The grim reaper, whose eyes I can’t see but I dare not imagine, stood on my bed side.
“You’re telling me that I get seven days to live? Why do I get to know when I will die? Is this some sort of a special privilege?” I asked, a little vexed.
The dark figure only stood in silence. I clenched my fist in anger, blood rising through my IV tube.
“You might as well kill me now! What difference would it make if I die today or a week after?!”
The figure spoke in a deathly whisper, “Live in seven days,” and disappeared into ghastly smoke.
Live? What do I do with seven days?! There’s nothing left for me. It’s better to be dead.
I hastily pulled the tube from my arm and walked to the nearest window. Seventeen floors.
I dare you Death!
I jumped out of the window and as I was free falling to my anticipated death, a truck of styroballs parked in my supposed landing area.
The next day, I stole the nurse’s scissors and slit my throat. I woke up in the intensive care unit, my hands and legs bond.
Five days before my presumed end, I tried biting my tongue off to bleed to death. The nurse caught wind of my intention and my mouth got restrained.
Four days. I stopped my breathing. How idiotic of me. I’m in the hospital. Of course the alarm would go off.
Three days. I asked the nurse for a phone, lying that I would call my mom. I hired a killer.
Two days. I waited for my death-bringer. The hospital was thrown into chaos. A wanted criminal entered the premise, about to open my door.
One day left and I stared at the ceiling, feeling lost. The days have gone by after I challenged Death with his due date.
You win, Death.
On my supposed last day, I was counting the seconds pass by when somebody opened the door. She was in a wheelchair, her right arm in a cast and her forehead covered with bandage. She looked at me, tears filling her eyes. Her beautiful face, even though bruised, glowed, and her voice, soft like a whisper, was soothing as always.
“I’m here Jake. It’s alright. I survived the plane crash. You don’t need to die. I’m here.”
My tears ran on my cheeks, down to my pillow, soaking it wet. My mouth was still gagged and I couldn’t tell her I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I thought you died.
I’m sorry I couldn’t imagine living without you.
I’m sorry I tried killing myself.
I’m sorry I bribed the nurse to inject me a lethal dose.
I’m sorry, my love, but the grim reaper is now pointing his scythe on my head.
I hope you enjoyed this story. It’s tragic, and it won’t be the only one. As a matter of fact, most of my stories end tragically. I’m not a masochist. I just like the beauty of sad stories because it makes you think of how you live your life.
They are realities of life and no matter how much we avoid them, we will always end up meeting them.