There’s something about the word death that makes your skin so raw and tender that you feel any slight touch of breath would be a pain. It’s like your whole body is an open wound. More like a giant black hole gnawing you from the inside out, splicing your skin and nerves, curdling your blood and sticking lances in your brain that you hurt. You, all of you, hurt.
You were so raw and tender that day.
A voice rang through a small room, a crowd of fifty-something people sitting on lean, spindly chairs. The only spotlight was the one held up by some good folk who has found no other good job but to be at the other end, hiding. But the girl at the center, however; ah. It was her time. It was her night. In the little throng were the audiences of the heavens, watching her unfold herself word by word, note by note, into humanity. Heaven descends in a few minutes of glory.