There was a man in my unit who used to keep a tally.

Every time someone went down, he marked a line on the stock of his rifle. Said it helped  him remember. Said it gave the dead weight.

But the longer it went, the heavier that rifle got. Soon he couldn’t even lift it.

And when the bullets came, he was crushed under the weight of names he thought he carried.

That’s the mistake people make. They think death is a debt. That it waits to be paid, neatly, in full.

But death doesn’t wait. Death doesn’t tally. Death takes when it wants to take.

And if you’re still here? It’s not because you escaped it. It’s because you survived it.

Tombstone, you dress it up like inevitability. Like you’re the one who decides when the light fades and the river calls.

But I’ve been swimming in that river my whole damn life. And if you think you’re the one who drags me across it?

You’ve already lost.

I don’t mock death. I’ve slept beside it. I’ve broken bread with it. I’ve dug holes in the dirt so deep I thought I’d never climb out again.

But I did.

And every time I did, it reminded me: death isn’t fate.

It’s failure. And failure is something I don’t allow myself.

You want to call my survival luck?

Luck doesn’t pull men out of burning shelters. Luck doesn’t drag itself through the mud with lungs filling up like sandbags. Luck doesn’t bury friends, stand up, and keep moving forward when the bullets never stop.

That wasn’t fate sparing me, Ferryman.

That was me.

And now you say you’re done waiting. You’re going to step in. Take the job into your own hands.

Good. Because I’ve been waiting for you too.

You think you’re inevitable? You think your grip is the final note in every song?

Fuck you.

I’ll snap your tally stick in half. I’ll sink your goddamned ferry.

And you bet your ass, I’ll take that chain you call a claim on my soul, and I’ll choke you with it until you turn white.

Because I’m not just some lost wanderer waiting for a ride.

I’m the war you never finished. I’m the gunfire you couldn’t silence. I’m the man death has never been able to bury.

You think you’re the end of the road. But I’ve marched roads so long the pavement bled into dust, and I kept walking.

You think you’ll prepare the way. But the way doesn’t belong to you.

It belongs to men like me: the ones who don’t die when we’re supposed to. The ones who spit in the river and keep climbing the bank.

So when you come for me, Ferryman, don’t bring coins for the crossing.

Bring a shovel. Because I’ll be the one burying you.

And when I’m done, when you’re lying in the mud like every other would-be reaper I’ve faced, the world will see the truth.

Death isn’t inevitable.

It’s just another fight.

And I’m the one who keeps winning.