I DON'T WANT TO DIE. No one wants to die. But someone has to — always. Everyone has to die. I lay on my back, staring up at the grey sky. Pregnant clouds slide drearily across the rough surface. The dry grass prickles my bare skin. I try not to groan in pain. I press my fingernails into the dry dirt. My gut churns as I try to block out the rest of the world. No matter my efforts, I can still hear the pained cries of the people surrounding me. The smell of smoke wafts down the street. As I watch the clouds passing mournfully across the site, I can remember watching the same dreary sky. Another cold, wet sky, passing over a dry and desolate place.

***

I avoid making eye contact with people, trying to slip by unnoticed. Dirt is in layers under my fingernails. I can feel layers of dust and sweat encrust my body. People jostle around and I'm pushed from side to side. I can hear the footsteps of street kids, running through the narrow alleys. I can faintly hear someone moaning. I clutch my parcel against my chest, hoping against hope I won't get mugged. There is nothing to take, really. Only a notebook. But this notebook contains my life, — every thought twists itself into my mind; I wrote every crazy superstition within the worn pages. All as poetry. My thoughts always seem to come out that way. In a way that you need to look through the words to find their meaning, too shy to come out from behind the letters. Like a faint white mist. All my dreams, all my hopes. My life, my genuine life, is behind a mask of back ink, twirled and twisted into a tapestry of Life. My life. I dress my hopes and dreams in black inky dresses before their souls crumble into a white haze, wrapping around my body. I've layered the white mist, year after year of poetry. And every word hides something. A dream, a hope. But I need to remind myself to wear it; to wear my dreams around me.

I can see an old woman sitting on a torn blanket. Faint words escape her life, dancing between the onlookers, weaving their way around the warm frill of bodies. People passing by, telling her to shut up, but the elderly woman doesn’t. Pressed upon her skull is a cloud of dirtied white hair. Passing by, I can hear the words she mumbles.

"We're all going to die. The Americans are coming. They will bomb Germany. We're all going to die."

I pause for a second. It's a second too much. She locks eyes with me and I can see it. I can see planes passing overhead, bombs falling. I had once seen the same thing.

For when the metal rains,

we will writhe in pain,

for no one can sustain,

the oncoming stain,

that will mark the street,

where children once leaped.

I had written those words the next morning but refused to look behind them. Refused to look at the creatures dressed in ink.

Metal doesn't rain, I tell myself.

But bombs do, comes a voice in the back of my head.

Shut up, I tell it, but it stays there, in the back of my mind, haunting my thoughts.

***

I should have known. I should have known! I groan, unable to move. I can see my notebook, inches from the growing red puddle, expanding around me. My vision blurs for a moment. When it finally comes back, I can see a child, a little girl, standing over it. She glances at me as if for approval. A small German girl. I give her the faintest nod. She picks it up before running back to where she came from. The shock wears off, and more pain creeps into my bones. A part of me will live, I tell myself, I cannot completely die anymore. I wail in pain, joining in unison with the rest of the people lying in the street. I can feel Life draining out of my body. I can suddenly see a black shape, so very clear, in front of me. It's really more of a shadow than anything; dressed is a cloak of darkness. It hovers over the ground. Its black eyes consume me, wrapping me in its arms as if I were a baby. I can feel my soul slowly detach itself from my body.

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As I die, I can hear Death's words.

I know nothing of Life,

I have only seen it,

taken it,

burned it,

but as I extract their souls,

I can feel it,

sometimes, it tries to keep going,

writhing beneath my fingers,

desperate to be free,

but other times,

it sits there,

watching me come,

watching me stand there,

watching me take it,

watching me drain everything it had left,

these are soft souls,

souls who are ready,

cloaked in their dreams,

dreams that wrap around their bodies,

protecting them,

broken dreams, faint ones,

and I can't take that,

I can't take dreams,

I can't burn them,

or extract them,

He engraved them into who you are,

it's your choice to bring them along,

or leave them behind,

it's a choice,

as you watch me come,

watch me stand there,

watch me take you,

watch me drain you,

as you watch me,

Choose,

It's your choice,

and I can't stop it,

but as Life writhes beneath my fingers,

You need to choose either to protect it,

dressing it in white mist,

or letting it crumble into ash,

as you watch me,

it's up to you to choose,

not me,

you.

***

Flipping through the blood-stained pages, the German Girl can feel that Life had once lived here. It had crept behind the pages, emerging from behind inky letters. It has been 15 years since she found it. It intertwined Life within the pages. A life filled with broken dreams. Emotions. Pain. She runs her fingers across the poems. They remind her of a woman, curves woven in each letter, each poem. Its owner had crammed words into every small space. As she reaches the last page, she finds it free of clutter. Ink stained the page with only a single poem. A poem of dreams. A poem that awoke everything inside the German Girl. A poem, the only poem, in which Life struggled to come out. A poem in which Life was so dead, its soul seemed to have faded into the words. A poem whose words were like dreams, laced into a gown of Life. A poem about choice. A poem in straight, sharp, writing. A poem, dressed in Death's ink.