In the valley of death

A row of pearly selenite glints menacingly between thin petals of berry pink which sit a little crooked on the immaculate marble of it's face. Their corners curl in something akin to a cheeky smile but there's someJe ne sais quoi missing there--some trait only inate to human beings. Purpose, maybe. It conveys little in terms of emotion or intent--its just there, like a cheap ornament, plastic garland, prettifying a dead pine.

In it's arms, a creature clad in Mickey mouse pyjamas, blowing spit bubbles and digging it's absolutely miniscule fingers into the breast of it's collared shirt. Weary. Seeking comfort, as a child would. It can't be much older than a couple of months.

A robbed mother wails somewhere far away in the darkness of this unusually cold night. Under different circumstances, it would make for the perfect tuck-in ambiance, but tonight, it's feeling benignant.

"Merry Christmas--"

That's what you're supposed to say when you give presents. it has learned this. Or was it--

"and Happy birthday."

Yes, it will say both, for good measure. That way it should be plenty apparent to it's human friend that it has come in good spirits and bearing gifts. What joyous occasion. It is sure he will be pleased.

Human beings are never as inhuman as they are when they are dying, it has come to realize. The apprehension of their imminent departure from life really brings out the zest for survival in even the most disconsolate individuals. This zest usually manifests in butcherly ways—gnashing teeth and swinging arms, harsh words which always fall on deaf ears. The moribund seldom speak any grand truths or substantial verdicts, so it tunes their deplorably meager verbal abuse out—more than it ordinarily would during conversation taking place under less vociferous circumstances. 

The opinions of the actively dying mean very little to it, and as it turns out, all human beings, from the moment they are spawned into their pitifully short and insignificant existence, are, in all actuality, actively dying.

So, that part’s easy to ignore. 

What it really can’t stand is the mess they make. 

When they start crying, and sweating, and gurgling their putrid vomit and bile. Even animals die with more dignity than humans. Yes, animals, with no concept of honor or grace, generally have the common decency to not ruin the sanctity of their flesh by vehemently soiling themselves—with reckless abandon, might it add. 

One red eye on Lero’s cellular device, which lies on the floor beyond the marble margin of the shower chamber, Cama sits beneath the absolving mizzle, plucking pieces of half digested paprika out of it’s soaked, cotton candy locks and flicking them down the drain.