will melt away into nothing and I will be free to lie and dream, for dreams without life become life and I will live on how I please.

And yet, I falter.

The darkness whispers my name in a harsh hiss and I realise that it is not a comfort. What comfort is there in darkness when we live in light? Shadows shift in folly, unseen and unheard, only visible in our paranoid psyche. My breath escapes me in all at once, I had not realised I had been holding it.

A skeletal hand reaches out to grab me and I pull away, the intoxicating pleasure of the after no longer seem so pleasing. The stench of decay and rot and corruption replaces it. My soul feels tormented as it is wrenched too and fro, desperate to escape my mortality.

This is not how I will go, twisted in pain and anguish, my body wracked with displeasure and my face contorted into an evil grimace.

I feel the cold begin to take me, starting at the tips of my toes and fingers, ever so slowly spreading along my limbs. The skeletal hand reaches for me again.

I am fooled.

The hand forms from more and out of the dark a grinning spectre takes its shape. A long black robe flows out from a boned body and forms a mist around it. I promised death and it has come for me, but now I know my futility and I wish to deny it. You do not deny death, if you are lucky, it denies you. But I am not.

I turn to run but my feet are frozen to the ground, I try to swat away the clawing hands but my arms are solid ice. The uncomfortable numbness sends the rest of my body into shock and I am loath to do so but I must submit, how can I fight when I have nothing to fight with?

The spectre reaches into my chest and before my very eyes I see the eerie essence of my soul pulled out before me. Soon the darkness encloses my entire being and I am nothing...


© Copyright 2018 Carl Worgan. All rights reserved.

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