The Story of Death

On  the day prior, the Mother and her son, the Monster, had been in the countryside having a picnic.

In the sun dappled meadow they lay, decadence strewn amongst them.

Having just finished their coupling, the Mother, fondly wiping her son’s brow, states, “it’s time to try again.”

The next evening the Maiden exits her patrons carriage before the ball.

Her white gloves, red lips on display.

The elder gentleman, her patron, kissing her upraised hand, leads her to the foyer to be announced.

They dance exuberantly, unaware.

Later, the Mother requests their presence, just the two of them, in her parlor.

She plies them with drinks, but they need no encouragement.

The drinks take their toll, the patron and the Maiden are led to an upstairs bedroom.

The Mother and the Monster watch, unencumbered.

The Monster, catching glimpses of the Maidens smooth white breasts as they rise and fall with each movement, feels anticipation.

Hours later, the pretty prey are awoken by the Mother and brought to a small wooden amphitheater.

They are led willingly, easy and pliant.

The Mother leads the patron to the uppermost level.

The patron moves behind her, lost in lust, while she braces herself against the gallery rail, eyes gleaming as she watches the spectacle unfold beneath them.

The Monster appears, all charm.

His handsome features more prominent in the soft light.

The Maiden, initially unsure, begins to waver.

She softly acquiesces and they begin.

It’s gentle at first, but only at first.

Then it becomes violent.

So violent, she begins to scream.

Unable to escape, she falls limp, tears streaking her face.

The Mother watches calmly; the patron oblivious.

Later, the Maiden lay upon the floor, dress torn, weeping.

The Monster gently stroked her face, wiping her tears.

The Maiden happens to look up. She sees the patron, his throat slit.

The Mother watches her calmly, hands bloodied.

The Maiden begins to scream again; her mouth is covered by the Monsters hand; restrained.

Her legs beating a staccato on the floor.

Her eyes widen, the tone of her screams change.

Her belly begins to grow.

And grow.

And grow.

Suddenly sharp pains begin; cramping.

The Monster has backed away, watching.

The Maiden cries for help.

The newly born baby writhes under its caul.

The Maiden snatches up the child and cradles it to her chest.

Terrified, bewildered, she names it what she wishes for herself.

Death.

The Mother stalks away into the darkness of a corridor, humming happily.

The Monster cradles them both to his chest and carries them away.

A month later, Death is a toddler and the Maiden has aged.

She has recovered, and has decided to run.

She intends to take Death with her.

The Maiden and Death smuggle themselves out.

They are waiting at the train station.

The foggy, dewy morning barely resolved itself around them.

The horn blows and they ascend.

The Maiden manages to run for almost a decade.

But the Mother and the Monster do not give up.

They are never far behind.

For they know that if the Maiden does not love the Monster.

Death will be the end of them.

But they underestimate the Maiden.

Death ages quickly, as does the Maiden.

The Maiden loves Death.

Death loves the Maiden.

Caught, finally, the Maiden, now a Crone, perishes in the Mothers grasp.

The Maiden would not yield.

Death felt the Maiden go.

Death committed herself to her name.

Death wielded her name, and when she was done, the Mother and the Monster were no more.

Death needed life to survive.

Death needed life to thrive.

This is the story of Death.