When Death Failed
I found myself in a strange, unfamiliar place—cold, dark, and dead quiet. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl.
Then, out of the shadows, Death emerged. Tall, cloaked in black, with hollow eyes that seemed to stare straight through me. She stepped forward, voice like a storm rolling in:
“Your time has come, and I shall kill you.”
Without hesitation, she attacked violently, swinging her massive scythe with all the force of a thousand dying screams. The blade screamed through the air and slammed into me like a freight train.
But it didn’t cut.
My skin absorbed the blow—like steel wrapped in flesh. It was like she had tried to stab granite with a fork. The weapon clanged off me, useless.
I looked up, breathing heavy, and something primal took over.
“Fuck you! I’ll kill you!” I roared.
I drove my fist straight into Death’s face. The impact cracked through the silence, and she reeled back, unbalanced. I didn’t wait—I ran, searching the ruined landscape like a madman.
Then I saw it: an old rusted pipe, jagged at the end, stained by time and blood. I snatched it up, feeling its weight, and sprinted back, ready to finish the fight.
But Death was gone.
She ran.
She ran from me.