Santa Muerte

Rotting leaves sweep into the dim-lighted room as the cold wind blows hard around the building. I can faintly hear the old nurse lady whisper to the Reverend, "she won't see the morning light."

It's been a year since I first felt your presence, Santa Muerte. That bright Sunday morning that brought dusk early, when brother fell and I choked on my tears, begging the Lord for answers. His skin had blackened as his eyes slowly turned out. I was peering down at him, his gaze holding mine, while the life left him.

Tonight, I'm going to be the loss.

I want to see you as you come for me. To hold your eyes, while I slowly feel my grasp losing from what light is left in me. I can feel my lungs collapse as I hear the distant wheeze. Mine, maybe. Now I understand the phrase, "as you draw your last breath".

Hades. 

I want to scream, as you wrap your claws around my throat.

Pain. 

Realization that I am last of our name, and no one left of my bloodline would mourn me. 

Muerte. 

Now that you're here, everything gets better.

QJ.