The Victim and Death

For most of us, Death is the end. For the vicitm, Death is only the beginning. This is the story of how she died, and how her fear of Death had more physical presence in reality than she could have ever dreamt to dread. The victim, formerly Maegan Murphy of Reeldale Academy for Girls, was born 15th November 1995 and died 25th November 2011. She had lived a good life, it was nothing exciting but she had enjoyed it while it lasted. Now she's dead, murdered to be exact, and Death has come to collect his payment... or has he? Or, more importantly, CAN he?

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1. The Victim and Death

As she took her last breaths she would take whilst living on this earth, the victim did not feel sorry for herself, neither did her life flash before her deep, chestnut eyes. She just examined the waterfall of scarlet blood cascading from her chest.

She could see no wound, just blood, and yet she was dying. She could feel it, every one of her organs shutting down, one by one. Her heart beat was slowing and uneven. It matched the irregular dripping of the crimson liquid which was falling from the tips of her long, dirty blond hair. It was a shame. She had tried so hard to keep from harm since she had styled it that morning. The blood was soaking a perfectly good blouse, she noticed, as the web of red strings consumed the silk fabric, once a bold shade of emerald. The victim had never liked red, it reminded her of the ghastly school uniform she had been forced to wear for the past four years, but even the fact that she was never going to wear it again could not comfort the fear of her imminent death. If she was not dying then she would not be happy at all, but as she was, she managed to convince herself that where she was going there would be even nicer clothes than were in her wardrobe back at home, which was a rare sight the victim would be curious to see.

She referred to herself as the victim. For the time being, she was still living, so in her mind she decided that if you were not dead but innocent in a situation in which you were made to become someone who was dying you were classed as a victim. She had always been a dimmer light when it came to concepts, or anything for that matter, but that did not mean she could die without one last attempt to be the cleverer one.

She did not feel her name was important either. She realised that she would be moving on in the next couple of seconds, so why did she need her name if no-one was going to use it in her presence again? She hoped that people would use it after she had gone though. That would be nice.

Just as she was finally ready to drift away, she noticed she was wrong. She should not have been surprised, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been right. Before, she thought there had been no wound, but only now she noticed something small which appeared to be coming through her chest. It sparkled in the little light there was and its point was a razor. The victim concluded that it was a knife, so if there was a knife there had to be a...

With every ounce of energy combined with stones of determination, the victim turned her head to be faced with her attacker. As she had said earlier, she was not dead yet, therefore the figure before her eyes was not her murderer – for at least ten more seconds he was not, anyway.

In those last ten seconds it took all of the victims focus to take in the details of their appearance. She could only see one eye; the other was hidden by a blade of ebony hair that swept across his face. The one eye was vivid, like a photograph that had been sharpened until the precision was too much for the beholder to take. The single eye held the victim with a grasp so tight she could almost feel firm hands closing around her eyeballs, which gave her a repulsed sensation. It smiled at her with a spiteful smirk, which implied that he was enjoying the life that was leaving the victim. The colour of it was deeper than the void itself.

The eye wasted four seconds of her remaining time which sent waves of annoyance rushing through her body. These were quickly replaced by pure horror, the type that can only be triggered by a sudden sight that even extravagant words cannot explain. In places, his skin was the purest white that if the victim had any strength to do so, she would have turned away, shielding her eyes from the light not only reflected by it, but given off by it too. But in other places, his body had been skinned down to the bone, leaving large patches of bloody white cartilage scattered across his face, arms and bare torso. There was hardly any skin left.

But where there was skin, his body was like it has been made by a Roman statue sculptor, white marble and all. If he was not so repugnant, the victim would have spent hours on end gazing at the raw beauty that glowed against the deep black backdrop to where ever the victim had been attacked. It abruptly occurred to her that she did not even know where she was.

Suddenly, the victim was not ready to go. Millions of questions screamed from inside her, giving her a buzzing head ache. She summoned her last ounce of strength and selected the question that drifted to her mind’s surface. She only had four seconds left, so it was vital she got it right before she faded.

“Who... are...?” Her weak voice faded into the black. She simply did not have enough strength to utter that last word.

But he seemed to understand. With only two seconds to go until it all ended, he leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his voice dancing around her with a victory dance, his presence more protruding than that of a human.

“Remember me as Death.”

The figure called Death kissed her cheek with cold, black lips and just when the victim wished the vile sensations she was feeling would stop, that was exactly what they did.

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