she wished for death

"I'm not afraid of death," she said, a soft, fake smile curling on her lips. She claimed shadows didn’t scare her, yet she flinched when they reached her skin. I thought I knew her — because I noticed. But she was waiting, wishing. She thought, If I take my life, would my mother cry? Would my husband care? Would they come? And she answered herself — yes. They would come to her funeral, cry because they cared, and blame themselves, asking why didn’t I see? So she wished for death. She hoped the car would crash, the lightning would strike, her heart would simply stop. She wished the world would do it for her — because she could not. She hoped for death that never came. It did not care for her, did not cry for her life. “Oh death,” she whispered, “how I wish you’d take me with you.” But death was silent. And life — life was her punishment. To wake, to breathe, to ache, to keep begging for what would never come.