Dance of Death

It’s nearly two as the Reaper’s clock begins to strike. A thundering clap shakes the trembling ground, as death knolls beckon me into this thick, hazy night. Coming to a clearing, I see ceremonial tables carved with the darkest of symbols. Jewel-encrusted cups—flowing freely with blood and whiskey—are placed amongst bones, whilst monstrous funeral pyres loom over the uninvited. Shadows flicker off the glint of boiling streams; souls, trapped between conflicting realms, bewitched by dancing with death, can’t quite grasp that it all has to come to an end. A cacophony rises from the corpse choir, growing louder and louder until my ears burst, with blood pouring down my confused cheeks. But why am I here? I have no memory of crossing over; I have not forsaken life—I swear my heart still beats beneath my breast. Or does it? I take my shaky hand and place it upon my chest, whilst the dance with death amplifies around me. Dizziness takes over; I can’t focus. “Get a grip—breathe, feel for the heartbeat.” There is nothing—just silence beneath my fingers. Recollections come in and out of focus. He came to me, after all the times I cried for him, whispering sweet promises into my ear: “No more pain, no more fear, just white noise.” Plunge the knife in and take my hand, dance the eternal dance. Reality comes back into view; my hands, now covered in sticky hemoglobin, reach for a reaching palm as I sway endlessly in complete, everlasting oblivion.