I have never in my nineteen years of existence

felt as pathetic as I do now.

Pride isn't an easy thing to swallow,

and I'm a proud person to begin with.

I can barely manage to mutter the words,

"Please… Spare my life."

It's a bizarre thing,
feeling so terrified of death.
After all, prior to coming to this place,
death was something I had never feared.
I never believed in an afterlife,
so what was there to fear, really?
But now that I am standing in front of this child
(or is it even appropriate to call him a child,
referring to him as if he is human?)
I am faced with the reality that
what happens after one dies isn't what I had initially thought.
He doesn't look me in the eye when he speaks.
"It's almost laughable.
Out of all the people I have killed,
none of them have stayed behind with me.
I am so alone."

I know better than to antagonize this boy.

The scars on my arms are the reminders of

what happens when I don't keep my mouth shut.

But I am apparently not one to learn lessons easily,

because I cannot stop myself from saying,

"Yeah,

because people like you deserve to be alone."

I instantly regret it.
I bite my lip and clamp my eyes shut,
fearfully awaiting his reaction.
He surprises me though, speaking calmly,
and there is a sad tone in his voice,
which is so terribly unlike him.
"I know.
But that's why you will stay with me, right?
Because you and I are the same."

I feel my heart drop.

I feel sick, so very sick.

We aren't the same, we aren't.

I refuse

to believe it.

And I don't want to stay with him.

I don't want to die here.

I try my best to reason with him.

"What good will killing me do?

There is no guarantee that I will stay behind

like you did."

And for a moment,
I can't help but wonder
what does make someone stay behind?
I had always heard people say
that people become ghosts when they have
unfinished business here on earth,
but that can't be right.
This boy left nothing unfinished,
I know for a fact.
His smile is back,
the malicious one he has always worn
since the day I met him.
He tells me,
"Heaven did not want a killer like me,
and the Hell that everyone envisions
does not exist;
this is Hell.
That is how I know
you will stay behind with me.
Heaven doesn't accept killers,
so it's only logical that you, too, will wind up here."

I'm panicking.

How can he possibly know about what I did?

But if there is a Heaven,

then it follows that there is a God,

and surely I can reason with Him.

I've always been told

that God is all-knowing,

so surely He will understand why I did what I did,

why I felt I had to kill her.

But,

as this boy puts his hands around my throat,

and I feel the air leaving my lungs,

I know in my heart

that any explanation I give to God

will be denied,

because they are nothing but excuses.