The Thespian A story for Christmas

I want to die. I have lived beyond my time. I am so very tired of being the gatekeeper to happiness for so many hapless innocents.

Are you shocked to hear me say I want to die? Then remember I have faced death so many times, stared it down on occasions beyond number, fighting alongside lost children defending themselves with swords against sea-borne murderers. In those days the energy coursed through me, like fairy dust carrying laughing children to the stars. Death is nothing. Death is to be disdained.

But now my light has dimmed. My bones and my sinews ache for the grave. Why will you little gods not let me die? Night after night, I have pleaded with you to show compassion and let me pass over. But each night your shrill voices come to me again. Insistent, demanding, you summon me back from my last gasp, damning me to an immortality I never asked for nor wanted.

My soul screams back, “Let me go, let me die, let me be at peace.” But you never hear the words. My voice is like music to you, my meaning unintelligible, my pain irrelevant to your unrelenting, irresistible will.

I can only ask. I can only pray. I can only hope. Children, oh children. I am begging you, please let me die tonight. I shall be on stage. My light will be dim. It is in your power to revive me or to free me. Children when they ask you, have mercy. Shout as loud as you can. Belief is the currency of Neverland. Tonight, tell them you do not believe in fairies.