A conversation with death

“You’re nothing. Do you even understand what a waste of life you really are?” spoke the Devil. 

I exhaled softly, my eyes drinking the image in the mirror with hate and disgust. I picked silently at the scar on my wrist, a memory of another failure along the way. What kind of woman can’t even kill herself, right? No wonder love never stays. Why should it? I am a failure in everything I enter. 

“Well, are you too stupid to talk? You always have a lot to say when you need help, but never anything when you’re called out on your failures,” he laughed. 

I blinked, my eyes brimmed with tears, yet the fluid didn’t escape. Not yet, at least. I pushed the nail deeper into my flesh, a shudder of pain rushed through my body. Are you sick when the pain feels better than happiness? If so, I am filled with cancer that has no cure. My mouth opening, the words stuck in the back of my throat. Why can’t I respond to insults being vomited at me? Was it because every one of them is true? 

A mechanical laugh ricochetted through the room, windows threatening to explode on contact. Gnarly hands rubbed against one another in a satisfying gesture, his lips curling upwards as he spoke. Drunk off the pain of others, his words burned as they dripped from his weather-beaten lips.  

“You can’t speak? Are you dare I say, stupid? Dimwitted, or maybe mentally disabled? Even a fucking retard can stand up and defend himself against me, but you,” he growled, “are an idiot.”

From the corner of the room, the silver bounced, landing at her feet. A razor still stained with the blood of other fallen souls. 

I looked down at my feet, almost too frightened of what I would find. As I leaned down, grabbing the greatest fear I have ever known, I didn’t expect it to feel so, well, so light. I twirled it back and forth in my fingers, my eyes trained on the small silver weapon. It was only then that I found the courage to speak. 

“You say I am weak because I am alive. I failed death once. Do you think I haven’t perfected it by now?” my head fell back, laughter flowing along with the tears. As the tears streamed down my cheeks, the heat burned my flesh in an acid bath of fury. “I am not weak, nor am I stupid. I am one thing, and one thing only. I am tired. Not from lack of sleep but from watching the world around me self-destruct. The wars, fighting, deaths, pain, and bullies. I am tired of the way we seek out the weak and carve our pain into their hearts,” I spoke. 

His voice was elevating, almost screaming a new wave of venom. “You think of yourself as a martyr for those pussy’s who can’t stand up to me?” he asked. As he leaned in, his eyes penetrating, “Do you think they would do it for you? Which one of these people would save you from me? None of them, and you know it. So please do it. I dare you. Change the world. If I can bully someone to death, why are you still breathing?” he laughed. 

I thought about his words and wondered the that as well. Is he right? Why am I still breathing. I am so tired. 

2 thoughts on “A conversation with death

  1. A powerful read. For the pain in the beginning and middle. Then in the narrator’s strength/courage to stand up to the Devil. Who is certainly wrong: family and friends are there for support, as well as people working at the hotlines that you listed.

    Liked by 1 person

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