Is it okay to be restlessly excited at the age of twenty five? Is it okay at the age of nine? I wiggle my legs and rub my head against the pillow, it wasn’t going to be a night well rested. My chest even twinged as I led there trying to sleep but buzzing with a great sense of excitement. I thought I was going to have a heart attack due to the sheer anticipation coursing through my body.
The thing is, I didn’t even know what I was so excited for.
Perhaps I’d had too much caffeine during the day? That would be a usual symptom, but I hadn’t touched the stuff in months. Maybe I was spiked? I’d seen no one all day, I was due to see no one the next.
I got out of bed and began to pace the room. I looked around my darkened room, everything looks so different at night. My belongings looked so un-belonging, it didn’t feel like I’d ever really owned the collection of records, books and clothes that led scattered across the room. In one hundred years time, no fifty years, what would become of this stuff? Would it still be in a family members hands, would it be scrapped, or would someone else take claim to them? Perhaps they’d abuse them, scratch them or not even study them as I have? My heart began to race. This excitement inside was too much!
But then I thought about where I’d be in fifty, one hundred years time. Laid to rest, no more no more. Then I knew what the source of the excitement was.
It wasn’t excitement at all, for I was never one to experience such a joyous feeling. It was nerves. And I knew I was about to disappear from my room. Disappear into the night, disappear into time. And I didn’t want my stuff to be in ruins.
There was a tap at the window, and when I opened the blinds, he was waiting with his six foot scythe and natural permed hair. I wasn’t expecting that, but only the dead have ever got to glimpse at Death.
I opened the window for Death and he floated on it, patting me on my shoulder, before sending me to fall. I was not going to get up from this one, and the last thing I saw?
Well, it was Death flipping through a book of mine, with the whisper ‘Can I borrow this?’
‘Sure, take your time getting it back.’