Death Tastes

Like Strawberry

Aleah Ryan

Rainwater fell over shadowed alleyways, washing the dust and grime of the day down the gutters and eventually into withered grass patches. Even through the dreary drizzle, the sun swept its way across the quiet town, forcing its warmth onto the place that relished in its frost-bladed winds. It was still.

Cloth sneakers soaked through with run-off and arms weighed down with a water-logged hoodie forced him to remember where he was. He shook out his hair and rubbed the rain from his glasses before turning to climb down the fire escape, his fingers painfully gripping the slippery bars. Every missed step filled the empty air with the sharp pang of bone striking metal, but he was much too rushed to care, not even taking the time to bother letting his usual fears of falling reach him.

He grappled for breath as he reached the ground, stumbling briefly as he turned and rushed down the side streets, going opposite the downward flow of the water. Even as his hands slammed into the asphalt and the red of his blood was carried away on the filthy current; he sucked in whatever damp air he could with a strained hiss and continued.

His hands came to his knees as he turned to stand before the blind alley between two empty buildings. That’s where it faced him.

Death, in all of its indomitability, ruled this tiny part of his world.

He crept up to it, starting slowly, then throwing himself at its hollow figure. For something so terrifyingly irreversible, he couldn’t help but grip its small porcelain hands, feeling how the poor fingers froze in this weather. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing his own chilled palms over its pale skin, pushing back its red hair that fell aimlessly around its shoulders. He couldn’t bite back the wavering exhale as he scooped up death itself into his arms and held it close to his chest.

And so he sat there, gripping death in his arms as if to do nothing more than spite it, rocking slowly back and forth. As he waited under the drizzle in the shadow of the dirty alleyway, he brought death’s paling lips to his own and crumpled there with it. It was then, as the bruises set in on his body and the blood pooled with no life in hers, that he realized something.

Death had the sweet taste of strawberry chapstick; a flavor that would certainly linger.