Chapter Text
Time, disease and death.
The world’s deadliest killers. Taking more than half of the world’s population. Maybe on daytime will cease, disease will fester, and death will die. Until then we must hold on to hope. After everything that has happened hope remains, unwithered.
The burden of time.
Time comes first in this list of killers as I've learned to see Time not as a force, but as a person. Not a kind old man, but a silent, relentless hunter. He stalks us from birth, his footsteps the ticking of a clock, a whisper in the wind. We try to outrun him, to pack our days with so much living that he can't possibly catch up. We fill our calendars, chase our dreams, and build our legacies, all in a desperate attempt to prove our worth to a force that doesn't care. A force that seeks our enviable destruction alongside its brothers.
I remember when I was young, I believed Time was on my side. I had all the time in the world, and I spent it carelessly, as if I could just grab more from some infinite well. But as the years passed, I began to see the lines he drew on the faces of those I loved, the silver he threaded through their hair. He was taking things from me, moments I could never get back, and I began to hate him for it. Now, I see his face reflected in my own mirror, and I know our race is almost over.
The Ghost of Disease
Disease is a different kind of monster. It’s not a hunter like Time, but a venomous, shadowy presence that slithers into a life and refuses to leave. It doesn’t just take a life; it steals it, little by little, stripping away strength, joy, and hope. I’ve watched it feast on those I love, a slow and agonising meal. I’ve seen it turn vibrant, laughing people into fragile shells, their eyes still holding the spark of who they were, trapped inside a body that has betrayed them.
I would have bargained with it, begged it to take me instead, just to give them one more day of sunshine, one more moment of peace. But Disease doesn't listen to pleas. It is a cruel, deaf thing, and it leaves behind a wreckage of grief and helplessness. The worst part is the guilt—the silent, nagging question of why them and not me? I’m sorry, I whisper into the empty air. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you.
The Unseen hand of Death
And then there is Death. He is the end of the race, the final bell. We talk about him as if we understand him, as if we can outsmart him. We tell ourselves stories of people who cheated him, who laughed in his face. It’s a comfort, a lie we tell ourselves to feel a little safer in the dark. But we know the truth. Death is the one thing no one escapes. He is a master of patience, waiting for us to finish our little lives before he steps in and ends the play.
He is not just an ending; he is an eraser. He wipes away all the triumphs, the defeats, the moments of joy and sadness, leaving behind only the silence. But maybe that’s not something to fear. Maybe that silence is a mercy. Maybe he is not a monster, but a gentle hand that finally gives us the rest we have been running from our entire lives. Maybe he is the only one who can truly stop Time and heal the wounds of Disease, bringing a final peace to a world of endless struggle.
Together they are the world's deadliest killers, always awaiting for a moment to strike.