In a world full of butterflies, I am just a catipillar waiting for metamorphosis.
I am not beautiful, or admired by others. I am nothing.
A dead man walking.
But aren't we all?
Why am I different? Why was he different?
This hell that I've been subjected to, what is the meaning?
Staring into this clear water below my feet, it's got me mesmerized. So much clearer then my own thoughts.
They were like a muddled mass of him. He's everywhere. Everywhere but here.
I can feel his lingering touches on my skin, nothing but the caress of a soft wind.
And can smell his scent, on my clothes, and on my hands. But he is not here.
Everything traces back to him.
Until now.
Sitting on the edge of this bridge, staring into the freezing water below I realize...
I feel like I've found my death date.
"Oh Romeo, I miss your hands against mine.."
So I let go.
YOU ARE READING
Dead Men Walking
Teen FictionPeople are born with the exact date they will die on their wrist. The exact moment their breath will leave their lungs and their heart will stop beating is dated into their skin. Not everyone is born with a death date though; these few are called d...
