Post by Dûncariel is Dead. on Nov 24, 2005 22:26:15 GMT -5
This is a continuation of my last short story thing, Replay. If you want to understand, read the first one, which is linked through it's name...
__________________________________________
Death comes for us all.
That's what he told me as we sat on the floor across from each other, equal for that moment in pain and in need.
It is an odd experience, holding a conversation with Death. People who are afraid of Death themselves can never truly understand the deep feelings that are involved in it. The man sitting across from me with his dead, unfeeling eyes was Emotion. He seethed with feeling like no one I had ever encountered among the living. Behind his cold dead eyes was a consuming fire of pain, hope, love, condescension - everything ever felt by the living soul, but more, because Death has no soul. His feeling is raw and powerful, uncontrollable and complete. Nothing I can ever say can explain what I felt in that room staring into the eyes of that ruined man.
I had wept the moment in time allotted for my mourning. I had spent it crying into the shoulder of the one who had taken everything from me. And he had held me in my hour of anguish, smoothing my hair like a loving father, comforting and mending what he himself had smashed to pieces. Along with his smooth voice came the last thing I had expected. Death wept as he held me. I could feel his tears dampen my har as they coursed down his cheeks. As he held me and comforted me, he took my pain upon himself. Every life he had ended, every soul he had released echoed in those tears. They were his exchange for their lives - to feel their last moments of pain forever. For some strange reason, watching my suffering released it all for him.
Somehow, even through my rage and pain, I felt for the man who was Death. On the surface, I attributed it to my own pain easily turning to pity for him. But it went much deeper than that. Deep within my heart, I empathized with him. I knew how it felt to kill, to take a life. It tears something from you each time, shreds everything inside to bloody ribbons. I knew why there was nothing of his Soul in his eyes.
He no longer had anything such as a Soul left.
That day, as Death cried into my hair next to the rigid body of my sister, I knew that it was over. Yes, I had broken, and Death himself had ended the merciless cycle of blood and angst. But it was not the end that I had looked for. The end I had wished for had been my own, but fate had willed it differently. With those tears, tears born of pure anguish - days and years bathed in blood - he ended it. I didn't come to the full realization of what had taken place until I pulled back from him and gazed into his dark eyes, full at last of his naked Soul.
Something had been released behind those eyes, something more beautiful and powerful than anything can ever again be, or has ever before been. The Soul I had thought violently dead lived, buried beneath years of pain and death. It had clawed its way out and was staring at me through the innocent eyes of a child. It looked as if the tears he had shed had burned away all the years of bloodshed like acid. I rejoiced for him, and for his new freedom, but my heart fell as I realized what it all meant for me. I had to take his place.
Life has a certain blance to it. For every birth, there is, and must be, a death, and likewise. Death was the balance to Life. With his rebirth, as I thought of it, everything was now out of balance. The death of my sister, not by her own choice, served to balance the forces of Life and Death.
I reached out my hand and wiped the tears from his cheeks, and then removed the gun from his hand. His eyes followed my movements, full of new wonder and innocence, and his mouth formed the words "thank you" as his eyes met mine for the last time. The light went out of those brilliant eyes as he gave up his final burden, and I had to catch him as his muscles went slack and he slumped forward. It struck me how heavy Death was, and how ironic the analogy brought about by his sacrifice was. With his death, he passed his burden onto me.
I layed him back next to my sister and kissed his forehead, closing his magnificent eyes. My goodbye ended at that. I was Death. Even in those last moments of my old life, as the scales struggled to balance themselves, I knew that I had to leave everything behind. Sentiment was, and still is, something unknown to Death. I wondered briefly as I looked hard at his face one last time how this man, who now seemed to me so young and beautiful, had become who I had chased so fruitlessly for so long. Had he been like me, the reluctant killer and leader? Or had he been the sort of coward that takes power as it comes to him, weilding it for his own purposes as the thought takes him? As I looked into his face, I wanted it desperately to have been the first. I wanted to know that I could give up what I so suddenly had become before I died; that I didn't have to take with me what I had to do to the grave. That I wouldn't have to die alone.
At last I stood up, and wiped my red stained hands on my pants, then slipped the gun into my wasteband. Everything felt different. Suddenly, I understood the complexity of the precarious balance of Life and Death, of the constant war raging between them, and of my role in that war. I began to see myself as something like the Angel of Death. I no longer saw what my predecessor did as something evil, but as something necessary. The change came over me so suddenly that I've often wondered since then where the other me had gone.
I remember little after that - I remember passing door after door, burgundy carpets that muffled my footsteps, a chill in the air. The only thing I still see clearly are the staring eyes of my dead companions and friends. I remember closing them gently to honor their sacrifice for the sake of the balance. I remember not feeling the anger I felt before, nor remorse, just sadness. I remember bending over each of them, whispering what Death himself had told me.
"Death comes for us all."
__________________________________________
Death comes for us all.
That's what he told me as we sat on the floor across from each other, equal for that moment in pain and in need.
It is an odd experience, holding a conversation with Death. People who are afraid of Death themselves can never truly understand the deep feelings that are involved in it. The man sitting across from me with his dead, unfeeling eyes was Emotion. He seethed with feeling like no one I had ever encountered among the living. Behind his cold dead eyes was a consuming fire of pain, hope, love, condescension - everything ever felt by the living soul, but more, because Death has no soul. His feeling is raw and powerful, uncontrollable and complete. Nothing I can ever say can explain what I felt in that room staring into the eyes of that ruined man.
I had wept the moment in time allotted for my mourning. I had spent it crying into the shoulder of the one who had taken everything from me. And he had held me in my hour of anguish, smoothing my hair like a loving father, comforting and mending what he himself had smashed to pieces. Along with his smooth voice came the last thing I had expected. Death wept as he held me. I could feel his tears dampen my har as they coursed down his cheeks. As he held me and comforted me, he took my pain upon himself. Every life he had ended, every soul he had released echoed in those tears. They were his exchange for their lives - to feel their last moments of pain forever. For some strange reason, watching my suffering released it all for him.
Somehow, even through my rage and pain, I felt for the man who was Death. On the surface, I attributed it to my own pain easily turning to pity for him. But it went much deeper than that. Deep within my heart, I empathized with him. I knew how it felt to kill, to take a life. It tears something from you each time, shreds everything inside to bloody ribbons. I knew why there was nothing of his Soul in his eyes.
He no longer had anything such as a Soul left.
That day, as Death cried into my hair next to the rigid body of my sister, I knew that it was over. Yes, I had broken, and Death himself had ended the merciless cycle of blood and angst. But it was not the end that I had looked for. The end I had wished for had been my own, but fate had willed it differently. With those tears, tears born of pure anguish - days and years bathed in blood - he ended it. I didn't come to the full realization of what had taken place until I pulled back from him and gazed into his dark eyes, full at last of his naked Soul.
Something had been released behind those eyes, something more beautiful and powerful than anything can ever again be, or has ever before been. The Soul I had thought violently dead lived, buried beneath years of pain and death. It had clawed its way out and was staring at me through the innocent eyes of a child. It looked as if the tears he had shed had burned away all the years of bloodshed like acid. I rejoiced for him, and for his new freedom, but my heart fell as I realized what it all meant for me. I had to take his place.
Life has a certain blance to it. For every birth, there is, and must be, a death, and likewise. Death was the balance to Life. With his rebirth, as I thought of it, everything was now out of balance. The death of my sister, not by her own choice, served to balance the forces of Life and Death.
I reached out my hand and wiped the tears from his cheeks, and then removed the gun from his hand. His eyes followed my movements, full of new wonder and innocence, and his mouth formed the words "thank you" as his eyes met mine for the last time. The light went out of those brilliant eyes as he gave up his final burden, and I had to catch him as his muscles went slack and he slumped forward. It struck me how heavy Death was, and how ironic the analogy brought about by his sacrifice was. With his death, he passed his burden onto me.
I layed him back next to my sister and kissed his forehead, closing his magnificent eyes. My goodbye ended at that. I was Death. Even in those last moments of my old life, as the scales struggled to balance themselves, I knew that I had to leave everything behind. Sentiment was, and still is, something unknown to Death. I wondered briefly as I looked hard at his face one last time how this man, who now seemed to me so young and beautiful, had become who I had chased so fruitlessly for so long. Had he been like me, the reluctant killer and leader? Or had he been the sort of coward that takes power as it comes to him, weilding it for his own purposes as the thought takes him? As I looked into his face, I wanted it desperately to have been the first. I wanted to know that I could give up what I so suddenly had become before I died; that I didn't have to take with me what I had to do to the grave. That I wouldn't have to die alone.
At last I stood up, and wiped my red stained hands on my pants, then slipped the gun into my wasteband. Everything felt different. Suddenly, I understood the complexity of the precarious balance of Life and Death, of the constant war raging between them, and of my role in that war. I began to see myself as something like the Angel of Death. I no longer saw what my predecessor did as something evil, but as something necessary. The change came over me so suddenly that I've often wondered since then where the other me had gone.
I remember little after that - I remember passing door after door, burgundy carpets that muffled my footsteps, a chill in the air. The only thing I still see clearly are the staring eyes of my dead companions and friends. I remember closing them gently to honor their sacrifice for the sake of the balance. I remember not feeling the anger I felt before, nor remorse, just sadness. I remember bending over each of them, whispering what Death himself had told me.
"Death comes for us all."