A Brief Description of One Man’s Death (Repost)
I cannot presume to say what every death feels like. I can only speak to my own, and it was really not all that interesting once the knife was removed and the murderer escaped, but I will do my best to enlighten the reader as to its effects upon my body, and also to its effects on my inner thoughts at the curious moment of passing.
I can tell you that the wound succombed quickly to shock, so there was little pain, but there was the freightening knowledge of something terribly wrong, of some important thing inside of me being irreparably damaged. Having little knowledge of anatomy I cannot say for certain sure what that something was, but the blood was dark in color, almost black, so I suspect it was the liver, or possibly a kidney that suffered the injury.
The blood was also plentiful. It pooled quickly around me until every appendage of my body layed within it. It even touched my face so that its strangely sweet odor filled my nostrils until I accepted the smell of the blood as being the smell of death itself. I recall being shocked at the amount, and presumed correctly that a body cannot lose that amount of blood and survive.
With the shock and the blood loss came the cold... a deep, down to the bone cold that sent my muscles into spasms which served to push the blood out of the wound even faster than my heart-beat could push it alone. The spasms acted upon my blood vessels like squeezing a sponge as my body did what it could to speed up the natural process that it evidently knew had begun. In a final effort at self preservation I curled myself into a fetal position, my arms pressing into the wounded area in a feeble attempt at both warmth and to thwart the flow of blood. The effort was far too little, and it was far too late.
And finally came the exhaustion, an overwhelming desire to sleep that pressed against my eyelids with an enormous weight that willed them shut, a feeling not unlike that which the sun will give you through the windshield after a heavy afternoon meal. My eyes closed under that weight. Sleep massaged my temples with the gentlest of fingers, but something inside my head, something in the folded gray matter of my brain railed against it, knowing that at this point in time every second, every feeling, every thought was sacred and I must induce one more of each! To sleep was to never awaken, but I was so very tired. I wondered then that I could really die! I would be no more? In my vanity that did not seem plausible, that the world could carry on without me. Of course I had always known that I could die, that I would die... someday... but now that it was upon me it did not seem acceptable. Who gave that person, that murderer, the right to end me, to take the only thing that really belonged to me and to run away into the night? How is it that he should live and not me? I, to die? I, who was life's greatest advocate! I, who was filled only moments ago with joy and song? I, to vanish as though I had never existed?
But it was true, and so I did; while the earth continued its turning, and the heavens continued their expansions. A few tears were shed, perhaps, and then the life that I held so dear ceased of its importance, and its appointments, and its deadlines, and its pleasures so that the hole my absence left on the earth's face was no greater than the hole left when you pull your finger from a glass of water.
The End
Teladamyr
Silas' body shriveled, feeling his bones, his skin, melt off of him. He would love to stay a human, but there's no survival in the Land of the Dead. He was bound to see his demise at one point while walking the diminishing grounds. He was a traveller. A bard, explaining stories to everyone he came across, none of them being true tales. Until he heard about the Grove. The Grove where he could be free, no rules, no one to berate him, no one chasing him. He would be independent...for once.
The creature's quills stabbed deeper into Silas' flesh. The poison, the venom, crawled through his blood stream, crawled through each red blood cell. The creature was tall. Almost 9 foot (only a guess of Silas'). It was the Teladamyr, the protector of the Land of the Dead.
The Teladamyr is a protector made of barely any skin, most of its body being seen as bones. Even though a flesh-like substance surrounds its body, it is thin and has the consistency of paper, causing the protector's bones to be seen very obviously. The Teladamyr's quills are deadly, which causes the person's or creature's skin to slowly melt off until they are nothing but bones. The protector is loud, not caring how quiet it needs to be. It's one of the most powerful protectors, it doesn't have any mercy or care for anything but its area. No one survived him. For your soul to survive, you must accept it. Accept your fate and your soul will survive to be just a follower of the Teladamyr. That's what Silas was doing.
His heart pounded, his head creating a migraine. He watched chunks of flesh, his flesh falling off his legs and arms, his clothes becoming looser and looser. His bones grew looser and his screams created echos throughout the trees. No one would save him. And he wasn't going to save himself. For his struggles weren't going to help keep his soul bounded to his body.
die a kind soul
When it comes to death,
I'd rather die helping someone
than with blood on my hands.
I'd rather give up everything,
all of me,
hurt all the time with no remedy,
than become someone I swore I'd never be.
I choose to let someone tear me apart
for their sake
than to hurt them on purpose;
rip their heart out and stomp on it.
So I'll keep opening up,
and letting them take pieces of me
to get the relief they so desperately need,
if it means that I die a kind soul,
having inflicted no pain I could have otherwise healed.
it is a daily exercise
like some people go to the gym to do reps
my mind does squats leaps repetitive runs
hamlet on testosterone shot pulsing artery
surging direct to thumping heart jazzfest
snare sticks go wild a bass solo beats off
to die or be murdered by it slowly softly
to drink your poison or fade into black
you unspeakable demon gone silent
yet your taunts still bleed rosey wet
would it hurt you if I disappeared
or would my death be john doed
kill me with indifference
murder mutilate mum
all that left is the execution
me my own hand mind wit
to carry out anonymously
at the time and manner
of your uncaring
plotting planning
to what end
I was dead to you
decades long past
Take Me
Take me...
I can take it.
My vigor is strong to the point I can shake it.
My broad, broad shoulders can carry the load,
like a lode of boulders on my back that can't break it.
There's always something to glean in continuing to exist;
always a miraculous appearance to experience.
There are shades of darkness, and I'm not one to succumb;
I'll take my chances against the One.
"A heretic a heathen, I'll be knocking on the gates of hell,"
Boxing and weaving the venerable Peek-a-Boo; shields impenetrable as the Philly Shell.
I'm your Huckleberry, and I'll shuck and I'll jive;
and battle till it all turns to rubble.
Cuz what the Devil doesn't know about me...
is I'd bury myself alive, just to prove I can handle a shovel.
As I stared at the face of the grotesque, horrible face of the shadow monster, I felt an intense emotion rip its way through my heart.
Now, we're going to take a pause right here.
Hear me out...
You're probably thinking, "Oh it's just going to be fear or something. Duh. Such a cliche."
Fun fact, it's not. That emotion is disgust.
I face the monster and roll my eyes at it, "If I knew I was going to have to fight *you* at the end of this deluded rainbow... I really wouldn't have trained so hard."
Then I play catch with the poor creature, throwing him a really small and hard to catch ball out of the barrel of my AK47.
"Oops." I say sarcastically as I throw my gun onto the corpse of the shadow monster and walk away.
It or me
I stared into those awful eyes. The creature stared back, unblinking, it's eyes round, and gleaming black - I saw my own face reflected back and shuddered. This would only end when one of us was dead.
It's hideous, hairy hide made my skin crawl and prickle. Was the creature's stomach hairy too - or was the skin there pale and bald? The thick shag continue all the way down down the legs, where it took on an almost velvety quality. Two sharp black claws poked out from the fur at the end of each leg. Claws that allowed the creature to defy gravity - to climb where no living thing should be able to climb.
The creature had let itself in to my home, my sanctuary, my safe space and had been waiting for me with a chilling patience. Where it came from - I might never know. But I was desperate to avoid those merciless fangs. The thought of them sinking into my soft flesh filled me with such dread - I remained frozen as long seconds dripped past.
But, I knew the kind of death that awaited this creature's prey. It was slow and painful - victims were often immobilised with brutal efficiency - and then eaten alive. Slowly I gripped my weapon. I had one chance to strike a stunning blow. If the creature jumped or attacked first, I knew my courage would fail me.
Taking a deep, jagged breath, I calmed my jangled nerves. And committed murder.
But, as I threw the roll of newspaper and squashed spider in the bin, I didn't feel the slightest contrition. After all, it was me or it.