Death Comes In Many Forms | Teen Ink

Death Comes In Many Forms

May 14, 2015
By SaraCattt PLATINUM, Shelton, Washington
SaraCattt PLATINUM, Shelton, Washington
34 articles 0 photos 12 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far flung hopes, the dreamer of improbable dreams."- The Eleventh Doctor

     September raindrops fell, hitting the black, polished wood.
     Golden orchids sat in corners, staring off into space much like her placid blue eyes before they closed them.
     A lilac dress I’d never wear, draped over her pale shoulders.
     Her hair was done up, beautifully I’d say, purple flowers sprinkled along the edges.
     Many people wandered about in their black wardrobes, but one stood out from the rest. He looked at me, from the crowd, and began to make his way over. I nodded, holding up a finger.
     One moment.
     I glanced around me.
     There were the predictable, my parents, tears soaking their black clothing. My friends, holding each other, asking themselves why it couldn’t have been them. A few loan instructors.
     My brother, standing beside the casket. He did not cry. He did not move. He hardly breathed.

     The man stood beside me now. He had dark eyes and sharp features. He wore a sharp, dusky suit and an ebony colored tie. His eyes were veiled in shadow, arcane iniquity present as well.
     “Time to leave.”
     “I don’t know you,” I replied.
     “You’ve heard of me.”
     “Not at all.”
     He opened his mouth to speak, but decided otherwise and remained silent.
     Before I could ask who he was, he picked my up by the sides of my arms, and dragged me from the room.
     “I can’t go! Someone?! Help me please!”
     No one turned towards me.
     “This is hard when you struggle. I know it hurts.”
     “How would you know?”
     “I’ve been said to be a painful truth.”
     “That makes no sense.”
     “Forgive me,” he set me down, but held my shoulder for a while longer. He kneeled, looking at my blue eyes, by pale shoulders, “But is that not you?”
     I followed the direction of his finger, turning to look behind me.
     I gazed through the doorway, at my funeral.
     I rubbed my shoulder where the man had grabbed me. “That hurt.”
     “You must trust me,” he said softly. He bent closer, and whispered “I am not the one that hurt you."

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