my first neardeath was before memory. a starving infant on an orphanage doorstep. survival measured in hours, not days. someone found me. someone saved me. i imagine death there that night - a stranger in dark clothes, watchful and still, observing from the shadows. waiting. but not my time, not yet.
then adoption brought new life, new family, new world. you'd think death would fade then, become a distant memory of that cold doorstep. but i'd catch glimpses sometimes - a shadow moving just out of sight, a presence in empty rooms. like a neighbor you never quite meet but know is always home.
six years old, choking on chicken at the dinner table. vision going dark at the edges. that's when i first saw death's face clearly - calm, almost kind, standing in the corner of the dining room while everyone panicked. watching with quiet interest as my adopted dad punched, picked me up, squeezed, again, again. as the chicken flew free, as air rushed back. death gave a small nod before fading back into the wallpaper.
twelve years old, showing off for friends, kicking through the glass panel of our hall door. artery cut, blood pooling on wooden floors, feeling sluggish. fading in the back seat on the way to the hospital, watching red soak through makeshift bandages and streetlights soak through the car window. death rode with us, i think - a silent passenger in the front seat, glancing back occasionally. our eyes met once. no malice there, just curiosity. watching to see which way we would go.
twenty three in berlin was our latest meeting. bright afternoon sun, wrong turn, oncoming traffic. headlights growing larger even in daylight. swerving, hitting the island, flying. in that stretched moment between ground and sky, i saw death clearly - standing casual on the sidewalk, hands in pockets, observing with that same steady interest. like meeting an old friend unexpectedly. no fear anymore, just recognition.
afterwards, heartbeat oddly slow, traffic flowing past like nothing happened. my phone dead in my pocket - a small electronic death mirroring my near real one. no way to call for help, no way to tell anyone how close i came. walking home along empty streets, i kept seeing him. lounging at cafes. leaning on lamp posts. sitting by the canal. watching me with that same steady smile. like he knew something i was still figuring out.
i slept eighteen hours straight that night, dreaming of all the parallel lives where our paths crossed differently. where death didn't just watch and wait, but stepped forward and took my hand.
i think you stop fearing the stranger at your shoulder when you've shared enough quiet moments. death becomes less shadow, more mirror - reflecting back all the life you're not living. sometimes i catch a glimpse - in hospital corridors, at busy intersections, in quiet moments alone. we share small nods now, like to old teachers who know you're not living up to your potential.
sometimes i wonder about those parallel universes. where the chicken lodged more firmly, where the glass cut deeper, where the scooter didn't swerve. where death didn't just watch but acted. but maybe those versions of me never met death as i have - the strange mentor who teaches by taking, who shows you how to live by threatening to not let you.
each near miss feels like a message from another timeline. delivered by an unhurried courier in dark clothes. sometimes i think he collects them too - keeping score of all our possible endings, watching to see which ones we earn.
these days when i catch his eye across crowded rooms, i don't look away. his presence makes things simple. clarifies what matters. strips away the noise until only signal remains. there's strange comfort in knowing someone's always watching, always waiting. like having a friend who only shows up to remind you you're running out of time.
i collect my neardeaths like postcards from parallel lives. each one whispers the same truth: i'll wait, but make it count.