So here I am, 24th of December, aged thirteen, lying in my bed and I don’t want to weep but there’s a real good chance I won’t see Christmas Day.
It’s no fun having a brain aneurysm, because hey it will be the death of me. I know this because Death himself sits by my bed.
No honestly, it was yesterday when I found the bald boy, that lad who glared moodily at everyone lying still on his bed. He wasn’t blinking or breathing. And as I stood there gaping at a dead body, I heard a strong steely voice behind me, calling out with a cackle “Oh don’t worry, he wasn’t going to amount to much.”
And Death laid a hand upon my shoulder and said, “Since I’m here, I might as well wait for you.”
So, my new and probably last friend is the reaper. Should I describe him? That’s hard, he always keeps changing, well not changing exactly, rather he’s like one of those optical illusions. You know your brain cannot decide on what it sees. That’s what Death looks like.
So Death is wearing a paper crown, listening to the radio and tapping his feet to the beat of a Christmas jingle whilst I lay on my bed, and whenever I ask him when I’ll die, he presses his long fingers against his chin and says “Now, now that’ll spoil the surprise.”
I’m thinking of my beloved cat Butterscotch, the fat grey tabby Dad’ll probably give away because he never liked her, I’m thinking of a plump roast roast turkey with my parents and siblings gathering around without me…
I know this’ll be my last Christmas, and I’ll never see Sarah or Jessica, my best friends sing in the school play. I’ll never have my first kiss, never go to college or be a doctor and I’ll never see my big sister’s baby, she’s four months pregnant but I won’t be around long enough to be an aunt.
The gloating
reaper has a paper plate on his lap, he chews on mini-sausages and sips a
little sherry. He hums Jingle Bells and laughs when I tell him about my
troubles. “My dear,” his base voice vibrates “I’ve taken children starving to
death, I’ve taken babies in their cradles, why should I spare you out of
everyone?”
I drop it, Death doesn’t like me.
After a while I just snap and beg him to get it over with, I’m screaming, my throat aches as I howl but he only grins at my outburst.
I don’t want to die, but if I can’t live, I don’t want to sit around waiting. Just take me already.
Death doesn’t move, now he wears the expression of a leering kitten, playing with its’ prey before gobbling it up.
Merry blooming Xmas everyone.
