The Silent Dagger

That’s Delilah. Ever so beautiful, ever so graceful, draped in that stunning black dress that clings to her silhouette elegantly. The sky above is heavy, dark clouds casting a somber shadow. The wind picks up with every passing minute, as if trying to warn others of the impending storm.

Delilah is my sweetheart, the love of my life. Right now, a thin veil shrouds her face, concealing her striking features. Oh how I hate watching her cry; she is such a gentle soul. I wonder what will happen to her if I’m not around to care for her. Tears swell in her glassy eyes, so clear they seem like they could shatter rather than splash.

And there's my mother. Another gentle soul. That's why she loves Delilah. She sees a younger version of herself in her, always telling me how I should cherish her and never hurt her, because "God doesn’t make people like her anymore."

They share a long, sorrowful hug. Both look so shattered, as if the weight of grief could crush them. My beloved touches my mother gently, her presence soft but unwavering, always there for her.

And as it starts to rain, they finally let themselves go, tears falling right above the casket—their precious pearls mingling with the harsh drops of this weather.

My mother cries and begs for a glimpse of my dead body at least once before they lower me six feet under. But my beloved consoles her, insisting that she should not see me in that condition. "It's too gruesome," she whispers.

She knows of course. I watch from the other side, no longer bound by flesh. My soul lingers among the living, trapped in the eerie silence of my own death. I should have known it would end like this. Even now, the sight of her fills me with dread. What if she decides to stab and slit me again, this time aiming to silence my restless spirit?