Not Ready to Die

Death is a funny thing. Many people will tell you they aren’t scared of it. A few of them even believe they want it. It’s the common truth among those fortunate enough to be ignorant to anything beyond the mere concept. I used to be the same, until I was staring my own mortality in the face. It looked like an endless void of blackness, encased in a rounded silver halo. I stood frozen, unable to prevent it from inching toward me until its rim kissed my brow, the cold chill of metal causing my whole life to shudder as it hung on the line. I gulped at the clicking sound of death’s reaper, now ready and willing to pierce through my skull and welcome me to the abyss. 

“Please… Don’t do this.” I heard the pleading in my voice, barely a whisper. But it had fallen on deaf ears, for my assailant had already decided my fate. My life flashed before my eyes as I realized this was it: I was really going to die. 

I saw my first piano recital. How proud my father had been of me, even though I’d missed nearly every note. My first soccer match, where my teammates pulled me up from the ground after I’d lost the game trying to make that final kick. My first school dance, when she finally told me she loved me. My friends and family, smiling and laughing at my terrible jokes. My friends and family, crying--because of my first, last, and only irreversible mistake. I felt their tears roll down my face.

Death is a frightening thing.

I put the gun down.