The Sagan Diary (Old Man's War #2.5)

by John Scalzi

Words fail me and I return the failure.

awareness flinging itself at me and demanding to be embraced, and me not knowing enough to do anything other than embrace it back.

I am not Death. I am killing; I am the verb, I am the action, I am the performance. I am the movement that cuts the spine; I am the mass which pulps the brain. I am the headsnap ejecting consciousness into the air.

I am not Death but she follows close behind, the noun, the pronouncement, the dénouement and the end.

Death follows me but I do not look back to her and I do not dwell on what she does. I am killing, I am the action, and I have a job to do.

Take for granted that your name flows from my lips. It is a gift to me that you expect it there. Let me speak your name and fulfill your expectation.

You have been long forgiven by me, and all that I would have between us now is companionship and love. You are my last and best friend. Remember that when your burden of guilt weighs you down.

I lived in that moment a great while for the small sliver of time it was there.

Please understand me. I do not mean to belittle you when I note that I was leading soldiers at an age when you could barely control your bladder, or that I stood dazzled by three moons rising over a phosphorescent sea, lacking the poetry to match in my head the song in my eyes, at an age where you enjoyed the taste of paste and boogers and small coins.

It is not that you are too considerate but that I don’t mind when you tell me what you want and put that first instead of last.