Ah, a new exhibit!

Is it just me~ or is that Mummy keeping its eyes on me.

What is the Mummy doing in the hallway, anyway?

I look at the Mummy and for a split second- I tell you it’s hands twitched.

Okay, now I’m just going to back away from it and run.

What in the world??

Why do I hear footsteps approaching from behind me?

Don’t look back, then again I know that I’ll regret it.

Eeh!

The Mummy’s chasing me down the hallway!!

No, the exit door is locked.

I’m trapped!

The Mummy let’s out a shrill.

O, my ears now hurt...

My heart is racing..there’s no where to hide from this Mummy.

Why did I leave the tour group and wander off to explore the Museum alone?

Bad move.

The Mummy raised its hands and the last thing I saw was a swarm of scarabs flying towards me.

#TheMummy.

*Side note: this is a few paragraphs for a story I am working on at the moment. The main character, just to give a little context to the story, is a slave to the Grim Reaper and is assigned to the city to help dying souls pass on the afterlife. I've called Grim Reaper's slaves Gate Keepers. His emerald flames were given to him by the Grim Reaper to keep him alive and give him magical powers, e.g. invisibility, immortality, speed.

Books of all shapes and sizes rest in my arms, as my emerald flames hug them close to my chest, concealing them in my shroud of invisibility while I drift up and up and up. All the way to the top floor of the antique book shop, which is restricted except for employees. I find my favourite windowsill, arrange my chains around me, and open to the first page of the first book in my stack. Immediately, my nose fills with the rich scent of pages, my fingers stimulated by soft thin paper.

I have already read the book before, and I know how it ends. Each time any book is reread, one always picks up on a new insight or meaning, whether it was left there by the author or not. While I travel through the adventure alongside the protagonist again, I uncover the hidden secrets of the world’s creator once more. The words of the book speak to me, they tell me the characters’ fears and dreams, they share secret messages of the universe, they trust me. Me! They trust me, a non-living being!

I find myself trusting the words, and in turn, sharing my thoughts with the universe handcrafted by the author. I share my fears of the unknown. I share my dream to uncover all truths, to gain all knowledge, to know everything. I even share the terror I have towards my master and his silver scythe, because no matter how much I read and research, there is no book in the living world that fully describes who or what he actually is. And because he is connected to me, I am terrified of myself just as much. I am grateful to my emerald flames that Master has given me because they keep me alive and assist me in everything I do. Yet, in a paradoxical way, I am afraid because I don’t really know what the flames are except that they are extensions of Master's magic, the pinnacle of mystery.

I am afraid to live and die, because I don’t know what could happen. So, surprisingly, I couldn’t imagine myself in any other position then as a Gate Keeper opening doors so dying souls pass onto Purgatory. I am meant to be an outcast of Life and Death, holding the doors open but never entering, standing in the same place until the end of time. Though I am fascinated by both worlds and want to learn as much as I can about both, their mysterious natures prevent me from diving right into both.

I have been lonely and miserable for my centuries of existance, but I prefer being alone than taking that chance of embracing that which I do not know. My existence is quite a depressing dilemma, for I desperately want to experience Life and Death with all my heart, but I know I will never take the required action to do so. I have never taken any real action for anything outside my routine of transferring souls and reading books, so I don’t even know if I can even act at all. At least, I have books to satiate my desire for knowledge and comfort me in loneliness.

I sit all evening reading, pouring over mountains and mountains of books, while simultaneously zipping across every corner of the city completing my appointments for milliseconds at a time.

"Every single day, at least one person dies. Some have a legacy, some are just...

Forgotten.

I never liked the concept of death, but it never stops me from thinking to it. I think about it everytime I go to sleep, everytime I wake up, everytime I watch another death on the news. It scares me beyond all hell.

Looking around, all that exists is everything. Plants, people, other animals. Life is so gorgeous, but it gets tainted by people that can't hear a voice, my voice. Calling at them to stop and appreciate what we have. But nobody listens to an easily forgotten voice.

Why is it that I want to be remembered so badly?

That's a really good question, one I ask myself every single day.

But right now, the reason I want to be remembered is so that my life had an impact. That I could make the world a better place. So, I have a few words to say.

To my best friend, Grace,

I hope that you find peace with who you are. I know that you're impatient, but things will get better for you, it takes time and love. So, don't be afraid to ask for it.

To my older brother, Damien,

I miss you, we all miss you. Mom especially, she hasn't put down a bottle of alcohol since the day you died, I hope there's an afterlife. You truely deserve peace.

To my younger sister, Ally,

I love you, more than anything in the world. Don't you ever think for a second that you're a bad person, I don't know who you're going to be in the future. But I know you'll make me proud.

To Mom,

I don't expect you to care, but I care about you. When I was younger you'd tell me stories about these heroes who would face their fears and conquer them. I wanted to be a knight, so that I could protect us from anybody that could possibly harm us. But ten year old can't really enroll in the army instead of their older brother. If you can, please stop drinking, if not for me, for Ally. She looks up to you like I once did, I want her to be happy. I want her to think the first three years of her life is all a bad dream.

To all the people I've loved, I want to say:

"Please don't forget me"

Sincerely,

A person trying to make a difference," I said, pushing myself from the railling of the bridge. My heart rate picked up as I fell towards the cold water, tears were flooding out of my eyes. I'm terrified, but I made my choice.

I can't go back.

It calls to me each night,

The creature without a face or smile.

Its cold, gray hands inch out from under the bed like clockwork,

Long fingers with pointed nails grazing the covers I hide behind.

It whispers in my ear,

A cold breath that sends a chill down my spine.

I am afraid to move, afraid to see,

Afraid to breathe.

Sometimes, it brings others;

A swirling mass of gray cloaks circling above my head,

Like a sinister hurricane of rattling breath and sly tongues.

They persuade me, these creatures,

Chanting melodies that fill me with dread.

They mock me, with their expressionless voices,

A never-ending litany of which I long to be free.

When it comes alone, it toys with my mind,

Twisting and pulling my dreams like a grotesque artist.

I am paralyzed with fear as the nightmares progress,

And though I wake, I find myself paralyzed.

My eyes roam the dark shadows of the room,

For I know now that it will find me whether or not I close my eyes.

I turn my head, and above me, staring, is the terrifying figure.

I gasp in fear as I realize, it’s nothing more than a mirror image of myself.

I yawn for the umpteenth time as I try to focus on the textbook page in front of me. Why do I care about the 1929 stock market, again? How does it apply to me or affect my life? As these unanswered questions spiral through my head, I nearly give in to the lure of sleep, but I realize with a start that I have not studied for my math test yet. The one I have been ignoring all week, hoping it would go away, be cancelled, or some catastrophic event would happen so I would be spared the agony of taking it. I look at the clock on my bedside table, alarmed to see that it is already well past midnight. I sigh and open my textbook, lazily flipping through the blur of words and numbers. As I finally reach the section on trigonometric functions, I feel my eyelids drooping, until…

I leap out of bed with a start as I realize three very important things. One, it is half-past seven in the morning. Two, I never studied for my math test last night. Three, this test could make or break my grade. I hear my mother’s voice yelling at me to hurry up and get ready, I grudgingly oblige, all the while acknowledging the bleakness of my fate, the likeliness that I am going to fail this test.

As I approach my math classroom, my heart pounding out of my chest, I frantically try to go over any information or past lessons I remember that could help me on this test. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind. I sit down in my desk and get out a pencil and eraser, not that I can erase something that I have no way of knowing is a mistake or not. Staring at a paper full of numbers and equations that might as well be gibberish, I try to wrap my mind around any of them, even just one, to no avail. When the bell rings I file out of the classroom, defeated, and terrified of what the future may bring.

The next day, my teacher is hands back our tests, and I cringe as she places mine in front of me, my frantic handwriting scrawled all over it. I work up the courage to look at my grade, and am faced with angry, red print and a singular letter that could change them my life forever. An F.