The Kiss of Death

I always imagined Death's final kiss would be cold. It wasn't.Four years later, I can still remember the exact shade of his skin: a blue so pale it looked like moonlight. I dream of his touch. Mostly, I paint the man under the heavy cowl, including those perfect lips which ruined mine for anyone else.I'm obsessed with him.The doctors say he's nothing more than a hallucination caused by a mixture of head trauma and emergency pain medications. I think he's a really sexy figment of my imagination. I mean, who besides an artist would dream up the Grim Reaper for their hero?Now, something's changed and my drawings are taking on a life of their own. As if college wasn't hard enough, trying to keep this a secret is going to be impossible. Keeping my sanity might be worse. And that's not the worst of my problems.Death is back.He wants another kiss.And he's not alone.