Till Death Do You Part

Chapter Nineteen ~ Goodbye

Chapter Nineteen ~ Goodbye

Hot.

Cold.

I was burning alive one second and freezing my ass off the next.

What's going on? Where the hell am I? Why can't I move? Why can't I see?

"Comfortable?" A deep voice asked.

I tried to answer but my mouth wouldn't open. I couldn't feel them.

"Good..." I felt something touch my arm and trail down towards my hand. Fighting back tears, I let whoever it was touch me. I felt them pull away and get closer to my face. Hot air blew against my neck. Close to me, they asked, "Do you know what Death did?"

No, I thought, trying to shake my head. My body throbbed in pain.

"He stole your soul. He told you what he wanted and you believed him."

Death stole my soul?

"Want it back?"

... Yes.

"Steal it back."

How?

"Take it away with this." I felt something slip into my hand. I couldn't open my eyes to see what it was, but I knew it was something horrible. It had to be.

"Open your eyes..." The voice whispered. My body trembled.

My eyes opened slowly.

I was in my room.

Standing up right.

Breathe caught in my throat.

There was a long, sharp knife in my hand.

The room started to spin.

I started to hyperventilate. My hands started to cramp. My body started to sweat.

Backing away, I walked to the other side of my room. My arm glitched and I chucked the knife at the wall. It made a weird noise as it hit it and fell down across the table. Next to it appeared a sheet marked in red.

The contract.

If that voice was right about what Death did, how he lied to me and stole my soul, how could I get it back with the knife?

Then it hit me.

Am I supposed to kill myself?

I kept staring at the knife and contract, going back and forth between the two. Both meant the same thing: Death.

The knife, sharp enough to cut paper, laid sideways on the table in front of me. For some time I stared down at it.

Grab it.

Go on.

Take the knife.

Slowly, my left hand managed to grip the handle of the knife. Palms covered in sweat and dried tears, I held the knife close to me, like it was the only source of life, the only thing that was real. To the right rested the contract, marked in my own blood.

I knew it was all too good to be true.

Imagining that the paper was an escape, my right hand squished it between my fingers. There was nothing I could do but pray and think.

Why me?

"Why?" I screamed, slamming the paper onto the table. The entire room shook, the wooden floors creaked, the chill of silence intensified. I stood up from my seat and felt the something slice my skin. Not afraid of the blood trickling from a large cut on my palm, I stared at it gush out and free itself. Like air escaping from a balloon, the blood dripped out of me painlessly.

So, what is it like to be dead... You feel nothing, fear nothing, think nothing. Just do what must be done and move on because there's nothing else to do. To be dead means to be carefree, to either suffer or find peace. Peace is found only when you learn to bear with pain and suffering. That's what I've been told, at least.

Everything seems to contradict itself.

Staring up from the gash, I brought the knife away from me and examined it one last time. Just one cut and I'm free. Just one stab and I'm dead. All I have to do is push the knife in and go straight to hell.

The sheet seemed to cast a glow which made me look at in curiosity. 

What if I can't die? What happens then?

"There's only one way to find out." I whispered, preparing to drive the knife into me. Goodbye world. Goodbye mom. Goodbye everyone.

Goodbye Death.