I used to be afraid that if I feared Death, He would sense my weakness and seek me out. I always reasoned “I am not afraid to die, just not ready.”
I created myths about Death residing in the dark oil spots on the street, and the only ones who knew what the marks really were were those who had seen Death. I imagined how Death would drag my brother into the woods at night and keep him there forever. I told my friends how I saw each of them dying, in full detail and gore. I imagined that Death would make me His puppet, and it would all be as real as it was in my mind. He instead fed off of my imaginings, elaborated, and introduced Himself in ways I’d never thought of.
As Death began to become selfish with those around me, I began to fear Him more and more until He instilled such paranoia in my eight-year-old brain that I expected Him to be in the passenger seat every time my parents drove. Behind the flame of the stove every time we cooked. Wrapped around the electric cords that ran through my house every time I turned on a light.
The more He ignored these fears the more fearful I became. It became a sickness. I would cry and run after my mother as she went out to the store. I ran for miles after her, screaming, falling because my legs could not move as fast as Death did–sitting beside her on her way to the store.
She would come home safe every time.
But then my father would call. “I’m about to leave work now, I’ll be home soon.”
Paranoia struck again. It was dark out. He would crash. Why can’t I be in the car with him right now? That way we’d both die, and I wouldn’t have to deal with it. We should all be in the car.
And he would come home safe too.
And Death would tease me again at night, infiltrate my mind until I went mad. More tears. I thought, as children do, “If I close my eyes He can’t see me.” But what if He can sense me? Then with my eyes closed, I can’t see Him. Would He reach into my window and take me away? Would He never tell me how long forever was, and would He never explain what would happen to me?
I never expected that I’d come to fear Him so much that I’d worship Him, write about Him, obsess about Him. Welcome Him into my soul, and await our introduction impatiently.
What terrible thoughts run through the girl’s mind! I am not nearly as evil as she imagines, I am merely a gardener of the Earth who plucks the weeds from amongst the flowers.
Oh, I do love to take them entirely after months of slowly kissing them and sitting back to watch. Why though, do these kisses remind them that they possess love? It is such a terrible thing, this love. The greater it becomes the more eyes shatter into tears. Though, love is desired of the living. I continue to kiss until their tears of love satisfy them. Oh! How humans can be so cruel to themselves!
The small girl likes to play a game of fear–of hide-and-seek. She will never find me. She does not hide herself very well from me anymore. She loved the game before–she used to tear and tear in great amounts. Such love! Perhaps she is sick of the game now. She is the only one left playing, I have found all the rest.
I lust after her mother. So beautiful. I stalk her. But the girl knows.
So I wait.
What wonderful souls she has in her life! I shall take some for myself. She tears more fiercely every time I do. How generous she is to love so much and allow me to take them! I shall take more and more and more!
Why has she stopped tearing? I cannot sense her love anymore. Where did it go? I shall kiss one that would make her tear very much. Or maybe two! Or three! Yes three! She will love again!
Why does she address me so viciously in her sonnets to me? Am I no longer mystical? What does she mean when she writes “I’ve won?”