The hands of death are cold. Cold like the sweat trickling down my neck as I think about how no one will ever know what really happened. No one.

The weather was perfect today. Even though I felt as if I were being watched, I was happy. That’s unusual for me. I ate a nice breakfast and visited my therapist Wendy. As I took a walk in the nice weather I noticed my shadow skipping. I wasn’t skipping.

Many people have told me I’m crazy. That might be true. All of this might be a vision in my mind. But if that were true, why do I feel the lights in my eyes fade as mothers escort there children away from me.

That’s not what I was doing. My shadow isn’t working right. My therapist Wendy told me that there was nothing wrong with my shadow and I should come back when I have a real problem. The fumes of her cigar suffocated me. Suffocating, that’s ironic. But in a way that no one will ever understand.

I went to the park to reflect on this strange occurrence. That’s when shadowy form took hold of my neck. It had a firm grasp. Just like how my grandfather tought me to do a handshake. I miss grandpa. He was strong, but not strong enough to beat death. I won’t be able to beat it either. My shadow is tightening his grasp. I’ll be meeting the reaper soon. I always wondered what God looked like. I’ll take my last breath and be on my way. It’ll be called a heart attack in the paper. What an odd day. I cant wait for tomorrow.