The Princess of Death

I had a dream that I was walking through a deserted subway train terminal. The hallways were winding and there were no direction signs anywhere, no maps, and no points of reference. It did not seem that late at night, but every underground store was closed. The place smelled like the eerie remains of all the souls who passed through the terminal that day: baby powder, cinnamon buns, vanilla scented cigarillos, sweaty underarms after working a long day at the construction site... the place smelled, most of all, like aching ligaments and the longing to drown oneself after spending a day sitting in an office. Drown in whiskey, or an odd romance, or insanity. Everyone who passed through the bus terminal that day had wanted to drown. I could also hear the echoes of stale voices, which were happy just a few hours before, but now seemed like ghosts. Children's laughter, recovering addicts spitting loudly into the garbage cans, the rusty wheels of old strollers squeaking through the winding hallways in the terminal with no exit.

I walked further, but it turned out I hadn't walked anywhere at all. The bus terminal had no beginning and no end. It was all a jumbled middle. It was like being in the complicated intestine of a great beast. It had not occurred to me to look up. But then I did. And that is when I first laid my eyes on the Princess of Death.

She was beautiful. Her hair was almost as long as her body and it winded provocatively around her waist like lace. She had a porcelain doll-like face, red lips, and surprisingly pitch black eyes. Her fingernails were longer than any normal person's and covered in dark purple lacquer. She was also taller than any normal person. She smelled like all of the ghosts of the terminal combined. And when she spoke even one syllable, I could hear the muffled, restrained voices of all the people who had spoken around her that day.

"Welcome," she said.

I knew she was a queen. She had that aura of impossible contradictions. She was arrogant but humble, violent but peaceful, and hideous and gorgeous all at the same time. 

"Where am I?" I asked her.

"At Union Station," she said.

I was shocked and let out a giggle. I asked her, "who are you?"

She said, "I am the princess of death."

"So you're telling me that the princess of death resides at Union Station?"

Yes. I do. Because this is the best place to collect peoples' thoughts. All day people travel silently, but their minds are free to wander in this bleak place. They remember things that they had long forgotten. They become curious about other peoples' lives. Haven't you ever stared at someone on the train? Has someone ever stared at you? Do you question why you do it? It is because of me. I am preparing you for death one day, and I don't want you to have any regrets. I want you to care about strangers. Because through your curiosity, you come closer to me, you become my friend.

Well that's a depressing thought. "Why would I want to be your friend?"

"Obsessing about your mortality is selfish and self-defeating. By becoming friends with me, you will be truly able to live. When you came to the station today, I felt that you noticed all the bodies that passed through here today. You smelled them, heard them and felt them. You're not capable of collecting thoughts. Only dark, beautiful princesses like me can do that, " she leered, "but you, unlike me, have a malleable, soft heart that can soak up all lovely emotion like a sweet sponge. You can do illogical things. You can love a person without knowing why. You can care for someone you haven't talked to in years. You can even be willing to save someone's life, someone you don't know, a stranger on the subway train. A hard heart is the root of all sin, I've been told. Yes, I sit in the church pews too."

I woke up. I had met the Princess of Death and memorized her face. It was like reuniting with a friend who I have known my whole life.