Categories > Original > Drama

Death's Cynic

by dreamwhisperer 0 reviews

'Death is pretty damn boring.' Swearing, slight religious themes.

Category: Drama - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama, Humor - Published: 2006-08-18 - Updated: 2006-08-19 - 891 words - Complete

Death's Cynic

There is no soothing white light, no enveloping darkness, just a shade of stupid, nondescript grey stretching out into god knows where.

Death is pretty damn boring.

In a way, it is like life, don't 'cha think? I mean, people talk of death as something so great and significant and whatever. They glorify death, even though in reality it is something like /this/. Not much different from life, really.

I've heard talk (who didn't) about how wonderful life and all the bullshit about how we should be thankful to God and our parents and whoever for giving us life. There's always stories of interesting and exciting lives that are suppose to motivate us to live our lives to the fullest or something.

What a crock of shit.

For every single interesting life, I bet there's probably ten, no, a hundred, uninteresting, boring ones. You know, the type of life that's pretty much the same everywhere? Birth, grow up, go to school, graduate, marry, have kids, work at a 9 to 5 office job shuffling paperwork... You know, that type. The kind that me and you and half of the world live in.

There's this saying, don't know if you've ever heard of it, saying that for every one winner, there must be many losers. And you know what? I think it's right. Most of the world isn't as lucky to be winners, ya know. Most of us are stuck as losers, whether we like it or not.

I'll really like to tell you that I'm a winner, that I had a damn interesting life and died tragically but heroically saving someone's life before landing in this shithole of an underworld. I'll really like to tell you that, but I don't like being a liar, so I won't. In fact, I don't even want to speak of my own life.

... What? You want to hear about my life? Fine, I'll tell you. Don't interrupt me until I'm finished.

My life can be described in one word: boring. Grew up in a normal household with a father with a 9 to 5 accountant job and a mother who was a music teacher. Wonder if I'll see them here someday... are there even days in here anyway? Never mind. It doesn't matter. Where was I?

...Ah. Right. I grew up reading comics of Superman and Batman and Spiderman and whatever-man, wishing to be them even though I knew I was being stupid and it'll never happen. Kids have dreams, ya know, and I was a kid. Give me a break.

I studied hard and played hard during school. Played harder than I studied, to be honest. It was really nice, then. All my worries were just what Mom was cooking for lunch that day and if I passed that damned quiz the teacher gave. Those were the good days...

What the fuck do you mean I sound like an old man? I am an old man. Dumbass. And didn't I tell you not to interrupt me?

Well, I graduated high school then fell in love and got married and had a kid before I realized what I was doing. Never bothered with college. Now that I think of it, I never got a chance to go anyway. Fees were too expensive and it was only the rich brats and geniuses that went, then.

I divorced the wife after three years, not that it's any surprise that I did. She complained of me being a bum, didn't have a job then, and an irresponsible idiot and all that shit. I suppose it's true, but she could have at least tolerated it or something. Women in the past would. Ah well, marriages don't mean as much as they do now than in the past. It's not really surprising. All the traditions and such are all buried in this fucked up age of computers and televisions and Internet and whatever.

Well, after that, I followed Dad into his dumbass accounting job and stayed there for the rest of my life because I was too much of an idiotic coward to back out. Still, it was a cushy job and paid the bills and left me with enough to retire, even though I was a drunk on the weekends and a smoker every day of the week.

I think that's what killed me in the end. The booze and the cigarettes, I mean. Liver and lungs gave up on me and the doctors didn't do a thing 'cos the kid doesn't care enough for his old man enough to pay for the hospital bills. That bastard has no filial piety, or whatever they call it. I mean, sure, I don't give half a shit about him but he should at least care enough for me. He wouldn't even be born if it weren't for me. Hah! I'll spit on that bastard next time I see him. Probably won't, though. This place is too damn big.

Ah, well then, that's my life story. Now tell me yours. I mean, it's not as if we don't have time in this place. There's nothing anywhere, no booze, no fags, no radio, no TV, nothing except you and me and the damn grey everywhere. 'sides, I want to see if my theory's right. Every life's the same.

So. Tell me about your life.

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