You never see it coming. One moment you're sitting on the park bench, your fingers splayed out in your purse dog's fur while you yap away on your mobile. The next, you're keeled over on the ground with holes ripped wide open in your liver.

The world dances and your vision is blurry, but you don't pass out. Oh, no. You won't pass out yet. First, you scream and beg and plead for help. You know what happened. We both know. But no one else does, because all you can say is please.

But there's no one there to hear your screams. They say no one can hear you scream in space. They're right. But they can hear you scream on Earth, in a dinky little park. The thing is, they won't hear you. There's no one around.

You're rolling on the ground, your hands over the wound. You've gotten twigs and bark and rocks and chewing gum—and something else—in your hair. Your precious little purse dog has long since darted off to chase a squirrel or two. Let's face it. You look like you've lost it.

You look like one of those crazies that haunt the street corners, always begging for money. But you're not one of those crazies. You know that. We both know. You're just in excruciating pain. I made sure of that.

Suffering … you're always suffering. You always think you're suffering. But you're not. We both know you're not. Not all the time. Sometimes you're life is excellent. It's glorious and wonderful. But you never notice. You're too busy screaming into your mobile. Screaming at your lovers. Screaming at your friends. Screaming, screaming, screaming …

Always shouting and screaming. But now, when you really mean it, when the screaming is all you can do, the only thing that will draw one of your fellow primal monkeys to you … it won't make a difference.

You've screamed yourself hoarse now. Your voice is cracking. It sounds like it's bleeding. We both know it's not though. It's your very soul that's bleeding.

You roll over on your side, eyes wild with pain and panic. You don't know what to do. Of course you don't.

For a second, just a second, our eyes meet. You see something in mine—something intelligent. You see me.

It's a pity all I have are shadowed features and a scythe. I might have smiled at you before you looked away, if I'd had the mouth to do it.

When you look away, your eyes lock onto a cloud floating past. I stay hidden from view. I don't want to see the cloud. I want to see you.

You're still staring at the cloud when your fingers go limp and your eyes go glassy.

I don't know how long it took you to give up. Too long, I think. You had more fight in you than I'd thought.

Curious passersby pause next to you, but they're too late to help. You've finally gone silent, and now you have their attention. But now you're gone, and they're here. They can't help you anymore.

I could. I won't though.

A crowd of your awful species gathers around you, and I take my leave. I don't want to be seen. I'll see them all in their own time, of course. But that will be later. Sooner rather than later, for some. But later nonetheless.

As I slip away, off to my next victim, I think how ironic it was that all you had to do was stop screaming to get the help you so badly needed.

It's too bad. Too bad, and too late.