death will not be the end of my story
Of late, I have been tormented by visions of death. Each time I close my eyes, my mortality stares from the ebony shroud behind my lids. I am a haunted man. I am already dead.
To find escape in sleep is a lost cause. My waking visions have infected my dreams. Meditation calms the visions, but still they probe at the edges, festering. I am infected.
Death has rooted itself in my footsteps. It shadows me. It plagues me.
In these visions I am alone, and yet, I am never alone. I do not fear death. We are old friends, death and I. His face is known to me.
It is never the same death twice, but certain details remain constant. Death comes with crimson fury. Death comes with midnight whispers.
My skills are considerable. I face death bravely, without fear, without hesitation.
I do not shrink from death's embrace. I face him willingly.
I stare death in the eyes. I let him see the depths of my soul, that we may truly know each other.
If death wished to take me, death would know he had fought a ninja. He would know the touch of my blade. Death would bleed before he could claim me.
I could accept an honorable death. I would welcome it, as reward for a life fought well. But this is not an honorable death.
It is treachery. It is cowardice. It is...betrayal.
I hear a midnight whisper. I see a crimson fury. I have been tormented by these visions of my death. A thousand times I have died in the solace of my mind.
But I promise you: death will not be the end of my story.
words: Daniel Wilson
images: Matthew Kloberdanz