The Death of Henry

It was about to happen. Henry knew it. The process was complete. The moment had arrived. He was going to die.

The external world held no interest for him anymore—just one disappointment after another. Grey nights followed grey days. Some happiness, some sadness. Nothing to write home about, really.

Henry had taken the best life had to offer. He had money. He had women. He had friends. He traveled the world. He saw everything. But none of it meant anything. Nothing made sense.

Death, though—death was different. Death was interesting.

Henry had been working on it for a while, willing himself to die. Day after day, night after night, he would lie in bed, trying to lower his heartbeat, relax his muscles, slow his breath. But it isn’t easy to will yourself dead. It takes control. A lot of it. It is the ultimate test.

Today, he was sure, was the day. He was ready. Or so he hoped…

But it was not to be. Every time he got close, something pulled him back. His mind refused to let go. But why? What was holding him back?

He had no friends. No family. No interests. So why then? What was he living for?

He wondered. And the night came. And he dreamt of her.

She was dancing on the pier, like she often did. The moon shone over them both. The sea sang. The wind screamed. He walked toward her, but she floated away in the wind. He was alone again, in the dark.

He never understood the dream. He didn’t know the girl. He had never met her.

There were prophecies, of course. He knew that. There are always prophecies. He had seen the signs—the red star, the voices, the lights.

Maybe it was the girl keeping him alive. Maybe she meant something…

And the months passed. And the years passed. And still, he did not die. Everyone around him was gone. He was old—very old—but he remained.

Then he saw her.

She was walking her dog one warm summer evening. He tried to speak to her, but she ran away, frightened by his appearance. But he didn’t give up. There was too much at stake.

He found her again. He made her listen. He had to restrain her. He talked and talked, deep into the night. At times, he had to be forceful. Why wouldn’t she just listen?

This went on for days. Weeks. Maybe months. It was hard to tell. He lost track. Eventually, she stopped answering his questions.

The day they found him, it was hot. He was sleeping on the floor, surrounded by rotten food and strange books. Scary books, with devils and angels. Tarot cards. Saints.

A skeleton was chained to the radiator. It made the front page of the local newspaper.

I was given Henry’s books. I’ve read them all. Twice. Some pages are blank. Others seem to shift when I look away.

I’ve started keeping notes. I’ve seen the red star. I’ve heard the voices.

I think I saw her once—walking her dog, just like he said.

I’m not sleeping much anymore.

Need to find her.