Death Be Done
Time is not something I have much of anymore. I walk along this beach every night and sing to myself. I know my days are not long. When I get to the house I once knew, it becomes clear that I was never meant to exist in this world. The heartache I have caused is just too much. I still can’t get over the fact I killed her and did so because I wanted to. There was no other reason for her to be dead, but I wanted her dead because I hated her. People have called me sick and people have called me odd, but no one in this rich lonely community has any idea I have killed her. Everyone just turns the other way when they see me, or walks on the other side of the road. People try to ignore me, but I am not that easily ignored–I am everywhere.
My heart does not beat like theirs. My soul does not breathe like theirs. I am only me. At times, I think too much of what it would be like to be them, but then again, I would hate that kind of life, waiting for death. I walk around this community as a trap waiting to snap, yet everyone is afraid to try the fruit attached. What shall become of me if no one is tempted by what I have to offer; will I lose touch with what I am? These nights are but a shadow of my former self. One in which I had a happy life. Now I look at the night as a place to drown my time, the small amount I have left. People here just don’t understand what I go through all the time, night after night. I walk this beach, waiting.
I am waiting for that special someone to set me free, at least for another night. Maybe these people are assuming I am something else, something that they are unsure of. However, I am what I am and they do know me, I believe they are just scared of me. I venture out into the darkness with a new hope that someone will grab a hold of what I have to offer and take a bite, but no one has come in years. I could always look at this chance of changing my location, trying out a different scene, where people expect me to be there. Why would I do that? It really is no fun to be expected to come to someone.
I would rather be a surprise, a surprise that is fatal. So I ask them again every night I walk by their houses: are they ready for me? I wait and listen; most times I get a holler of get away I don’t want to leave, while others I get please not yet. However, I will always be here waiting for that right person, the person who is unknown to me, to whom I am unknown. They take a bite of the fruit, the trap snaps, and they are gone. I am Death and I will always want someone dead.