From Mem(o)irs of Death, chapter: Meeting
We had to have been gathered in that room for hours. But it felt like maybe one at most. Second World War was about to start in Europe but we were safe, only Ten of us, all amazing writers and poets... Their energy was more intoxicating than the aged wine we spilled carelessly as we flirted with the glass.
The story was beautiful. Dark. Romantic. Star crossed lovers overcome all obstacles to finally meet death together, hand in hand, by the way of a death pact. My heart yearned for a love like the one we had created.
The conversation had shifted from the pact, to death itself. How do we portray such a monumental ending? The poets were all taking turns describing their interpretation of Death and their physical embodiment.
"Death is a lovely lady, dimly glowing. Motherly. The light and the end of the tunnel." one said, almost trance-like, from the wine. "No, no. Death is an abhorrent creature. Blackened by decay, to snatch you away in your final moment." another chimed in. "That can't be true! Death has to be cloaked and mysterious. Beckoning the lovers with a single shadowed hand."
As the conversation continued, a dark atmosphere seemed to culminate in the room. Perhaps it was the tone of the conversation, mixed with the wine, and the hours ticking by. I seemed to be the only one to notice, so I paid no mind.
More and more, Death was painted from the words of the poets, until the room went silent. Almost unnoticeably.
It was at that moment, I realized all eyes were on me, now. It was my turn to speak.