Story continued
Chapter One: When I met death
There is nothing more terrifying in all the world than death. At least that is what I was told by my father a man who knew death so well - he called it his friend. To him life was just a mere stepping stone on the way to the final chapter, the empty blackness of nothingness - "accept it" he would say "there is no avoiding it - every one dies".
My father was a mortician; he was that strange odd man who would help families in times of sorrow and loss to bury their loved ones. His was an odd life and even an odder personality. It was bad enough that people would give me strange looks, they would treat me different because I was the son of a mortician - death is ugly, painful and full of sadness. Dealing with the dead has always had its taboo. But my father seemed to enjoy his line of business, a pleasure that seemed to repulse people. He worked very hard at trying to seem solemn, compassionate about the loss of a loved one. Yet anyone who dealt with him knew, they either felt it in their bones or it was just easily visible in my father's facial expressions - he found joy in death.
I would watch him sometimes as he practiced in the foyer mirror of the funeral home we owned - practicing how to sound concerned, sorrowful and compassionate. He would practice his lines "I am so sorry for your loss Mr. so and soâEUR¦." But it would come out so cold, so flat and you could tell how hard it was for him to resist - how he struggled to force himself not to smile. Death was my father's business, it was his life and it was his purpose.
For me death was nothing but sorrow and pain.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was running home from school after having my usual run in with the school bullies. Being the son of a mortician in a small town does not make you popular; in fact it makes you an easy target of ridicule, of anger and of hate. Especially when everyone in town considered my father to be a freak; he was a man whom found joy in death as well as profit.
I can't remember their names, nor do I care to. But it was a constant thing, it was a daily occurrence: running home from school being chased by these bullies who thought I was weird simply because their parents believed my father was. That because I was the son of a mortician, since my father was looked upon as eerie, that must mean that being creepy must run in the family. I was ridiculed, I was mocked and to end the day I was regularly chased home.
I was running; I was always running and this day like every other day my tears of fear filled my eyes - except today was not like every other day. I was corralled down a street I was unfamiliar with, scared, disoriented and confused I ran into a dark alley smashing into several large metal garbage cans. I fell down hard, the pain was awful, my breath was heavy and my lungs wanted to cave in - but I picked myself up and with everything I had I ran. There was this pounding in my chest that fueled in me only one desire - my overwhelming need to run, run and to keep on running; if I stop I was dead.
It had not yet occurred to me what had happened; in my panicked state I didn't see the pole with the sharp jagged point. It wasn't until I reached the back porch of my home where I realized that the pain in my chest was not from my heavy breathing; my lungs were not in pain because they struggled to gasp for air as I ran. They hurt because a silver metal rod with its sharp rusty point had pierced them straight through.
I collapse onto the grown and as I tried to scream from the pain - the world around me turned dark, I could feel myself slipping out of existence. My life was coming to an end and the last thing to cross my mind was the words of my father: neither rich nor poor, good or bad can escape - death calls for all of man.
My father knew a lot about death, but he was wrong - death does not call on everyone. I should know, because death came for me and it would not take me.continue reading
Chapter One: When I met death
There is nothing more terrifying in all the world than death. At least that is what I was told by my father a man who knew death so well - he called it his friend. To him life was just a mere stepping stone on the way to the final chapter, the empty blackness of nothingness - "accept it" he would say "there is no avoiding it - every one dies".
My father was a mortician; he was that strange odd man who would help families in times of sorrow and loss to bury their loved ones. His was an odd life and even an odder personality. It was bad enough that people would give me strange looks, they would treat me different because I was the son of a mortician - death is ugly, painful and full of sadness. Dealing with the dead has always had its taboo. But my father seemed to enjoy his line of business, a pleasure that seemed to repulse people. He worked very hard at trying to seem solemn, compassionate about the loss of a loved one. Yet anyone who dealt with him knew, they either felt it in their bones or it was just easily visible in my father's facial expressions - he found joy in death.
I would watch him sometimes as he practiced in the foyer mirror of the funeral home we owned - practicing how to sound concerned, sorrowful and compassionate. He would practice his lines "I am so sorry for your loss Mr. so and soâEUR¦." But it would come out so cold, so flat and you could tell how hard it was for him to resist - how he struggled to force himself not to smile. Death was my father's business, it was his life and it was his purpose.
For me death was nothing but sorrow and pain.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was running home from school after having my usual run in with the school bullies. Being the son of a mortician in a small town does not make you popular; in fact it makes you an easy target of ridicule, of anger and of hate. Especially when everyone in town considered my father to be a freak; he was a man whom found joy in death as well as profit.
I can't remember their names, nor do I care to. But it was a constant thing, it was a daily occurrence: running home from school being chased by these bullies who thought I was weird simply because their parents believed my father was. That because I was the son of a mortician, since my father was looked upon as eerie, that must mean that being creepy must run in the family. I was ridiculed, I was mocked and to end the day I was regularly chased home.
I was running; I was always running and this day like every other day my tears of fear filled my eyes - except today was not like every other day. I was corralled down a street I was unfamiliar with, scared, disoriented and confused I ran into a dark alley smashing into several large metal garbage cans. I fell down hard, the pain was awful, my breath was heavy and my lungs wanted to cave in - but I picked myself up and with everything I had I ran. There was this pounding in my chest that fueled in me only one desire - my overwhelming need to run, run and to keep on running; if I stop I was dead.
It had not yet occurred to me what had happened; in my panicked state I didn't see the pole with the sharp jagged point. It wasn't until I reached the back porch of my home where I realized that the pain in my chest was not from my heavy breathing; my lungs were not in pain because they struggled to gasp for air as I ran. They hurt because a silver metal rod with its sharp rusty point had pierced them straight through.
I collapse onto the grown and as I tried to scream from the pain - the world around me turned dark, I could feel myself slipping out of existence. My life was coming to an end and the last thing to cross my mind was the words of my father: neither rich nor poor, good or bad can escape - death calls for all of man.
My father knew a lot about death, but he was wrong - death does not call on everyone. I should know, because death came for me and it would not take me.continue reading
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