Nothing is ever certain (Part 1)

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Death.

 
That faceless, robed skeleton and his harshly hooked scythe.
 

He wasn’t kind and he certainly showed no remorse; he snatched with cold caress wherever he could, taking the sick, the young and the old… He didn’t discriminate, didn’t care. Death was infinite, definite, ravenous, but all the same gentle, quiet. He claimed without rudeness or pain, severing earthly binds and carrying the soul to cool rest, devoid of greed, hurt and the insufferable living world, behind.  

 

For Zahra - at first – death meant the infliction of pain, loneliness - both immeasurable, and newly perverted perspective. He left her soul frigid, cold and aggrieved, brimming with cruel worldly burden. As the years cycled by, however, death and his ultimate effect had become more a cause for curiosity, rather, yearning, for a life without light was quickly too much for her youthful heart to bear. She began to realise the error in her judgement – that death in fact, was her friend.

Why would anyone return to this?

Disgruntled, and hardly moved by his plight, Zahra held a long, steady silence; albeit bristled and still detached in appearance. This, his re-emergence?

 

Revival?

 
Return... defied logic.
 
It challenged the very meaning of life.

 

What hope was there if death wasn’t eternal?

 
Stuck in the morbid swirl of meditation one thought led to another and, ignoring his own question, she muttered rhetorically, "and what of my mother? Is she here too?" With a hollow expression she glanced about in exaggerated gesture; Zahra didn’t care, wouldn’t force it, couldn’t even remember the face. "…You shouldn’t have bothered," she sighed dismissively, emptily, stepping then away to leave.   

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