This excerpt is a continuation of:
Silence and repose conquered the room, as I watched my dying self struggle to breathe in its deathbed. All I saw was a mass of weakness, giving in to the all-mighty fiend of eternal rest. How I loathed such a sight of imperfection, metamorphosing from the grandness of youth into a meek slave of time. Self-spite filled my very core, as the scene I was facing mocked my existence.
It reminded me that I was worthless, a mere breath of fresh air in a world that had been breathing for an eternity. The life I had so fondly valued was a speck of dust, waiting to be wiped away. I, as all others, was insignificant in a world much grander than each and every last soul living within it. No human serves a purpose grander than life, for life has overshadowed us all with its infinite, endless journey of evolution.
Few people would mourn my death, people whose lives matter no more than mine in the grander scheme of existence. And then time would take its toll, finalizing my ambush by wiping my existence from within the memory of the last known confederate, whose mind had been struggling to remember my name, my voice, or the look on my face. For just like flesh, memories of our lives decay with our last breath, ridding the world of a life which we had held so dear, oblivious to how insubstantial it truly is; a petty existence.
I heard the machine take its last beep, followed by a long deafening sound that never seemed to end. A sound that marked the end of an instant, not more. Yet the figure facing me began moving. Its arm produced a graceful outreach, as though asking for help.
I feared physical contact, as a touch would prove that the figure was, indeed, real, verifying my fears of the inevitable death that had awaited me. Yet I saw no other option.
Responding to the plea, I grabbed hold of the corpse’s hand, and felt something within its palm. A black feather graced my hand once more, yet this time, it was glowing. I could hear whispers being produced from within the feather; whispers that were calling out my name. Then a beautiful voice like no other filled the room. It filled me with comfort, yet induced fear within my soul, for all beauty creates a certain type of dread; the fear of letting go of it, only to never experience it again.
“Please come back to me.”
For a moment I was floating, as lights surrounded me. “I will.”
I felt my heart race, as my skin sensed the lips of a ghost brush against them, and smoky tears fall towards them.
Yet all the lights were suddenly killed, and I was back in a dark hospital room, with naught but a bright red glow from within the corpse’s eyes providing a form of illumination.
“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” said the sinister voice with calm wickedness. “I intend to keep you around.”