PROLOGUE

Speak louder

Breath deeper

Running faster

From the Reaper

Barely a whisper

Barely a sigh

Running faster

Toward the Reaper

Why are we here? Is there a point to our existence? Our presence on this planet? A few months, days, even hours ago I would have said ‘Absolutely’. But in this moment, as the poison called grief seizes my chest and spreads outward, consuming my body in its merciless grip, I say no. No way in hell is there a reason for us to walk aimlessly through this world, to simply die in the end. What is the point, to get so far only to be wiped from existence, from the face of the earth, to never have existed? Because once you die, were you ever really alive? You only live in the present, and if you are left in the past, were you really even there? Or are you just a memory? A lifelike daydream, the nostalgic recalling of a bored person. A simple thought, a memory, nothing. If that’s the ultimate destination, which it is, then why endure this all first? What’s the point? There is none. And in this moment, I have never believed in anything more. There is no meaning to anything, none of this. We are born to die, and anything you do in between doesn’t matter. Death takes all. He is one merciless bastard, as I have come to know. Sometimes, I even think he has it out for me.

Let me elaborate. Death and I are great pals. We go way back, 22 damn years if we’re being picky. I had barely taken my first breath when he first sunk his claws into my life. First it was my mother. I’d been alive for mere moments, oblivious to the consequence of my birth. My mother never even got to hold me before she flatlined. My dad took me under his care, and tried his best, but ultimately left me on the front porch of my Grandma’s homely cottage. He never looked back, and I’ve never wished he had. My Grandma, widowed, took me and raised me as her own alongside her sweet tabby, Smiths. And from then on, Death seemed to keep his distance.

I had a happy, simple childhood. It wasn’t carnivals and pony rides, but it was the greatest time of my life. It was the highest point of my roller coaster. And then it went downhill. Around my sixth birthday, I started to question why all my friends had a mummy and daddy, where I only had my Grammy. She took me by the hand and said, ‘You’re a special little girl, Penny. Your parents just aren’t here to see that anymore.’ I knew my mother was dead, and ‘in a better place’, and that my father was gone. But I never really felt loss until I was seven, when Death decided to bless me with his presence. Smiths, my Grammy’s old tabby, passed away from old age. He was the one who opened my innocent eyes clearly to what death meant. I bawled. When my Grammy tried to comfort me, I sobbed about how I didn’t want to be a special girl anymore and that I’d stop if it meant Smiths would come back. She wrapped her kind arms around me until my chest stopped heaving and my heart stopped bleeding. It was the first time I’d cried over a loss. And I found that when I had started, I couldn’t stop. I cried for Smiths, for my mother, for my father. I even cried for chivalry, who my Grammy said had died a lot. And from that moment on, I became detached from everyone but my Grammy. I reasoned that the less people I loved, the less hurt I could feel by their leaving.

So, all through school, I drifted. I disconnected from people, and finished school with no friends. Well, I did have one, okay maybe two. Lila and Raechel were my exceptions. They had constantly pestered me in middle school, trying to break down my wall, so I relented. It was temporary, I always told them, and they’d just smile and agree. This temporary friendship lasted all through high school, and really helped me get through it. Though I would never tell them that. But after graduation, we went separate ways. Lila to a University in Melbourne, and Raechel to New York to pursue her dream as a journalist. Turns out, I should have listened to seven-year-old me and kept to myself. We tried to keep in touch, but with me working 8 hours a day, 6 days a week at Anne’s Café, I hardly had time to skype. And neither did they. We drifted apart, and eventually the occasional call turned into the rare text which turned into a like on an Instagram post. I didn’t think I could have been lonelier. Until now. Three years later, and I’m greeted again by my old friend, death, seemingly the only constant in my life. But let’s not start there, shall we? Death isn’t a snap tragedy, not in my experience. It’s a slow downhill path that you walk barefoot along into the unknown. He hides in the shadows, inky black and rotten.