erron. six. fin.

hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,
you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name. death in the way a flower wilts, its thick, green stem shrugging over, the velvety petals curling and folding in on themselves, and the vibrant-hued colors bleeding away as it dies, fading into nothingness.

death in the way that you too, are dying slowly.

a sickness, a mortal disease that snaked its way around your bones and heart, constricting every ounce of life it could take.

that is your death, your skull-bound reaper.

each fleeting second, minute, or day that pass is one step closer to the devil's door, one step deeper to six feet under. you'd argue that it's the same for everyone, that everyone inches closer to their death date every time the clock ticks. and that may well be true, we're all rotting from the inside-out, but you've never had very long. your clock has always been ticking towards a youthful funeral.

since birth, to be exact.

born bad, born with tainted blood.

your uncle seeded those words inside your brain, carved them into the bone of your skull with a serrated blade. though, it wasn't his intention. you weren't supposed to be awake at that time of night, not without a companion. you could fall and snap your bones and cry your lungs out for help, but in this big house, it'd be hard to hear. you planted your ear against the locked door of your father's study and drank in the words of the clandestine conversation, making out only a few among the muffled voices. it was a momentary shock, a gut punch, the wind knocked from your brittle lungs. he might as well have hurled the words at your face, spit and poison flying from his mouth in the rage - it would hurt all the same.

and it was there, in that very hallway, with your tightly-clutched fists shaking and tears streaking down your face, that a hole inside your chest was formed. a void that could never be filled. apathy blossomed inside the emptiness, planted its ungodly roots inside your very being. before you had been content with your life, with your limits, your 'frailty'. you never complained, always bit your tongue and did what you were asked, and smiled in solace. because that was your burden (or so you believed), to make the lives of your parents, of the revolving wheel of doctors and nurses, of everyone and every little thing around you easier.

but did they actually care? your mother lives in a bottle and craves the younger men on the street, anything to retain her youth. she holds your head in her lap, strokes your face with her soft palms and whispers the finest things. was that more of a therapy session for her, or for you? there's only green in your father's eyes, his ambitions are clear and they always have been. he has a wealthy name and a status to keep in check. though, he sits on the edge of your bed, an earnest hand resting on your covered foot and a melancholic smile, and says he wouldn't change a thing about you. can you keep up with his lies?

you threw your burdens to the ground, match-strike and set it aflame, watched as the smoldering ashes rose. it was no longer your concern.