A Waste Of Stolen Time

Nothing more than a single scene written on a whim, in which the subject laments on the wasted opportunities of her life during her final moments.

The light of the candle grows dimmer as the flame eats it's way through the wax, casting shadows across the room that are all at once peculiar and frightening.

The books that have taken so many ages to collect sit useless, strewn across the elaborate surfaces of the room; Forgotten, unwanted, much like the person who has slaved through so many years of life that can never be regained to collect them. An ugly waste of invaluable time spent collecting trivial baubles.

The bow is balanced carelessly in her fingers. With a final, depressing note it's mate falls to the floor; a clatter of wood, an offended strum of strings ringing through the hollow body that was so much like her own. The instrument, as well as it's owner, has played it's final song. The notes of the dirge still ring lightly through the darkening room, only growing more ominous and final as the seconds pass fleetingly by.

How odd it is to know when death has found you after so many years. Years that are not your own, that you have stolen from those more worthy, taken as carelessly as you now treat the possessions gained through that waste of time. The possibilities you granted yourself with that stolen time could had been endless and yet the desires of your former mortality, that sin that renders those lesser creatures useless, remained with you.
The last vestige of your humanity will be your ultimate tragedy.

 Wasted.
Every single second disrespectfully wasted. Only now, upon the dawn of your final seconds, do you realize this. In your wake you shall leave but hollow tribute to Humanity's greatest, saddest, most favored downfall: Greed.

 This is your pathetic, befitting legacy.

And then the candle flickers dangerously, she can feel the unforgiving and uncaring breath of death on her neck, as cold as eternity it's self, and she knows this is the terror she struck in those she carelessly stole from. So many years had spiraled down to this very moment. But such is existence. What is life but a beautiful, tragic, endless dance that circles closer and closer to death until finally it meets it's fate?
The candle flickers again, and in that final second before it's own demise it burns brilliantly, as beautiful and untouchable as the Spark of Life it's self...And then the room is cast into darkness.

The faint sound of a clatter rings dully through the darkness.
An empty, meaningless sound that announces the end of an empty, meaningless lifetime.

Author's Note

This was written a few years ago, but I cleaned it up and thought it'd make an interesting first entry to my new profile here. Be gentle?
I never state it in the story, but the woman is a vampire. The instrument mentioned is a violin, in case I didn't make it clear.

Reviews

[Ari Sinclair]

Hi, Zombies. A very interesting premise so far, with articulate description, which I much appreciate. Good luck in your future ventures!