The first glimmer of sunlight creeps over my windowsill, filmed with a thick layer of dust. My index finger automatically glides itself over the flaking cream paint, smudging the dust to-and-fro, writing the thing that haunts my dreams and reality.
Death. It mocks me.
No matter where I am, death follows me. I am surprised no one has dropped dead at my feet. Actually, that wouldn’t do death any justice. He likes to be sentimental, to wait until you are finally content and living life calmly. That’s when death goes for the kill. Snatching every last piece of happiness from your life, with no warning or signs, only a cold, pale, and very much dead corpse. Draining all the life out of you.
And even though the living are in agony over the loss, death relishes on the broken sobs and the glassy stares of unforgettable memories. And most of all death loves, craves even, when humans feel the presence of a loved one slip away into nothingness.
Death lives for it.
About the Creator
Aasha Bianchini
Avid reader, writer, and lover of all things classical.
When I'm not navigating the rigors of high school, you'll find me tapping away at my keyboard creating characters for my first novel, whilst listening to Tchaikovsky or Shostakovich.
Keep reading
More stories from Aasha Bianchini and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Stay with me
Your presence falters. Distorted. Almost transparent. Your hand numbly slips through my fingers. “Don’t go___ stay with me.” Tears flood down my cheeks like a waterfall. “Love, I’ll always be with you, you just won’t be able to see me,” George flashes his infectious smile. Without my consent my mouth pulls at the corners as if strings are manipulating me like a puppet. “You promise?” my voice is hoarse, and I barely choke the words out. “Forever,” he whispers, sincerity sparkling in his turquoise eyes. His breath touches my face, lips feverish, a passionate fire.
By Aasha Bianchini11 months ago in Fiction
The Night the Moon Kissed Oregon Pink
The breeze murmured privileged insights through the pines as I ventured out onto the yard, the fresh April air nipping at my uncovered skin. This evening wasn't like some other. An electric expectation snapped in the air, a quiet commitment of a heavenly exhibition. This evening, Oregon was graced by the ethereal sparkle of the Pink Moon.
By Creative Chronicles4 days ago in Fiction
When the Robots Took My Job
This is for RM Stockton's Write Club prompt for the month of April: AI Please allow me to vent. For "college," I went to a scam school that is now closed. We were promised internships that were never spoken of again after admissions, and we were promised help finding jobs. The first time I went to the career counselor's office, she was completely frazzled. She had no idea what to do with us, the film majors. The second time I visited her office, I let her know that I'd found myself a job, and she was visibly relieved.
By Rebekah Conard5 days ago in Journal
Comments (1)
Very deep and chilling. I'd love to read an extension of where this could go.