Destiny and jokes.

Destiny has a bad sense of humor.
It really has. That's what got me in this mess, I sure didn't do anything to get here. I just kind of ended up here without ever really wanting to. It just happened, and guess what?
I have this weird thought that you might enjoy this.
…
I really have. People claim a look says more than thousand words, and you just wrote me a goddamn novel.
I never get why you just don't spit out whatever it is that you want and let me get on with my own life. Damn you.

Ninth Hell

It hurts. It hurts, deep inside. It hurts, it rips and burns where you cannot just sew it up or extinguish the anguish. It's horrible, like being eaten from the inside out. Like being wronged in everything you say.
I'm losing my mind here. It's just slipping away between my fingers, like sand in hay or water in a cloth. Some of it might stick around, but not for the whole ride. It's just flowing away, like a lost child or forgotten memory.
It fucking hurts, this hurts! Why don't you ever stop? This hell is so hot it's freezing!

Sandman

[author's note: this story is a fair bit longer than the others, but it's one of my essays. have fun. also, Death speaks in italics.]

One thing was the car, smashed into a massive brick wall, her head crushed between the windshield and steering wheel, her face barely visible beneath a layer of blood. Another thing was Death himself breathing down her now cold neck. He wasn't rude, actually he was quite pleasant, helping her out of the remains of her mother's car so that she could see the damage and her own corpse.
After a few minutes of accounting her newest problem – that she was dying or already dead, she looked up at Death.
“So, tell me, what now?” she asked, brushing away a lock of bloodstained blond hair.
That's entirely for you to decide; he answered, looking at his watch, but the paramedics will be here in about half an hour, if my calculations are right.
“What's to decide? That crash looks pretty fatal to me.”
Like I said; that's your decision. You tell me if you're dead or not.
She looked at Death. He looked untouched by the morbid scenario: a 17-year old girl, bleeding profusely where the cracks in her skull poked through the skin. More than one bone in her body was broken, and she looked unconscious. Then it occurred to her -
“Let me get this right, I have to decide if I want to live or die?”
You're quite slow, let me tell you that.
“What's the catch? There's got to be a catch, right?”
Well, yes. Someone else is going to die too if you die. And you will be slightly disfigured, not to mention the small loss of sight.
“Wait a minute, someone else is going to die too? Who? Did I run someone over?”
Not exactly, no.
“Then what? Please cut the conversation and just tell me!”
You remember David, right? Your ex-boyfriend? He got you pregnant two months ago. He will commit suicide if you choose to die.
“Excuse me, I am pregnant?”
What do you think?
She didn't answer, but just took in all the information. Here she was, on her way out of town after an argument with her mother. She had crashed against the wall, had been made into a spirit by Death and now she was apparently pregnant. What a splendid day.
“Death?”
Yes?
“I'm going to Hell, right?”
Everybody does. Just for your information.
“I sure hope so. What's it like?”
Not so different from here.
“Damn.”
Bad day?
“Let's just go.”
So be it.

When the paramedics arrived, Rumor was pronounced dead at the scene.

Cozy

Warm. Cozy. The feeling of warm, strong arms holding on. Someone nuzzling into each other, lazily. Almost slowly pulling blankets up, yawning, stretching. Morning. No alarm clock screaming away, no shrill tones piercing the air. Simply just breathing, the whole room breathing peace. Sleepily, like a cat in the sun, cuddling up. Hair muzzled up. Fingers tangling up. Toes getting caught in stray threads in soft linen. A snore. A giggle. And what did it matter? To everyone else? Nothing. To them? Everything. This was the epitome of their relationship. Warm. Cozy. And sometimes, sometimes warm and cozy was enough.

The Splendour

Music was blaring from the speakers, and she had a feeling that she didn't care. She simply did not care about anything right now. The world had lost its colour and splendour, the blossoms had died and the snow kept falling. Thick, heavy flakes of white fluff. They covered the ground and the trees and left the whole world quiet and frozen to where it was. It just felt like everything had went to sleep, strongly intending not to wake up ever again.
A kiss from a beloved in the darkness. Perhaps this winter thing wasn't so bad after all.

The Beacon

A thousand ships couldn't sail me back from distress, when you are still there, a flaming beacon in the distance, a fire I can't put out. And Death, Death yearns to take me, Death is the cold, the snow and the rain, the merciless cry of the wind. But why are you still burning, you're burning and I'm dying. What I am afraid of? Nothing. Nothing but you. Nothing but Death and his cold hands. You, the light to my dark and the end of salvation. You, the final warmth in a world so cold and broken. You. You're Death.

Words

Wrong, this is just wrong, this is not something that just happens. Things take time, and somehow there was a huge gap missing, a jump in time from nothing to something. A wrong something, a twisted, sick, crippled something that would be better off as a nothing. Of course, now that they were here in the first place, there wasn't much to do about it. They could live it out here and now or they could let the wrong die. Wordlessly, they both hung on, kept on going, had room for one another. Silently. Words. Words would be their undoing.