I can’t pinpoint the exact day death entered my life. In some ways it seems like she was always there. When I was little I imagined death as a grim reaper type, with ragged features and brooding eyes. But it wasn’t like that. Death was beautiful.
My love for her grew over a period of time. It was only later, much later, that I realised she didn’t love me. By that time it was too late—she had ravaged my body, destroyed my marriage and made strangers out of those who once cared for me. Still I was captivated by my love for her.
There were many times I tried to escape, but all I accomplished was a futile game of hide-and-go-seek. In the darkness I would hear her call, her footsteps sneaking ever closer. And then, I let her find me and we were together again. During those intimate times I disregarded everything and everyone else. She was all I needed, all I wanted. When I could not afford to have her with me she would inevitably leave, and I sobbed and sobbed in empty desolation.
To win her back I did horrid things, things that robbed my soul of its innocence. But when I felt her coldness against my skin and her bitterness on my tongue, all was worth it. I would once again drown myself in her beauty.