End Me Quickly

1: Prey

Death has not a scent, but a sensation, and it lingers on the outskirts of the tangible world.

It is far from an internal feeling, it is not dread nor melancholy; yet it feels so familiar, like the lyrics of a long-forgotten lullaby as it sweeps across one's slumbering frame. I am quite convinced that death has never been absent from me, and this is far more than a bleak observation. It is the world as I've come to understand it, and furthermore, all else I have yet to understand.

There is a chill in the air when death comes to prey, not quite cold enough to raise goosebumps but just enough to toy with the hairs on the back of one's neck. I could feel it, doubtlessly, as I sauntered through the darkened city streets, tail-lights gleaming like pools of moonlight reflected in bloodshot eyes.

I found myself on this street almost every weekend-- the habit had become thoughtless, the footsteps were merely routine. Necklaces strung in layers around my neck shook noisily with each step, like bells around a cat's neck; I held them together with clammy fingers, entertaining the foolish notion I was being followed.

Thunderous music thrummed in the distance, rattling the walls of a nightclub frequently (no, constantly) occupied by those few kindred souls I could relate to. The club-goers seemed to be the only company I was willing and able to keep-- how strange they were, and how endlessly lovely. Their drunken ramblings of death and philosophy excited me increasingly more each time we met; they seemed but extensions of myself, all of them so different, yet identical in their own little ways.

One of them met me at the door, a familiar redhead donning a weathered leather jacket and earrings larger than her eyes. Her name was Eden, and though names are usually lost on me, I somehow always remembered hers.

"Silas! You look like you've seen a ghost," she mused, smoke frothing from her darkly-painted lips, "please tell me you did."

"I wish," a smirk crept across my face. I took her hand without hesitation as she lead me into the club, my gaze fixated on the dizzying crowds surrounding us on all sides. The sensation creeping through me had not lessened nor dissipated, it seemed as though invisible eyes were watching, staring expectantly. I couldn't shake it, not even as the music swelled, bodies moving and dancing around me.

Eden glanced at me, eyes squinting with bewilderment, as though she'd sensed my uneasiness. Her grasp loosened from my fingers, almost questioningly. But her doubtful hesitation did not linger, and soon the music swallowed her whole and she became one with the dancing masses.

I was alone, so painfully still and silent despite the uneasiness enveloping me. I wandered, nearly tripping over myself in some absent-minded pursuit of escape. I soon found myself on the sidelines, surrounded by club-goers too drunk to dance. One stared at me forlornly; I couldn't discern whether his foggy eyes were the result of alcohol or tears.

He reached out to me, fingers shaking as they grasped hold of my sleeve.

"Please, could you... would you be so kind..." his words slurred together in an almost incomprehensible manner. I wasn't sure what he wanted, it could've been money, but there was a desperation in his tone that dispelled the notion.

"I need to get home," he muttered finally, "do you drive? Could you... drive... drive me?"

I stared, dumbfounded; he pulled on my sleeve persistently, hot tears streaming down his face. He appeared younger than me, perhaps even by three or four years. It became evident I wasn't the only one taking advantage of a fake ID.

"My parents... they'll kill me..." he sputtered, his eyes lowering in shame. I shook my head sympathetically, taking hold of his shoulder as he stumbled toward the exit. The tension gathering in my chest did not lessen as I strode alongside him, half-leading and half-following. The music faded behind us as we took to the darkened streets again.

"Look, I can't drive you, let's just wait here for a cab," I suggested. The boy slumped over against the club's exterior, resting his head against his knees. I sat beside him, sighing heavily, glancing frantically for any sign of a taxi nearby.

Time crawled along slowly, and with every passing second, I could feel it. Death was preying, drawing closer, wrapping its spindly fingers around me. I had no time to question it, or even second-guess my own intuition.

The boy lifted his head, eyes bleary and questioning. He never once looked away as he crept closer, leaning his head against my shoulder. He trembled, his frail body rattling with adrenaline. As I glanced away from his sickly frame, hot pain erupted through my neck. Knocked to the ground, I gasped noiselessly, my lungs completely devoid of breath.
As my vision blurred, the world was reduced to a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. I could smell only blood, warm and sticky; could feel it trickling slowly across my skin. It felt as though all the silent discomfort I'd suffered had finally manifested in a physical form. I writhed in knowingly futile attempts at escape, my limbs twisting and features contorting in ways I'd previously assumed impossible. The boy held me close, sharp fingernails digging into my skin. My head grew lighter, breaths shorter and increasingly desperate.

Numbness devoured my every sense; it left me in silence, drowning in bewilderment. The world dissipated, slipping between my fingers like sand in an hourglass --
and the notion of time itself came to a crashing halt.