Upon my one hundred and second birthday, I started listing to the eerie and vexing things my friends say, such as how they were to visit the countryside again, for what very well might be their last summer. Do not think me a dissimulated ignoramus, I knew that death was always close for people our age, but the thought hung over my head, as did the dark and silent angle of death. I had never been a craven person, nor was I now, but everything in my life was out of my control, living in the nursing home I was told when to eat; sleep; walk; and even when to repose. Now my death was to, every time I merely close my eyes I hear the faint flutter of the ominous angles wings as she readied to take me away. For days she haunted my steps, torturing me with her presence, until I could no longer bare it. My nursing home had once been a cherry place, when the cemetery was built next to our home it turned to a prison, where we did nothing but await our death. I walked slowly, passing gravestones, reading the names carved on to the stones, listing to the wind rustling the tree. There was no moon, no stars, nothing to light my way. I stopped at a oak tree. My heart gave an excited flutter, everything within my life would now be in my control, everything I lost, I would gain again. I removed the rope from where I had stashed it, readying it for its task ahead. I heard a sound somewhere behind me, turning to see what it was I saw a face swirling up to mine. Alas, it was no one but the nurse, coming to take me back to my room. My stories not over yet, but soon it will be, soon I will abscond, and leave this world behind. Soon, the nurse will not be able to find me, soon she’ll find my body hanging from the oak tree, soon I will be carried away by the dark angle, and soon I will be in control.