New series and I'm trying out some new ideas. Thanks for reading.

You can skip the prologue if you want, but the following story'll be much more confusing.

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I'm scared of dying.

I know, I know. Many are, but probably not to the extent that I am.

My first encounter with our mutual friend, ol' Grim Reaper, was when I was seven. I hadn't lived the easiest life until then, but it was my life, one full of love and certainty. The house was full, both with people and the joy of togetherness and family.

Until December 4th, 2006. That was the night that my Grandfather breathed his last. Really, it was no surprise, even to a kid my age. The man was a heavy smoker earlier in his life and went through bouts of health and illness in equal measure.

After the last visit to the hospital, the doctors simply sent him home. "Make him comfortable and get his affairs in order. It'll be soon". Sound familiar? It should. Even the deaths we know are coming are hard, and often hurt the most.

We knew it was going to happen. My single mother knew it was going to happen. My Grandfather knew it, too. He yearned for it, a release and road home for a religious man.

The night he died, my mother wailed like a banshee. I woke up and rushed over to my Grandfather's room. Navigating through the maze of medical devices, I finally made it over to his bedside. There, my mother screamed at him to wake up, shaking his weak frame. She thought it was another one of his childish pranks, she hoped.

The stigma behind corpses is really overblown. As he laid there, oxygen tubing hanging loosely from his nose, there was no anger, no resentment. He looked at peace, more so than any other time in his hard life. You'd think that he'd hate world that scorned him, spited his very existence, and worked against every step he took. No, he was at peace.

I said so, only to be replied with a smack behind the head. My mother denounced my "fueling his stupid tricks".

Teary eyed and angry, Mother continued to shake him until my Grandmother gently stopped her. It was then that he died. Not before, when he finally hung limp, nor was it when we found him. It was when we accepted it.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Men in dirty boots came to collect his body not long after, accompanied by our church's pastor. All I remember was concern, not for my Mother or anyone else, but that I'd have to mop up later. And I did.

I felt... numb.

The funeral was on the coldest and wettest day of the year. People came from around the globe to our little city, there was even a corresponding wake in the country of his birth. Supposedly, the halls were so packed in the church he helped found that the entire streets were full of mourners, jostling each other to get a glimpse inside.

Many who had hated him before came forward to us to express their "deepest sympathy". Pity for the dead, scorn for the living.

A few years later, my Mother was finally recovering somewhat, if you didn't take into account her heart condition. Some days were better than others, but most were bad. She couldn't get out of bed in the morning and yet still found the energy to hide it from me. Stubborn woman.

She did find the energy to finally marry the guy she was dating, though. A good man, if a bit strange, but he paid the bills and helped however he knew he could. The first man I'd ever call "Dad" without a bitter taste afterward.

Two months after the marriage, my Grandmother passed away as well. She had gone back to our home country, not being able to stand living in the same house anymore, it was tainted to her. We flew down there and stayed at my aunt's house for the funeral.

In contrast to my first funeral, the second was extremely warm and humid. Supposedly, it was very uncomfortable for all the other mourners, but I quite liked the weather. Most gave me strange looks and some of the "native" family members were delighted at that.

So the last of the generation finally met her end, in a land and a hemisphere far removed from her husband.

But that was only the beginning. My fear of death was just a seed then, the coming months would nurture it to what it is today.