text: Am I dead? I guess I am dead. I guess that means this must be a story of how I died No, not a story, this is a retelling. An accurate description, how accurately precise. Described exactly as it happened, as I remember it perfectly. This is how I found myself dead I walked into my room today and saw myself lying facedown. Disgustingly torn apart, my eyes had been plucked out of their sockets and my insides had been ripped from their place My hair was torn out and cut and my skin was black, shredded, and torn off of my muscles. What killed me, To say I didn’t know would be inaccurate, but whatever it was did not have a name. Whatever it was doesn’t grace the earth with its presence, but I imagine if it chose to it would mean the end of many things. While I can’t name it, I can describe the image it burned into my eyes before ripping them out. My mind still intact, but my body lay in pieces, it has allowed me to retell, perhaps to spread fear of its presence for all who read this, for all who come to know it. I was laying down, wasting time as usual, the great task of nothing consuming all of my energy. It came into view as I was about to go do my daily tasks that keep me occupied, that keep me safe. It wore a suit, like armor, but so black I couldn’t look at it. It’s armor was cold to the touch, more than freezing. Not the kind of cold that forms crystals of ice, or delicate snowflakes. The kind of cold that you feel in the air. The kind of cold that chills your bones. The kind of cold you feel when you’re sick and your skin burns. The kind of cold sweat that threatens to make you vomit, that pales your skin, and darkens your eyes. It’s armor alone had a vacuum of an atmosphere, as if a cold breeze had walked in with the figure. The figure itself was human like, but taller. Out of proportion and thin, although hard to see masked by how he carried himself. His fingers really stuck out to me, their grasp had ripped through my flesh like bread. Pale, cold fingers. It did not have a face. It had no expression, no eyes, just a cold presence and a present of death. It took its time killing me, carefully separating my muscle from bone, pulling my tendons from my ligaments and picking apart my brain with its cold hands. Painfully keeping me alive to suffer every second. My pet bird of 3 years sat on my window sill. It picked apart my remains after my bitter friend was through with me. Picking apart my eyes and throwing my insides across my room. Keep in mind that I loved my bird. It was a crow, Incredibly intelligent creatures by the way. I spent more time with him than I did any of my colleagues. My bird and I were thick as thieves. I loved to test his capacity for understanding by giving him puzzles to figure out. He loved to solve them. And now I am dead. My body is beyond recognition and my mind is none the wiser. Perhaps I can still study with my colleagues, perhaps they won’t notice my absence, perhaps I will be able to convince them nothing has happened.