The following story is based on the word 'Death' defined as 'the destroyer of life represented usually as a skeleton with a scythe'.
A slender man walks through a crowded room. People he has never met part before him like a sea of costumed colour while he wears black. He passes a mirror and in the reflection his bone white flesh is merely bone.
A locked door does not hinder him and in the muffled hush beyond a staircase spirals. A trail of roses leads him on, deep red for love but these were white before someone steeped each petal in fresh blood. He takes each bloom as he reaches it, raises it to his face the scent as sweet as perfume to him.
At the top of the stairs is a passage, at the end of the passage a door. The door stands open, shifting slightly to and fro in a breath of wind. In the room beyond, a girl lies mangled on the bed. Her dress, like the roses was pure white once, now stained with crimson.
He watches the knife drop from her fingers, hears her last breath falter and fade. He senses her life seep out of every self-made wound, knows her last warmth is for him alone. In love with Death, she dies to be with him.