Random Stories

Death

Death. She thought as she walked down the forest of tombs that people call cemeteries. What is it?

It’s like an illness, she thought, looking at the grave of a woman that cancer had killed. You weren't looking for it, but it took you anyways. 

It’s contagious, she whispered, stopping by the tomb of a man that commited suicide after knowing the love of his life was dead. It takes others that were not touched by it.

It’s a big deal, she thought as she saw this family, all killed by a bomb. It can get more than one person at the same time, but you will notice it even if it just gets one.

It’s fast, she told herself, staring at the grave of this baby, that was dead one second after he was born. You don’t even realize it, and you aren’t breathing anymore.

It’s slow, she discussed when she noticed the tomb of this boy, drowned in the waters of that immense sea. You know it will happen, yet you can’t do anything to change it.

It’s a gift, she noticed, remembering the story of that girl, tortured a thousand times before she gave up. Dying was probably better than continuing to live in that scary reality.

It shows the best of us, she affirmed, smiling sadly at that grave of that great woman, who sacrificed herself in order to save her family. It was a brave move which they shall always remember.

It shows the worst of us, she thought back, glaring at the remains of that man who killed himself in order to kill thousands of more innocent people. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered, but death has made his name be written on a grave for the rest of eternity. 

It makes us more vulnerable, she reflected, thinking of this girl in her town, who had been silent since his father had died. It was like climbing a mountain, and suddenly asking yourself why you are climbing it.

It makes us strong, she supposed, remembering the way that the same shy girl had stood defending her friend in front of bullies. It makes us stronger in experience and life, and we can reflect wisely about the world.

It’s like an opened door to a room with the lights off, she supposed, looking back at the discussion her two classmates had had two weeks ago about what goes after death. And nobody knows what’s inside it until we enter.

It’s a mistake, she hypothesized, looking at the tomb of that nice baker that lived next to her hose. A lot of people didn’t deserve to die, but they were anyways.

It’s the worst, she declared, looking at the yellow flowers she had in her hands. Not for them, she clarified, stopping in front of a grave recently added to the cementery’s structure, they are probably in a better place now. 

It’s the worst for us, she thought as she left the flowers in front of the grave, a tear going down her cheek. For the ones that have to learn to live without them. 

She wiped the tear away. 

It’s a curse, she finally decided. But we don’t have the spell to solve it. We just have to adapt to it. Even if it means having a hole in your heart for the rest of your life. Because that’s what death is, in the end. An endless hole.

And she slowly left the cemetery, knowing that this would not be the last hole her heart will have.

We just have to adapt to it.

That’s what she was going to do.

Not forget it. 

Not ignore it.

Just adapt to it.