Letters to Death

Discriminate

Dear Death,

Right, you. You better be paying close attention to my furiously scribbled words.

LET ME IN.

Please?

Death, I know this will do nothing to gain favour with you, but I honestly hate you so much for rejecting me again on Friday. I write this from a hospital bed, of all places, when you and I both know full well I could be free. And can't you see that? Are you so blind to the fact that you are my only way out? Are you always going to turn away from me whenever I go seeking for you?

What about when I'm older and I reach out for your cold embrace? Will you turn me away then and tell me that I am still too young? I thought that you were indiscriminate. That it doesn't matter who turns up on your doorstep. That if they're weak and willing enough, you'll let them in. That I could join their ranks by my own means instead of ketting nature take care of me. I thought you welcomed all of us.

And I know that there are many people out there who are in my situation. I know that there are some people as desperate as me. I know that people say I'm always lucky to escape you (eleven attempts and counting, Death, you cheater), but I don't want your arms to slip again from around me.

I also know that the tone of this letter is very similar to the previous two, but you still don't seem to get it. How many attempts will it take for you to realize that your abode is my safe haven? That's all I want, really. To be able to step over the threshold for real.

Don't you go guilt-tripping me into deciding on life, either. I don't give a damn about what's left behind. We'll be separate anyway, them conscious and me no longer suffering from personhood, as it were. People are always saying I should try to think of myself, so I am. By killing myself. Or rather, because you haven't let it work yet, trying to kill myself.

And I am still so impatient, Death. Show me the way, the proper way, to your doorstep. Open the door and take in my fragile, broken being huddled in front of you. Bring me in, treat me as an equal.

Is that going to happen, though?

No?

Didn't think so, you spiteful bastard.

I won't bother telling you when I might try again. You'll just shut me out again, and I want the twelfth attempt to be the final one. Eleven times. Eleven times I have showed up, but no. You still won't let me in.

Yours in a way,

Not-a-cigar

(A/N: that's "close, but no cigar")