Cloaked Death

The boy was dying. Some degenerative disease that the doctors could not specify took a toll on his life.

He seemed normal, a most handsome young boy of nine. He had jet black hair and brown eyes. He laughed and ran and spoke like any other. Others admired him; some envied him.

As the days passed, he grew frail. He had always been small, but now he appeared limp. His eyes emptied and darkened. His hair seemed to those around him shinier than usual. Nothing seemed wrong to his family, whose eyes could not be removed from the boy, yet something was so different.

They went to the doctor, one after another. No one could explain. He began losing control of his limbs, so one doctor thought the boy had ALD; however, the mother's genes proved it impossible.

They decided to send him by train to a doctor in Michigan. The train station was exquisite, almost like the one in Harry Potter. Colors of marroon and gold and brown enriched the scene. The only darkness in the room was the boy's jet black hair and brown spots encircling his weary eyes. His smile still, however, emitted radiance throughout the room.

As the sounds of the golden train approached, the boy entered a frenzied state of madness. His eyes widened, his arm lifted in front of him. He sometimes shook violently, then fell to the ground, then rose again. No one knew what to do. His other movements seemed robotic. He didn't seem to recognize anyone around him. He stopped. Frozen.

The train approached with tremendous speed and force. Closer and closer. The boy remained frozen, arms still suspended.

The train rushed through with speed that made it appear as an apparition. As it neared the boy's stop, the boy took a step. And another. His eyes widened. The train flew off its track and hit the boy.


Sweating and shivering, she startled awake. It was still night. She peered in the direction of the door, heart pounding fast. Her mouth was so dry, she could not swallow. It was so vivid; where was the boy? Where was she?

Bathed in sweat, she shivered. She fell asleep immediately, her body exhausted from the intensity of what she saw, unable to move after her natural fight or flight response.

Instantly, the boy was hit again. Same way. She awoke again. This time her mouth was so dry, she could not breathe. She thought she was dying. Out again.

A third time. The boy was hit again. Each time seemed more surreal than the previous. Each time she startled in dread.

The sixth time, she was dead. She looked above her head to see a black hooded figure. The face was covered. She wanted to go upstairs to her sister, but the darkness weighed her down. Her limbs, eyelids, and mind sunk heavily. She would not move in fear of the cloaked figure moving. Only a foot away, the figure stood but remained still.

The seventh time. She awoke gasping for breath. The cloaked figure now moved around her, in almost a threatening way. She knew she was dead.

Morning came. The figure was gone, but the boy had died, seven times. The train hit the boy seven times. The boy that was dying from a disease had died. The boy did not die from the disease, but the train killed the boy. She was dead. Was she dead?

No one else was awake. She yearned for assurance that she was not dead. She needed to hear a voice, a footstep, a cough. Anything. She got up and walked around. The night had been long. Too long.

She heard voices. She walked outside. She felt wind. People in the house were awake. She spoke to them. Yet she was dead. Still dead. No one heard her. No one saw her. No one.

She walked around in curiosity. How could she be dead if she could hear, feel, touch, speak. No, there was no doubt about it. She was dead. Even in daylight, oppressed by darkness, she was dead.