Emma Poulton

Emma was winner of Ashish Ghadiali’s masterclass ‘The Thread’, with ‘Till Death Us Do Part'

Emma Poulton is an aspiring author who has a passion for all things literature and language. She is also an avid bookworm and can often be found with her nose buried in a novel. Having been writing since the age of eight, Emma has explored many genres of literature, and is currently writing her debut adult thriller novel ‘Behind her Eyes’, which she hopes to see published in the future. She dreams of one day owning a little cottage in the countryside with numerous pets and writing full-time to inspire other people to read and enjoy creative writing for themselves.

Till Death Us Do Part

I walk amongst you, undetected, drifting within the curls of fog, and swimming amongst your exhaled breaths. I slip through your minds, a brief dance around the periphery of your thoughts, before exiting the way I came and moving on to the next. I watch as you rush from home to work, and then from work to home. A cycle that never seems complete and offers little satisfaction. ‘Why are humans always rushing?’ I ponder. ‘Don’t you know, I will catch up with you all eventually?’ I marvel at your deepest wonders, taste the very essence of your fears – all of which are insubstantial and can’t fuel me for long. I thrive off humanity; I simply can’t live without it.

I listen to your deepest, darkest secrets that play on loop in your mind as you try to sleep and watch your every waking thoughts burst in a kaleidoscope of bubbles around your head and yet, expect for the minority, you are unaware that I am watching. To say you don’t know me would be a lie, although it’s one you frequently try to convince yourself of. Whether you want to or not, everyone will know me when the time is right for me to reveal myself.

Your souls are a beautiful tapestry of colour, much more exquisite than any collector’s piece you might hang on your wall, and I don’t have to spend a penny. You will all be mine in time. I must only wait and, as luck would have it, that is something that I’m notoriously good at.

Some souls are the colour of burning sunset, or the deep blue of an iridescent ocean. Others are faint hue, almost imperceptible, and yet enthralling none the less. Whilst even fewer, thankfully, are as dark and murky as the sins they’ve committed and, even for me, a collector of colours, I find it hard to take those souls home. But I can’t be picky. I am nothing if not efficient.

I roam tirelessly through the streets listening to your microwaves reheating your next meal, your televisions projecting some inconsequential worldly event, your conversations between family and friends. All monotonous in nature, and yet fascinating, nonetheless. How I crave humanity. I move through your houses, covering miles in mere seconds. I linger with the elderly, hold their hands, and smell their memories. Soon, soon. ‘But’ I warn myself, ‘not yet. I must be patient.’ I wander around the hospital wards, stopping at those whose time is near, drawing in deep lungfulls of their misery and illness. I can practically taste their souls, each one a smouldering fire within their being, growing fainter and fainter as their time draws near. Once or twice, a person will look up and their eyes will meet mine, almost begging for me to take them with me. How I wish I could, and yet, I must wait and so must you.

I pause to look through the expanse of graveyard, row upon row of history, of people inscribing their mark: ‘I was here. I mattered.’ Many are long forgotten, their carvings no more than dust. There is nothing for me here, no signs of life or bright colours to greet me, only a lone mourner, arranging a bright bouquet of flowers against a steadily decaying headstone. His soul is the colour of a murky pond, all semblance of life bleached away by grief, he is almost as dead as the remains beneath his feet. I inhale and draw in his sadness and longing.

I feel a pull, and I turn to the west, watching as the sun dips over the horizon, and paints the world a beautiful array of warm oranges and reds. I reach out and touch the rays, running my fingers through their translucent beams of vibrancy and yet, no matter how hard I try, the warmth of the sun makes not an iota of change against my pallor.

I can sense the vibrations of disaster in the air ricocheting around me and, I must admit, I practically quiver with anticipation. I follow the source, navigating the world with ease, drifting down roads and through blocks of flats as if they are no more substantial than smoke. I’m proud of myself. I don’t stop once to absorb the intimacy of a lover’s kiss, the wail of a new-born’s cry or the raised voices of an argument. As tempting as they may be to consume, I can sense the urgency to my calling. I travel across mountains, desserts, and oceans, never tiring or needing to stop for sustenance. I am above such mortal desires. I don’t even stop when an addict wandering the city streets calls out to me, raising her bottle in greeting, before falling face-first into the gutter. I stop for no one, not even time.

I reach the scene, a whirlwind of noise and smoke, and step delicately over the police barrier. I can smell the fear in the air, emanating from the crowd of onlookers trying to quench their morbid curiosity, and the rescue crews shouting orders to each other, their anxious faces illuminated by the flash of blue lights. The remnants of a car lays twisted and broken in the middle of the road, the roof having been almost crushed in half. I notice her, a purple, glowing soul filled with such potential and hope that I stop, pause for a moment and inhale. I can taste her desires, her dreams, her deepest regrets on the tip of my tongue, where they explode and trickle with warmth through my being. I could stay here for the rest of eternity, drinking in the elixir of her soul but, alas, I have a job to do.

I go over to her and lean over the crew of paramedics, each one making frantic attempts to save her life. An oxygen mask here, a splint for her leg there, another trying in desperate hope to find a good vein to administer a painkiller. I look across her body, see the shattered ribcage pressing fervently through her punctured lungs, the dislocation of her hip and the way her leg is hanging at such an awkward angle. I see the blood that shimmers like rubies as it flows steadily from a deep cut above her brow. Whilst the woman doesn’t scream, I can tell by the way she’s biting hard on her lower lip and the fire burning deep within her ebony eyes, that she is in agony. I breathe in her pain.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She looks straight up at me and I feel, if only for a moment, that in her state of delirious pain, she recognises me. Dare I say it, she almost considers a smile. I can see the relief fluttering within her eyes, as her thoughts burst in bubbles around me. ‘Please. Please. Please.’

I can hear the desperation and longing in her voice. I listen as her heart stutters, skipping a beat before continuing to throb with fatigue. I can smell her blood in a pool around her and I know that despite their best efforts, nothing can save her. She is mine.

I reach out my arms to her, almost as if to embrace her, and watch as her soul floats gently through the air towards me. Her eyelids flutter, and begin to close, her breaths becoming deeper and deeper as she slips into her forever sleep. I watch as the paramedics begin chest compressions.

Her soul settles gently in my arms, and I hold it tight to my chest, feeling as its warmth soaks through my being.

‘Time of death, 11:43’

I turn away from the scene, heading home. There is nothing left for me here. My job is done. I cradle the soul in my arms. ‘If I had told you that today would be your last, would you have lived it any differently?’ I wonder.


© Emma Poulton, 2021