Death and the Narcissist

Nighttime is the worst. 

The old man alone in his bed, in the dark, his eyes wide.

The sounds of his raspy breath, his own heart beating, a deep soul sucking loneliness, and dread.

For hours, he had lain there suffering - for sleep would not come.

And then as if he knew it was coming all along, across the darkened room, something not right - more than a shadow - a movement.

Terror washed over him. There, in the corner, an ethereal, floating, blackness, slowly creeping – ceiling, wall, to floor.

Coming, coming along the floor towards him, slowly, slowly 

death, was coming. 

No longer alone in his bed. He felt it along his back, cold.

A stench, a sound almost imperceptible - mocking him.

Panicked, he tried to run, could not move.

Tried to scream – silence.

Long bony fingertips lightly tracing along his shoulders. Foul breath, just in his ear.

An embrace - almost, intimate - trying him on for size.

Despite a lifetime of struggle against it - his pedigree, imagined power, greed, ill-gotten wealth, 'prestige', 'importance' - despite it all - death was coming.

It slowly merged within him, his chest - stealing his breath.

His empty, airless, screams never heard, as death finally ends him, leaving no trace.

...save for a nasty stain formed by a lifetime of cruelty, heartless manipulation, smug arrogance, lies, selfishness, and harm.

Drawing: Death Calls by Käthe Kollwitz