The Loveliness of Being


I am not delicate.

I’ve always been a little too much of something

and not enough of everything else.

A little too quiet

and far too loud,


but not too pretty,


but not smart enough.


See, the problem with me

is I have always been too




like the sunlight in your eyes during a hangover;

something that should have been soft

but wasn’t soft at all.


Perhaps that’s why

I’ve taken to standing

on the roof of my house

when it rains,

because I hope that

the storm will blow me


and then I’ll just feel

this weightlessness,

this incredible lightness of being,

that comes with being



Can you imagine that?


My eyes will be cool and pale,

pearly like daisy petals,

and my bones–

oh, how they will

rise to the surface of my skin,

shyly at first,

like a bashful virgin

gazing up through her eyelashes

at her lover,

and then with growing confidence;

they will ripple within me,

blades of grass breathing in the wind,

and for the first time,

I will believe that these bones of mine exist,

because I wasn’t sure before.

But now, I can see them,

and what lovely bones they are!


I will float

from the lightness

in my stomach,

and my heartbeat will

grow faint with time,

until eventually I find

that it ceases altogether,

because lately,

I’ve been feeling less

with my heart

and more with my eyes;

my heart never felt

what my eyes chose not to see.

I have taught those eyes

of mine

to only see the beauty

because the ugly

reminds me too much

of what I was like before.


How divine I will be–

a dwindling woman–

with these dainty wrists

and exquisite collarbones,

swaying to the low hum

of dead poet’s voices

singing love songs

on the record player.

And I will be thin as smoke,

and white as snow,

like Ophelia,

with flowers

in my hair

and water in my lungs,

because sometimes

I think I might drown myself

when I don’t feel lovely enough.


And I will only wear light colours;

periwinkles and lilacs,

silvers and greys–

the colour of cobwebs.

And when they all see me,

they will gasp,

because they will think

that I look astonishingly similar

to a butterfly.

And I will be graceful,

and elegant,

and some man will be able

to sweep me up into his arms

as if I were a feather,

and he will be able to look deep

into my hollow eyes without flinching,

because they always say

everything feels so much better

when you are thin–

and how right they  are!

I will be delighted

at how little I have become,

because he will be able

to fit has hands all the way around

my waist,

and when he spins me

as we dance,

he will admire how fragile

I am,

because ‘they don’t make

women like that these  days.’


I will be simply dizzy

from how slender I’ll be,

for I will never have felt so

significant before,

in all my years

of existing.

I’ll be like

the fluffy white seeds

of dying dandelions–

the ones you make wishes on

when you’re just a kid,

and I will hang,


in the breeze,

waiting to be planted and grow roots

that stretch down past the ashes

from the parade of lost souls

that are buried beneath the ground.

I’ll be so soft,

and light.


And I’ll be top-filled

to the brim

with the most remarkable loveliness

that only comes

with being



Isn’t that a wonderful thought?

Swan Lake

The Puppet Master

i have always been
the kind of woman who speaks
her mind even with
glaring eyes trying to
burn holes into my
golden irises

i have been a fighter
since birth
i fight against stereotypes
against injustice
against those who choose
to disregard my ideas
because a girl like me
should be softer

i have always been strong
and maybe that’s why
sitting on the dirt covered
bathroom floor
of a high school where i am
and admired
is so foreign to me

maybe it’s why when i am
being yelled at
by a boy who wraps his fingers
around my wrists and
hurts me just enough
to show that he can
to show that he is the conductor
of our twisted orchestra
i stay quiet
i become smaller

i am no longer myself
i turn into water
that he drowns me in
because when a boy i can’t let go of
twice my size
towers over me
fists clenched and
eyes darkened
i crumble

and i’d like to call myself strong but
if i truly were then i
would have been able to
break free of these shackles
the first time he pushed too hard

i am not strong anymore
i know i am not myself
i had to be told by countless amounts
of people who don’t even know me
that it’s time to rebuild
it’s time to be reborn
because bad guys don’t change in
the span of a year or
even ten years
sometimes everything you’ve heard
is true

you think he’s different with you
because it’s you
and he cares but
he’s different because he knows
how to play the situation
he knows how to manipulate
he has the knife in your back
and it’s been there for so long
you forget it hurts
pain is a constant that your heart
has grown accustomed to

but every so often he twists it
and you disregard it because
“he’s changed so much.”
you don’t think it’s an abusive relationship
because he’s never really hurt you
but treating you like you’re nothing
making you feel guilty about
his mistakes
cutting you open and leaving you
to bleed
and then coming back and claiming
to love you
is not love

it’s the game he lives for
he did not love me
he loved the reflection of himself
he saw through my eyes
he loved what i did for his ego and
i often say that my soul
longs to begin again
and he has given me the opportunity
i’ve been searching for

i had to be stripped of all i was
and all i could have done
to come back fresh
to build myself once more
but it’s sad because
i miss the knife in my back
i miss the pain because without it
i don’t know how to feel
my writing comes from heartbreak
and sadness became my home

i’ve been broken for so long
i don’t know how to be alright
and maybe i won’t be alright
for a long
long time
but at least i know now
that i was strong enough to let go.



Night Terrors


Surely. Surely – this was the night that I was going to die.

For an instant, in that narrow cut of light, I saw a face that seemed to have been transported directly from the nightmares of my childhood. It stared back at me with leathery skin, hanging in folds around its thin neck and under its eye sockets. It appeared to smile a rotten smile – teeth the colour of compost left out to rot. Its eyes – wild eyes – were an eerie shade of iridescent blue. The shade of a dead man’s lips, they seemed to blur into the bloodshot whiteness that filled the hollows of its skull. There was a jagged scar on the left side of his face that reminded me of a tiger’s stripe. A malicious thing that puckered and dipped into skin crevices.

It was the stringy black hair that hung from his scalp in clumps that gave me the premonition that this thing was not just a creature – it was an animal of a man. A man created in the depths of hell. A man with a specific purpose.

My mind comprehended the man’s identity when I caught the heinous stench of his breath. A mixture of rotting teeth and alcohol, it was enough to spout tears from the devil’s eyes. I had seen this creature before – in my childhood, I dreamt of such a thing lurking over my dying mother’s head. As if it were waiting for something.

I felt its gnarled hands wrap themselves around my neck – holding me down like a weight to paper. All the while this creature continued to smile at me – mocking my inability to move. To do anything.

Tears smeared the white walls in my vision. It slowly became a blur of darkness and anger. I attempted to scream, to shout, but it was futile. Everything that came out of my mouth was sounds of a helpless lamb – powerless and clueless.

The brain is a funny thing – it has the uncanny ability to stop time and make one forget about danger – even for just a moment. It takes time for the nerves to kick in, to truly comprehend that its life is at stake. Despite losing oxygen, I continued to observe the dark figure above, as if it were the last thing that I would gaze upon in my lifetime.

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

A strange, metronome beep was coming from the man’s watch. Steadily, it grew faster and faster in rhythm. While it grew faster, the man’s hands grew tighter. Was it an alarm? Did he have a schedule to follow?

Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. 

I couldn’t breathe. I was being suffocated by rot and blackness.


With visions of leather skin and rotten teeth, I succumbed to the darkness.

I lived a dream with a man in a dark leather jacket.

A handsome man, with a strong jaw, and the hands of a carpenter. I must have loved him, because when he appeared I was overcome with happiness and devotion.

He told me he was a construction worker – that he built bridges that connected cities, and buildings that touched the sky. He told me that I was beautiful.

He told me: ” Darling, I will build the world for you if only I could make you mine.”

He led me down Broadway in winter to point out all the buildings that would never reach the height of his love for me. He took me skating, to show me what it felt like to be gliding on air. We were in love.

(Or so I thought.)

I lived a dream with a man in a leather jacket. A man with black shiny hair and sky blue eyes. A man with hands as rough as the New York concrete, but as gentle as a French dove. I dreamt of his hands clasping a necklace on my neck, and kissing the nape of it. He had a smile that could make you forget reality. A smell so intoxicating that it would stop me in my tracks.

Every Friday night at 8:30, we would take a stroll down to the city zoo. I was always fascinated with the tiger – how it would play with its food before it ate it. As if they got more enjoyment out of their death this way. I asked my companion if he thought toying with a creature’s life like that was cruel – if they should be dead to get it over with.

He glanced at his Rolex, looked at me with his cruel smile, and replied,

“Darling, life is but a dream.”

I awoke, this time, to the sound of a ticking clock. Not the ticking of a Rolex (thank God), but the ticking of a pristine white plastic-covered hospital clock situated across the wall from me – two feet down from the tip of the ceiling. It took a while for my eyes to adjust; for a moment, all I could see was the mocking hands of the clock.

2:06 p.m. And counting.

How long I had been out for? I had no clue. I felt my neck – half expecting the grotesque man’s hands still strung around my neck. My lungs were surprised they were moving, and my heart was still beating fast – like the beep of a watch. Ghost chills were wracking my spine, keeping in time with the heart monitor to the left of me. Clear plastic tubes ran up my arms like jungle vines, snaking all the way up to a crystalline bag full of god-knows-what.

My arms were constrained by thick straps of unforgiving leather, tied to the cold metal railing surrounding the starchy hospital bed. I must have blacked out again – I wonder where he is?

“Ma’am, I need you to look at me. You need to take these.”

I hadn’t known anyone else was in the room until then. It was just as well, as those few seconds on the hands of the clock gave me the only peace within my mind I was going to have for yet another eight hours.

For it was then, that I saw him.

Across the room, below the wretched mocking clock, was the man. The man. Except now he wasn’t wearing a suit, and he didn’t have stringy black hair that fell over a jagged scar over his left eye. He was wearing a lab coat and held a cork clipboard in his hand. There was a beeping from somewhere to the left of me, and my eyes traveled up to his steel blue ones. In his other hand he held a plastic cup and a package of pills. Poison? Drugs? Medicine?

The beeping grew louder as he stepped closer. I could smell hospital on him. It made my throat close up and my lungs beg for air. His pale hands morphed into something else – black gnarled hands would morph into pale ones, and he pressed his forefinger into the ridge directly underneath my jaw and my ear. He looked at his watch as he seemed to count something. No. Nonono.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He ripped open the package. Everything seemed to blur. I smelled alcohol and wood chips. Tigers and watches. I heard a laugh from somewhere above me as my lungs struggled to breathe through the horrid stench of rotten teeth and clammy hands. From what I assumed was my left, I heard alarms.


Black spots enveloped my vision as I lost my ability to comprehend.


The last thing I heard was the doctor saying, “It is but a dream.”

Surely, this was going to be the day that I died.


This is the Definition of Beauty (This is the Definition of Pain)

The following poem centres around the idea of body image. It also focusses on an individual’s personal definition of beauty. It explores the struggles young women often go through–though this is an issue that affects both males and females–when it comes to trying to attain the beauty standards that have been laid out before them. Whether these standards come from the influence of peers, the media, or one’s own perception of self, pain often accompanies the desire to be beautiful. That’s what this piece is about.

I’ve been wanting to write a piece about beauty and body image for a long time, but I’d been struggling to find the right words. It wasn’t until a few days ago, actually, as I was skimming through one of my journals, that I found a source of inspiration. It was a one-liner that read, “Sixth grade: the year I learned to hate myself.” I’d written this a couple of months ago in my creative writing class when we were told to write from the perspective of our past selves. This line was written in response to this prompt and was inspired by my junior high, sixth-grade self–a version of me that really struggled with her body image. Thus, a poem was born. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

-The Girl with the Purple Soul

When I was eleven,

the Popular Girls in my class told me

that if I wanted to get a boy to like me,

I had to be pretty.

So I traded my sweatpants in

for a pair of  jeans and a mini skirt,

wore my hair down

instead of up in a ponytail,

brushed my lids with

dark blue eyeshadow–

all in an attempt to be Beautiful.

I was in the Sixth Grade then.

I should have been playing with dolls

and jumping rope.

Because that’s what little girls

are supposed to do.

Because little girls aren’t supposed

to play with flat irons

or read Teen Vogue 

for the latest Beauty Hacks

when they’re in the Sixth Grade.

Sixth Grade.

It’s a year I’ll never forget.

Because that was the year I started caring about appearances.

That was the year I learned to hate myself.


I spend an hour and a half on my makeup

every morning,

a tedious routine of

Moisturize, Foundation, Powder

to cover up the acne on my forehead

and the dark circles under my eyes.

But no–we’re not done yet because there’s still

Blush, Gloss, Liner

to bring colour

to this blank complexion.

And once I’ve put my face on,

well, hey, I don’t look so bad.

I look OK,

maybe even decent.

But then I get to school

and they’ve ruined it because

“You have lipstick on your teeth.”


“Your mascara is clumpy.”


But the next day I try harder.

So hard that I

burn my hand on the curling wand

when I go to do my hair.

So hard that I

subject myself to the torture of wearing

high-heels that nip at my ankles

and blister my heels.

But I remind myself that

 five-foot-three means I’m below average

 and below average isn’t Beauty.

And I guess it’s true what they say,

that Beauty is Pain.

But there seems to be a

little bit too much ouch!

and not enough pretty

I am not Beautiful.



I do not know what I am.

All I know is that I

can’t bear looking at myself.

Not in mirror, and I

avoid cameras at all costs–

the camera adds ten pounds,

doesn’t it?


But only when you’re


Because the other girls look just fine,

(Better than Fine),

in their Instagram selfies.

With their plump lips,

porcelain skin

and petite noses.

I’ve never liked my nose,

how it’s always seemed

too big for my face.

But maybe I’ve never really

liked anything about myself.

My parents tell me I’m delusional,

and my friends think I’m ridiculous

for believing this.

“You’re beautiful.

Stop putting yourself down.”

But I can’t help but think

that they are all lying to me

because sometimes you have to lie

to spare someone the heartache.

Because they wouldn’t be very good people

if they admitted it, if they said,

“You’re right, you’re not Beautiful.”

I am not Beautiful. 

These are the thoughts

that tear me apart,

pounding my self-esteem into

dust, into non-existence.

But did it ever exist in the first place?

I try to remember

when this all started.

I  count in my head.

Five years.  

Five years…

Five years later, and I’m

still trying to be Beautiful.

I’ve given my

blood and sweat.

I’ve given my tears,

tears that make

the mascara run down my cheeks.


because I hate feeling like this.

I hate feeling so…



When I was eleven,

I was determined to be Beautiful.

Because that was the only way

to get a boy to like me,

They told me.

But looking back now,

maybe it was about more than

just a boy.

Because to be Beautiful was

 (is) to matter.

I wanted to matter.

So I decided that I needed

to change.

And that’s what I did.

Changed my clothes,

and my hair.

My face…

That’s why I played

with flat irons instead of dolls,

why I read Teen Vogue 

instead of jumping rope.

 Because I thought these things

would help make me Beautiful.

But they say that Beauty always

comes with a price, doesn’t it?

And my price?

My price was my childhood.

Because I never gave myself the

chance to be a little girl,

never gave myself the chance

to be a sixth-grader.

The Sixth Grade…

It’s a year I’ll never forget.

Because that was the year I started caring about appearances.

That was the year I learned to hate myself.

A haunting exploration of body image, this is the song I often listened to while working on this piece.  All the images incorporated into this post are also related to the singer herself–Melanie Martinez.

Image sources:

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Lost Friendship

Image Source

Author’s Note: Being someone who’s transferred schools and is always anxious about talking to people, I’ve often drifted apart from my friends or lost contact with them. I was thinking about this idea over the break and ended up writing two separate poems on that topic. One poem is on a dying friendship and the other is on a pair of friends I completely lost contact with.
By the way, I only read the first poem during my presentation. 

Continue reading “Lost Friendship”


She dodged the mirrors decorating the bathrooms and walls. The sight of her reflection was too foul, too disfigured she couldn’t stand her own appearance. Her body built bulky, it out weighed her personality. Her stomach rolled on, layers upon layers of negro stories each holding a secret, she had many to tell but no one listened. Heavy Chunky Thighs made Heavy Black Burdens. She used to vomit and cut out the excess in an effort to obtain “the best version of herself”. No matter what lengths she went to impress the boys at school, we all know with the tags she wore on her back that read ” Black, Fat, and Angry” were of the least desirable kind. Black eyes that begged to be considered brown and beautiful seen fatalities of the colorful kind. She saw rainbows smeared on the streets, colours ranging from blue to white, black to red and everything in between. Cruel commentary cuts through her layers of skin with a sharp knife and an Orange BIC Lighter. Exposed flesh painted with blood, skin torn from her wrists to her elbows read her deepest fears and thoughts. Her blood dripped all over her collection of suicide notes, in total there was more blood lost to the papers then there was circulating her body.

Black and Beautiful only applied to the ones who could pass the paper bag test. Other’s like her forced cotton down their throats and bit down on their tongues every time the master called them a “Nigger Bitch”. Her beauty was in the eye of her beholder, and he held her, he held her down with rope to the wooden bed frame and a gun to her forehead as he raped her. No bullet could have done the damage of his bastard babies they penetrated through more then just flesh, they impregnated her mind. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. She never knew her own beauty.

She stood in her bathroom facing the mirror.

It had been the first time she had looked at herself in months.

Something about her appearance was so familiar but too foreign.

Tweezers in one hand, while a tight grip in the other.

Raising her hands to her face, they shook.

She had no control.

Puncturing her pimples deemed imperfections.

Blood and puss ran from her forehead,

like the tears of her mother

while she sat next to her dying daughter’s hospital bed reading her latest goodbyes.

Scars mimicking bullet holes.

Her skin so dark, so deep, you can’t see the blemishes.

She’s covered in them.

She wrote and bled. And wrote more and then bled more but this time her head hit the ground before her last drop of blood even touched the paper. She didn’t think her wishes would ever come true so suddenly or early, without any warning but unfortunately for her they didn’t.

 Drugged on her insecurities.

Fed intimacy to stay stable.

Wounds bound with abuse,

no bandages were needed in this process.

She opened her big black eyes.

Awake, naked and vulnerable her nightmares became her reality.

 She was terrified of everyone seeing,

the hips that bared children of rape,

none of them would know their own father.

The skin, bruised, beaten, cracked,

white lines covering black skin

made by

white whips cracking onto black backs.

The arms that spent hours on end behind her head

as the man in blue was looking

 for his weapon of execution

as he screamed “Stop resisting arrest !”

He was all out of bullets.


that she prayed they would place at the foot of her grave

because no girl, no person of that complexion is worthy of flowers.


that she was too familiar with

embedded in the roots and branches of her tree.


that pierced

but would never leave the mark

of a child.

Skin stretched beyond her shadowed confinements

a womb brought into the light.

Half-white, Half-ashamed.

The stretch marks wrapping around her body

like the ropes around her peoples’ necks as they hung from trees.

Oh, how their bodies swayed in the wind like flags,

Tree branches like flag poles.

The real confederation flags.

Blue, Red, Black

Lest we forget.

The stories of every black girl ever.

Please don’t forget us.

Him or Her?

“…So you take that to start with. …” Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, page 312

“So you take that to start with. I’ll get you the rest once I’ve had you accomplish this task.” His eyes were taking in her every movement as he spoke and handed it to her. They raked up and down her body as if he was debating whether or not he would regret this decision.
“Here is the address. You must be there tomorrow at noon exactly. Any earlier or later will result in failure,” he continued. This all came written down on the paper he handed her. His voice stayed monotone and detached from what he was saying, as if to give nothing was. He could tell she was very nervous from being told such a specific time.
Nonetheless, he proceeded. “There will be another young man, dressed in a grey suit as I and, arriving at the same time as you. You will not stop, but continue walking in the same direction as him. He will give you your next instructions upon arriving at your next destination. Do exactly as he says.” This man looked her in the eye and saw not only nervousness and fear this time, but confidence as well. He hoped that the fear would keep her confidence in check so she didn’t end up being cocky like the last one that failed.
“You are dismissed,” he finally said quite curtly. She spun on her heels and briskly walked away. He watched as she left, getting one more chance to memorize her, on the chance that he won’t see her again. He liked this one.


“So you take that to start with. I’ll get you the rest once I’ve had you accomplish this task.” She could feel his eyes dragging up and down her body as he finished speaking she took it from him. Knowing they were taking everything in and he was judging her, she tried to remain as neutral as possible.
“Here is the address. You must be there tomorrow at noon exactly. Any earlier or later will result in failure,” he continued. She took the paper it was all written down on hesitantly. She attempted to discern anything about what she would be ding but his voice stayed monotone and seemingly emotionless. Such a specific time irked her, and made her quite nervous, but she tried to hide that as he proceeded.
“There will be another young man, dressed in a grey suit as I and, arriving at the same time as you. You will not stop, but continue walking in the same direction as him. He will give you your next instructions upon arriving at your next destination. Do exactly as he says.” She couldn’t look away once he caught her gaze, even though she knew what he would see. So she did her best to mask her excitement with her fear and with false confidence. She thinks he bought it.
“You are dismissed,” he finally said with what seemed like enough abruptness to slap her. She knew she had to leave immediately or she would do something that would cause her trouble. She spun on her heels and left as quickly as she could without running. She could feel his eyes boring into her as she went and got a very uncomfortable feeling from it.

About me: Safiya


There was a girl who could still remember so much of her childhood but the quantity came from the quality of these memories as there were only a few.

There was a girl who aspired to be Prime Minister of Canada, when she was young. Oh how things have changed today.

There was a girl who doesn’t remember any moments of unhappiness but only many giggles and smiles. A girl who had the world at her feet, who skipped and sprinted through it as if there will never be  a unseen block along her path ready to throw her off her feet.

There was a girl who had an idea of who she wanted be and how she was going to get there because to her it was just another puzzle piece to place correctly in here her life.

There is a young lady who learned that her puzzle was not only missing pieces but also had a few that belonged to a different puzzle entirely.

There is young lady who has moments of her dream future flash in front of her eyes as if she is really living it and just reliving a past memory. As if it were really that easy.

There is a young lady who as she awakens from these wonderful dreams she falls into bottomless pits of emotions she does not feel worthy of feeling. A  young lady who knows her life is great, who has never had to go a day without food or roof over her head yet these unwanted feelings still find a way to invade her mind.

There is a young lady who doesn’t always feel like this. A lady who sometimes has to force herself to see the good and one who can occasionally find it as is she has always had the key and map needed for the treasure chest filled with  what should be a luxury of her life.

There is a young lady who is slowly finding the pieces of the puzzle that fit together to form her life and discarding those that do not belong. This young lady knows that time is the best medicine and holds on to the idea that things will get better to help her get through life day by day.

There will be a women who has maybe completed most of her puzzle or is content with what she has so far.

There will be a women who is living her dream or a life that comes as close as possible to it as possible.

There will be a women who won’t need a map and key to tell her where her treasure is but one who will see it everywhere she goes. A women who is absolutely fine with where she stands in her life and is ready to own it.  Whether it throws rainbows or storms she will find a way through it because this is her one life not to waste.

And if you haven’t figured out yet this girl who grew to a young lady and is finding who she is as a women is me, Safiya .

Beauty Visits Once A Year

Image result for girl in front of mirror tumblr


“Beauty! Beauty! I’m so glad you are finally here! Come in, come in! You need to help me get ready.”

“What do you need, my dear?”

“Oh, how I need you! I haven’t seen you in over a year and I’m afraid I’m losing my sense of perfection. Help me get ready, there is a man I must have for my own.”

“A man!?”

“Oh yes! You see, there is this insolent girl who keeps talking and obsessing over him, I swear! I believe it’s his sister? No matter! With you beauty, he will be mine.”

“…I think I know why I only come once a year.”

“Beauty! What do you tell me?”

“Your body holds enough beauty as it is, my dear… Too much perhaps! It is getting to your head – look at the facts and change your act for beauty starts from within.”


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Deaths Remorse

“Death can’t reap your soul, I’ve booked his schedule solid.” My fiance stated as he sat by my bedside, his blank stare illuminated by the flickering torch light.

I had no idea how I almost married such a man, someone so treacherous and deceiving. Someone who would kill their whole country just so I could live. Why would I want to live with so many lives dead for just mine? They don’t deserve to die for me; he doesn’t see it that way. He told me once that I was the love of his life, and I believed him. That was before I turned into an obsession.

“Death will come for me, no matter how many you kill, I will die.” A crinkle around his eye and the corners of his lips turned up at my words. I felt sick to my stomach looking at the little smile painted on the lips of the creature sitting in my chambers. How could he still smile knowing what he did, knowing what he is about to do?

I thought of my mother and sister, as I looked at him. When he met my small family he smiled at them, just like that. That smile of his melted their hearts, they loved him. My mother, my beautiful, caring, kind mother wanted him for a son-in-law. She was more than delighted when he asked me to marry him. My younger sister, my dear younger sister. She loved him as well, she thought of him as a new brother, someone to look up to. My sister, the one I loved and protected, she was my brides maid.

I knew they wouldn’t be excepted from the slaughter about to happen, they may have loved him, but he never loved them in return. He only ever loved me, me who collapsed at the alter, me who was bedridden for months, me who would never get better, me who will die today no matter how many people he kills.

“They haven’t died yet you know. They are to only be killed as soon as you draw your last breath, dead at the exact same time as you. Death would be to busy to even come after you.” He said this all with a smile still fixed on his face and I wanted to cry. I wanted to plead with him to stop, I wanted it to go back to the way it was before, before the sickness before anyone died. I knew it would never happen, this is my fate.

“Killing others will not stop him, I will die, there is nothing you can do about it.” so please stop were the unspoken words. He only smiled wider at what I said his teeth showing. I was repulsed by his smile it reminded me of a monster trying to show emotion.

“Killing others will change everything, Death can be stopped.” He told me and I knew I could not stop the slaughter. My face filled with sorrow and tears glittered my eyes.

“Why can’t you let me die Phil?” I asked him almost pleadingly, the tears were making their way down my face and I was to weak to stop them. With his cold hands, Phil wiped my tears away and I tried to get away from his touch, but I was to weak to even move my head.

“I love you Eliza and nothing can keep us apart, not even Death.” Eliza wept softly as the clock struck midnight, three chimes flowing through the air.

By the third chime, Eliza was dead.

The chimes were still ringing through the air as Death made his choice. He took Eliza’s soul right in front of the eyes of the one that tried to save her. Phil watched as Eliza stopped breathing, he watched as her heartbeat stopped pulsing in her wrist. He watched as her eyes closed and a soft sigh of relief she took her last breath on this plain of existence.

Phil had no time to react, no time to blink, it barely even register in his mind that Eliza was dead, before Death came for him as well. Whether it was Phil’s time or not was debatable, but for trying to stall Death, for trying to stop the natural order, Phil’s soul is taken from his body and he is ferried to the land of the dead, right after Eliza.

As Death was ferrying the two he neglected the entire country dying because of a very large magical spell. An entire country meant to die as soon as three chimes rang in the air, as soon as the clock struck twelve they all were to fall where they stood. This was Phil’s plan, and it would have worked had Death not chosen Eliza.

Now, as the chimes stopped ringing Death came back to reap an entire country’s soul. A lot of things happened as the magic killed everyone. A grandfather held his grandson for the first time, tears in his eyes. A couple bestowed with each other kissed for the first time, they were each others first and only love. A child skinned his knee on the playground, his parents comforting him, he was surrounded by love. A florist fiddled with the bouquet in her hands, nervous to give it to the biker who comes by just to flirt with her.

Death came upon these scenes and for the first time in centuries felt remorse as he took the dead to their land. He felt remorse that so many happy souls had to go from this plain of existence just for the actions of one man.