Using a sharpener, he drew it across the blade until the edge sang with it's own danger. It was only a small kitchen knife when he'd began, but now it was an instrument of purpose, raised above the lowly station of cutting up steaks, or the occasional apple. He would've rather used a stone, but he didn't want to go out and get one, that would take too long. Next to the tub, on the cracked porcelain floor, sat a bottle of pills. These would be a last resort if the blade hurt too much.
His name was Chris, and he was in love. A student at a shitty local university, he was still undeclared as a junior, and studied computers, religion, and cooking sporadically. A half a year before he'd been in a rather nasty car accident, when his best friend decided taking shots of vodka while driving was an excellent idea. Chris had barely survived, and the whole night was a blur interspersed with moments of terrifying clarity;creaking from strained metal, cars on the oh-so-distant main highway, the sound of a last breath, harsh as the sound of gunfire in the silence. He'd heard it called a death rattle before; this turned out to be a misnomer. It was more like a sigh, the soft sound of a soul escaping its shell of flesh.
Then, he'd seen her. For a short, confused minute, he'd seen something only those about to leave this plane of existence had seen. A aureole of dark hair, a pert face, eyes that spoke worlds of kindness and understanding, a smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. His heart had seemed to crack in half, as all thoughts of his shattered legs became null. His one hand not pinned by wreckage had seemed to reach for her of it's own volition. She'd seemed surprised that he'd seen her, then had given him another astonishing smile, one laden with sadness, before walking away with his friend. The one who'd stopped breathing ten minutes before. The doctors who put him back together had dismissed this as a hallucination, or at most a vision of the soul departing. He knew better though. He was in love with Death.
The months after he left the hospital had watched him fall into obsession, and he knew it. He doodled mysterious dark eyes and intricate ankhs throughout his notes from class without knowing why, and tried miserably to sketch her face more formally. At night he dreamed of her just talking to him, long conversations while walking; he wasn't the type given to erotic dreams, nor fantasies of girls he liked being animals in bed. He didn't care about that, as long as they were intelligent and confident. The obsession had become painful in the past few weeks. He didn't want to wait until he was a very old man, senile and decrepit, pissing and shitting himself, to see her again.
He went to his cd collection, searched for a few moments before choosing something appropriate; Coldplay sounded like a good idea. She seemed like she would like the beauty and melancholy. He slid the disk in his smaller player, the one near the sink, and turned the volume up a bit. Someething was still missing. He found a few scented candles from the rare times he'd smoked pot in the dorm and had tried to cover up the pungent smell. These he lit, and set in the sink so they wouldn't light the building on fire. The scene was perfected then; it was time.
The knife burned like lines of fire, but not unbearably, intensifying when he placed the limbs in the warm water. Red blossomed deep as poppies as it stained the water. He began to be afraid. What if she'd really been a hallucination? Panic made his heart pound, his head already swimming from lack of blood.
"What do you think you're doing??" A female voice sounded from behind him. He turned, and distantly felt his face lighting in a huge smile.
"You're real. You're really real and I love you and I'm coming to be with you." He knew he was babbling somewhat, but didn't care. He felt as if his happiness alone would resurrect him. She was shaking her head sadly, however, and even looked a little angry. Bending close, she pulled his bleeding, abused arms from the water and began wrapping them in gauze. God only knew where she got it.
"W-what are you doing?"
"Helping you to not be stupid. It isn't your time, Chris. It wasn't before and it isn't now. I'm flattered you would give your life to be with me but that isn't for you." She picked him up like he weighed nothing at all, and placed him in his bed before draining the tub. "I looked in the great book; Destiny's going to kill me for that, but you'll live a long time and accomplish quite a bit. Trust me please. You'll wake up healed, and knowing what it is you want to do."
"B-but..." He was very sleepy, now that he thought about it. Her shadow, cast by the candles, was becoming a very tall man, who seemed to be whispering from his hindbrain for him to sleep and to dream. She bent and kissed him on the cheek, like a shy girl on a date.
"We'll meet again, don't worry. Everyone meets me eventually." The both of them faded into shadow and disappeared, as consciousness slipped away. Something in his heart and mind healed, and for the first time in months he slept peacefully.
His name was Chris, and he was in love. A student at a shitty local university, he was still undeclared as a junior, and studied computers, religion, and cooking sporadically. A half a year before he'd been in a rather nasty car accident, when his best friend decided taking shots of vodka while driving was an excellent idea. Chris had barely survived, and the whole night was a blur interspersed with moments of terrifying clarity;creaking from strained metal, cars on the oh-so-distant main highway, the sound of a last breath, harsh as the sound of gunfire in the silence. He'd heard it called a death rattle before; this turned out to be a misnomer. It was more like a sigh, the soft sound of a soul escaping its shell of flesh.
Then, he'd seen her. For a short, confused minute, he'd seen something only those about to leave this plane of existence had seen. A aureole of dark hair, a pert face, eyes that spoke worlds of kindness and understanding, a smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. His heart had seemed to crack in half, as all thoughts of his shattered legs became null. His one hand not pinned by wreckage had seemed to reach for her of it's own volition. She'd seemed surprised that he'd seen her, then had given him another astonishing smile, one laden with sadness, before walking away with his friend. The one who'd stopped breathing ten minutes before. The doctors who put him back together had dismissed this as a hallucination, or at most a vision of the soul departing. He knew better though. He was in love with Death.
The months after he left the hospital had watched him fall into obsession, and he knew it. He doodled mysterious dark eyes and intricate ankhs throughout his notes from class without knowing why, and tried miserably to sketch her face more formally. At night he dreamed of her just talking to him, long conversations while walking; he wasn't the type given to erotic dreams, nor fantasies of girls he liked being animals in bed. He didn't care about that, as long as they were intelligent and confident. The obsession had become painful in the past few weeks. He didn't want to wait until he was a very old man, senile and decrepit, pissing and shitting himself, to see her again.
He went to his cd collection, searched for a few moments before choosing something appropriate; Coldplay sounded like a good idea. She seemed like she would like the beauty and melancholy. He slid the disk in his smaller player, the one near the sink, and turned the volume up a bit. Someething was still missing. He found a few scented candles from the rare times he'd smoked pot in the dorm and had tried to cover up the pungent smell. These he lit, and set in the sink so they wouldn't light the building on fire. The scene was perfected then; it was time.
The knife burned like lines of fire, but not unbearably, intensifying when he placed the limbs in the warm water. Red blossomed deep as poppies as it stained the water. He began to be afraid. What if she'd really been a hallucination? Panic made his heart pound, his head already swimming from lack of blood.
"What do you think you're doing??" A female voice sounded from behind him. He turned, and distantly felt his face lighting in a huge smile.
"You're real. You're really real and I love you and I'm coming to be with you." He knew he was babbling somewhat, but didn't care. He felt as if his happiness alone would resurrect him. She was shaking her head sadly, however, and even looked a little angry. Bending close, she pulled his bleeding, abused arms from the water and began wrapping them in gauze. God only knew where she got it.
"W-what are you doing?"
"Helping you to not be stupid. It isn't your time, Chris. It wasn't before and it isn't now. I'm flattered you would give your life to be with me but that isn't for you." She picked him up like he weighed nothing at all, and placed him in his bed before draining the tub. "I looked in the great book; Destiny's going to kill me for that, but you'll live a long time and accomplish quite a bit. Trust me please. You'll wake up healed, and knowing what it is you want to do."
"B-but..." He was very sleepy, now that he thought about it. Her shadow, cast by the candles, was becoming a very tall man, who seemed to be whispering from his hindbrain for him to sleep and to dream. She bent and kissed him on the cheek, like a shy girl on a date.
"We'll meet again, don't worry. Everyone meets me eventually." The both of them faded into shadow and disappeared, as consciousness slipped away. Something in his heart and mind healed, and for the first time in months he slept peacefully.