a girl dies.
i’ve always fantasized about an epic story akin to this. i can’t remember how many nights had me waking in cold sweats, theorizing about my death — not a revenge fantasy, but rather a means to see who cared. we want to know the aftermath to so many things whose death should not be known. we romanticize the crumbling of the earth and envision it long after we are gone, apocalypse stories of our own demise and whatnot what-ifs; but this one, it always goes back to the cold corner of the room. thinking that it’s not worth it just because i won’t get to see the finale
maybe there’s a glimmer of hope when every single time i think it’s a decent story. not a beautiful one filled with appraisal or respect, but one where just one person billows out, not a testament to the truth repeated on turnstiles beyond them. it’s never a bad death, infatuation with the gore and grime and the ashen pale that lies after; it’s imperfect — but rightfully so.