Affairs with Death Herself

You: The majority of college students can't afford therapy.

And how many serial killers are born in college?

Him: My name is Antoine. This is a confession.

Yes, I shot her.

Liked the look of fear in her eyes, to be honest. 

See, I was having an affair with Death. She is a beautiful girl, don't get me wrong, but yellow is NOT her color. There's a reason you always see her wearing black.

Each bullet I shot was a "How are you" question mark. Exclamation point. 

And she answered me with the death count in the newspaper.

Strangulation was the best compliment I could think of. 

And the dreams she filled my head with let me know that she understood.

Poison confessed the name of the last girl I loved. I slipped the powder into her drink and knew I was ready to give her up. I watched Anna's eyes close for the last time, and I kissed her forehead. Even though I knew it would cause an argument in the morning.

When Life and Death argued which of the two held the most influence, she wouldn't let me get involved. See, they disagreed whether it was more valuable to give birth to life or prevent life. But they did agree that humankind was one of God's most pitied experiments.

I wasn't offended.

She didn't count me among the humans.

Two weeks ago, I penciled my latest kill into my notebook, then I tore out the page and threw the crumpled confession into the fire where she could never be recovered.

I saw Death smile at this declaration of my love. I saw her tear up and reach for my hand. Don't tell me I didn't, because I SAW it.

I know there's not a heaven. There's too many stories about it for it to be anything more than a bedtime story. The type used to reassure kids they'll see their mommy again someday. I don't think so. It isn't that easy. The truth is something you have to make a concentrated effort to find.

I told her I wasn't afraid to die. That didn't mean I was ready.

Yes, she filled my head with fantasies about what it would mean when we were finally together. Yes, I hung myself. Yes, it hurt like all the bedtime stories tell you it doesn't. And then a numbness crept over me like sleep.

No one kills themselves because they want to die. They kill themselves desperate for the pain to stop. I wanted to know what it felt like when you couldn't feel. When your nerves were so damaged, feeling was no longer possible.

Wanted to know if Death was peaceful like she whispered to me over and over. I wanted to know if she had a fake profile on that Internet dating site. If she was who she said she was. How much botox she'd had done, and if she really looked alright for being old as dust. Literally. I'd always had a bit of a thing for older women.

When I hung myself, I wanted to know what kind of words that translated to. I wanted to tell her I loved her in words meaningful enough.

Wanted to know if the "kiss" of Death was all it was cracked up to be.

I'll be honest. I think I liked kissing Anna better. 

I liked feeling warm lips better than cold lips on my throat.
I liked talking without all the fucking metaphors.

Think I liked loving more than I liked being loved.

Think I liked Death when she was a concept rather than the chick sleeping next to me.

I should've dated Life instead. Death is the uglier twin, and I like red hair better than black.

I think regrets mean less when you're living and more when you're dead.

And how do I tell her this now?

You: Is that all you would like to confess?