My name is Death. When the time comes, you run. You might say you won't but everyone does no matter what. Now, you may not physically run to escape me, but you will try.

Call me what you want, but there's something endlessly amusing about watching a woman whose skin looks about three sizes too big and whose silver tinted hair is falling out, try to shrink back into her hospital bed and away from me. I hate to break it to you, lady, but that extra inch of space will barely buy you a nanosecond of time before I take you.

But life goes on, and eventually I come, and you always panic, trying to buy yourself as much time as you can.

Even the infants who are too young to even realize what is happening get that panicked look the second we lock eyes. But I can't hesitate. I just take their final breath and it doesn't kill me even a little to see that scared look in their eyes, permanently etched there as their face glazes over.

It doesn't kill me.

I can't die, therefore it doesn't kill me. I don't know the pain of death. The fear. I can only guess from the reactions of those I take just what it is like to die. So I halt their hearts in place and pretend it doesn't kill me that I'll never know what it's like to die.

It doesn't kill me.

No matter what happens, what I see, I can't let it kill me.

It doesn't kill me.

I take the little girl who was shot in the robbery and leave the robber alone.

It doesn't kill me.

I take the father with heart problems, leaving his five kids as orphans.

It doesn't kill me.

I take the soldier from the battlefield.

It doesn't kill me.

I take the dog left out in the heat by its careless owners.

It doesn't kill me.

I think, 'can't I just take myself?', and I try.

It doesn't kill me.

Isn't it ironic that Death can't die?

Nothing kills me, but I kill all.