James clutched his chest as it blossomed yet again with a fiery pain. His breath grew short, forcing him to drop back into his chair. He stared at the fire beside him, allowing the warmth to revitalize him.

The doctor's words echoed through his mind. "Terminal illness," he had called it. A death sentence.

James muttered faint whispers over and over, the words obscured by the sound of his heavy breathing. It took him a while before he could actually speak aloud the phrase that had been so forcefully taking over his mind since he had heard his prognosis.

"Death shall not take me," he muttered. "Death shall never take me."

He had watched others taken by Death. He had watched as his sister's glowing face was shrouded by the cloak of Death, his scythe whistling down to slice cleanly through the sinew and blood vessels of her delicate throat. He had watched his wife attempt to run from the spectral figure. Death had just glided towards her, undaunted, and finished his dark work.

Then Death had turned to James. Past the black cloak, past the bones underneath, James could make out the only two organs that Death retained. Those black eyes, with their gleaming red pupils, would haunt his nightmares for years. Those eyes, and the gravelly voice of the killer, promised James that his time was not long from arriving.

James made it the goal of his existence to defeat Death. He barricaded himself in his house, boarding up the windows and installing heavy locks on all of the doors. He made sure to keep weapons on him at all times, and was constantly on guard. He refused to be caught unaware by Death.

In a way, he figured, the doctor's diagnosis had been fortunate for him. Now he knew that Death would come for him, within a few days at the most. Now he knew to be prepared.

Eventually, James fell asleep in his leather armchair. His dreams were troubled, as always. Nervously he twitched through his nightmares, occasionally clutching at his chest and moaning.

A loud scream brought him out of his fitful slumber, cold sweat obscuring his vision as he tried to look for the source of the high-pitched screech. It took him several minutes to realize that the scream was that of his wife... the final scream she had made as Death had reached a hand of bones into her chest, squeezing the last of her life from her.

James removed his glasses, cleaning them the best he could manage. He set them on the small table beside him as he dried his eyes.

He leaned back in the chair, sighing. He left his eyes closed, unwilling to let himself again become lost in the flames flickering beside him.

James was just about to drift back to sleep, when a coldness swept over his face. Assuming that the fire had finally given out, he slowly let his eyes open so that he could check on the flames.

He was staring into red. A deep, crimson color filled his vision. From this color emanated the coldness he had felt, he was sure. This color froze his heart within his chest, his throat filling with ice upon his next breath.

James recognized the haunting red pupils at which he was staring. He recognized the black that surrounded them. He recognized the skull that held the chilling organs, and the dark cloak engulfing the skull.