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Lasciatemi Morire

Silently she creeps, the blessed black goddess. I can feel her drawing nearer, her icy breath upon my neck. She is not, however, as most imagine her to be. Many choose to picture her as an ugly, ancient hag. In truth, she looks not a day older than sixteen, and she is flawlessly beautiful—just as much so as any of Heaven's angels. The dark obsidian robe draped across her delicate shoulders contrasts splendidly with her pale ivory complexion. Shining, silver locks of hair outline her small, face, with those wonderful high cheek-bones and soft, gentle features, complimenting her ebony colored eyes.

She is Death, and yet she is about as forceful as a timid little mouse. She is, in fact, so very gentle that she manages to heighten my desire for her final relief. She seems oblivious to my longing for the end, murmuring comforting words and coaxing me to take her out-stretched hand as one may coax a wounded animal out of its hiding place. I nearly laugh aloud at this, as I know that I am in no need of comfort or anything remotely similar. As I move steadily towards her, I find that the gentle smile upon her rose colored lips mirrors my own. I feel a wonderful sense of numbness overtake me the moment her small, delicate hand closes upon mine.

As she leads me to my bed for the final time, I feel the most subtle sensation of floating. Once I lay down, she kneels at my side. With a gentle touch, as light as a feather, she closes my eyes and murmurs, "Sleep." In that same, blessed moment, my spirit and my body part. Once again she takes my hand. This time I am not confined to the limitations that plague mortal humans. With a final, reassuring smile and an infinitely gentle expression in her black, brilliant eyes, she leads me off to a place unknown. It seems God, in His mercy, has answered my final prayer. My final plea of Lasciatemi Morire—Let me die.