Saving The Pirate (Book Two)

72. In Death, We Find Solace

Christopher

Christopher hadn't thought much about his death. It wasn't a topic that he liked to think about after his mother. Yet, it was a stranger that stuck by his side for most of his life. It hovered over his head. It was his shadow, and it was there now. At last, it showed its face.

It wasn't as wretched as he had thought it would be - quite the contrary. Death was flushed in all that was beauty. It was warm and comforting, a friend that awaited his arrival. It was not the enemy, it was the escape.

Many times in his life, Christopher came close to the encounter of Death. Many times too many, he fought to live. He did not want to die. He was too scared to die. He would kick and scream. Death was what he thought took his precious mother away from him. It was what made him miserable. 

Now, seeing its face, how could he be so wrong? Death was his salvation. He didn't need anyone, he didn't have to think, he didn't even need to feel. Death was the void that he was looking for. It was nothing and it was everything.

 Its hair was loose and free, its voice soothing, that spoke only words of reassurance. Its body, unbound, and its eyes. It's eyes where what held Christopher in place. They held the reflection of his soul. All that he every was, all that he would ever be was in Death's eyes. 

His feet were bound, his hands tied, but Christopher did not notice. His breath was stilled, his mind blank. Death swept across the floor before him. It rose its slender hand to Christopher's cheek. He was surprised to find it had no temperature, barely any feeling, yet it lifted his chin. Its face swelled with longing, its lips parted, its smell alluring.

Come.

Slowly, it leaned in, its body wrapping itself around Christopher, holding him close. 

Come.

With both hands, it cradled his  head.

Come.

Its lips brushed his. He closed his eyes. 

He felt a jerk, pulling him away from Death's grasp. He was falling. He felt a rush inside his chest. He touched earth. He snapped open his eyes. A figure was standing over him, small, feminine. He heard its booming voice. It was touching his arm, jerking him this way and that.

Stop, he wanted to say. Stop it.

"Hey, you need to sit up."

Christopher closed his eyes again, as if to hide from this figure. Leave me alone.

"You're lying in your own filth."

The figure would not stop! No peace! How dare it grab ahold of him, picking him up and slamming his head against a hard wall. How dare it even struggle to do so.

"There," it said at last, satisfied with itself. It breathed a breath of accomplishment. Christopher felt its judgmental gaze. He wanted to hurt it, but did not have the strength to try.

"Open your eyes, you damn fool." It kicked his foot. "Open them, I say."

He squinted open his eyes, turning them to look up at the soft face before him. It was a woman, one that he couldn't quite recognize. Who was she? He tried to move his lips, but they were dry. He tried to make a noise, but nothing came. He was a corpse.

The woman sighed, picking something off of the floor - a glass, and crouched down to him. She grasped his jaw, tilting it up slightly to press the glass to his lips. He felt the rush of water splash onto his lips and into his throat, wetting and cooling it.  He acted immediately, grabbing hold of the glass and finishing the rest himself. Once he was finished, he licked his lips, looking at the pitched that stood behind the woman.