Death Saved My Life

I wrote this during a heartache, after losing my first love.

I grasp the syringe. I can feel the glass, cold against my palm, etch marks from millimeter dashes, imprinted on my hand.  I place the needle above the chosen vein. I close my eyes and breathe, and breathe until my heart beats slower beneath my feeble chest. The warmth of my blood draws the needle closer to purpose. I cannot bear to keep the needle from penetrating my skin. I feel the tenderness of my flesh ripping; my vein protrudes as the needle enters. I see dark, crimson blood rush into the needle. I push my thumb hard against the syringe. The drug is coursing through my body. I feel it in every nerve, sensations cause needle like prickles. Every inch of my body is cold. A coldness that makes you hollow. A coldness that pushes you into the bed. It takes hold of your steady gaze. You cannot move and you cannot scream for forgiveness. You are alone-cold-hollow as the drug takes hold. There is cold, there is dark, but there is no strength in these veins. I give in to an unconscious state of existence. My eyes open, attempting to make sense of the dream. With absent light in my eyes, I greet the man with no face, black-hooded cape drawn across his frail, aged body. Reality is fading. In that moment, I understand what it means to fall in love and the aftermath that quickly follows when that love no longer exists in your reality. It is not a single inflicted wound to the heart. You are drowning with no water in your lungs. You are burning with no fire on your skin. You are enduring endless torture in a crowd of unknowing eyes. Then, you feel cold, a cold that deepens. Unconsciousness drives away future dreams, the promise of escaping the blackness, escaping the cold. My head upon my pillow, I feel a hand, no flesh, no pulse, no warmth, place itself on my wrist. I no longer have a pulse. There is no warmth in my own flesh, only hollowness, a reflection of the figure that kneels beside me. I cannot move. I cannot speak, only look on as he kneels in silence. I place my hand against the fabrics of his cloak, feeling no weight against it as I press my palm against his hood. A subtle touch. He drawn near-no face-no voice but inside my head, I hear the voice of death. I expect an invitation to join him in darkness. I expect death to be malice, malevolent, absent of feelings, lost centuries prior to our encounter. What he says, takes me by surprise. “You must continue on in the living world. I cannot bring you the light. I am the keeper of souls and the one who brings misfortunes. This, however, is not your time to join me.” I feel his sadness. I return the sorrowful reply and ask, beg for the agony to cease. He says no more. My eyes are forced open and breathe rushes into my heart. I feel warmth. I feel a pulse. I see sun streaming in through my curtains. I am alive. I am a survivor. I know the answer now to what it feels like to lose your first love. It’s waking up from an overdose. It’s meeting death. Death saved my life. He forced me back into the world of the living. He did not take the pain with him but his words gives me hope. He gave me the opportunity to survive, to live, and thrive until it is time for me to embrace him in death, forsaking this soul to his graces.