Death comes for all.

*This is for a competition*
Run, if you want. Hide, if you want. She will always find you. You will never escape.


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3. We

We... We...? Who are they? Am I alone? I can't tell anymore. I just hear these... voices... acting as one. They tell me to wait. Wait for what, exactly? I don't know who I am any more, but I see this... figure in my dreams. A dark robed figure holding something glittering. What it is I haven't a clue. Death is all I know now. This will be the last time I write in this. Farewell, world, and goodbye to whoever might read this.

~Someone, 25th December 1853.

 

Death sighed. The steady rhythm of  her horse's hooves almost sent her to sleep. Gentle cantering as they rose into the sky. She unhooked some sort of stick from his side, and held it beside her, as if examining an old friend. She rubbed her hand over the polished wood lovingly, before swinging it in the air. As she did so, a blade faded into existence, shimmering in the moonlight. Death swung her scythe through the air, the sharp metal gliding through the air like a plane. It cleaved clouds in two, the water vapor clinging slightly to it. It was a beautiful weapon, anyone had to admit. The wonderful carved handle with the glittering silver tipping it all. She looked down, watching with fascination at the city bellow her, flying past as she rode on. It was only rumored that she was her in other places. It was just this one clump of buildings where everyone knew enough to be terrified. Grinning happily, she turned the horse slightly more west, and soon left the lights behind.

When the city was only a glow in the distance, Death landed, and her horse took up it's disguise. Smooth black flesh spread over the bones, leaving a glossy coat covering a handsome black stallion. She still held her scythe beside her, though, not wanting to change it for anything.

It was morning when they came to their destination- A small, dreary town in what seemed like the middle of no where. Death moved her horse towards a fence, and dismounted.

"Be wary."

Was the only thing he said to her, and she looked back at him, smiling. "Don't worry. I always am." She called, before turning back, painting a neutral look on her face, and striding into the village center.

Life moved around her, living, breathing people got on with their daily lives, visiting the closer shops. Groups of youths hung around in the small, green park, chatting to each other and showing things on their phones. Death sighed. Why did humans need such petty things? They were a mystery to her. Which brought her back to her task. She needed to find out more about humans, simply being around them was not enough. She needed to talk to them, get into their daily lives and find out what they did. She sat down on a bench, her cloak fluttering around her. She watched, to begin with. She watched people moving. There were so many ways to move. From the hurried rush of a busy mother, to the casual stride of a young adult hanging out with their mates. So Death watched, carefully, taking in all she could, before moving on. She moved past houses as the sun set, making her shadow long.

As the moon hung high in the sky, she was peering into windows, silent as a cat stalking a mouse. Invisible in the half-light. In the last window, she saw someone looking over a book. It was obviously old, it's pages looked coffee-stained, the spine was dry and cracked. There appeared to be very few pages of actual writing. It stirred a memory in Death. This time, she could grab it, looking inside the memory hungrily. She looked closer at the book, as the human called his wife in. She could just make out a date. 25th December 1853. The scruffy handwriting looked familiar. Very familiar. The wife frowned as she read what was on the pages, before looking up at her husband. Death could just make out her words;

"Where did you find this?" She asked, looking at her husband closely.

He thought for a moment, before coming out with the answer. "In the loft. I think Dad found it, years ago. Must have been written by some sort of psychopath..."

Death's body went rigid and, in the distance, her horse raised his head and whinnied angrily. It reared up, discarding it's flesh, breaking the rope and running into the village.

Death looked down, her cloak obscuring much of her face. When she looked up, empty eye sockets looked back. A skeletal hand raised. With one arm to the side, clutching the scythe and the other outstretched, pointing at the couple inside the house, she stood, clothed in black.

All of a sudden, they both looked up. Their eyes widened with fear as they saw the skeleton outside. To their horror, it began moving towards the front door. A terrible rattling followed as it turned the door handle, the lock shattering where it was. The door swung open, and Death lunged, handling her scythe expertly.

 

As the skeleton rode away on it's horse, a voice called through the night.

"We told you, and did you listen? Of course not- you're Death."

 

Corpses lay, battered and bloody, across the village.

Never cross Death, or you'll be sorry.

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