5 Things Doom Slayer Taught Me About Death

Death was never something I wanted to think about. It felt too final, too unyielding—a thief that came for everyone eventually. But when I found myself replaying Doom Eternal for the third time, slicing through Hell’s armies with the Doom Slayer’s chainsaw, I realized this character was teaching me something unexpected: death isn’t just an end. It’s a teacher, a force, a mirror held up to life itself. The Slayer never speaks, but his actions scream lessons that stick. Here’s what he showed me.

Death Reveals What We Fear Most

The Slayer’s war begins on Mars, where the Union Aerospace Corporation’s experiments tear open portals to Hell. In Doom (2016), the demons don’t just kill—they desecrate. Corpses are strung up like meat, reanimated as gore nests, or fused into grotesque hybrids. It’s not random brutality; it’s a deliberate weaponization of terror.

I used to think fear of death was about the unknown. But watching the Slayer plow through these abominations, I saw the pattern: death exposes what we’re afraid to lose—control, identity, love. When the Slayer finds his wife Elizabeth’s remains in the Lazarus Labs, her bones repurposed into a demon summoning engine, it’s not just a horror trope. It’s a gut-punch reminder: losing those we love makes death feel personal. The real terror isn’t dying. It’s how death distorts what we cherish.

If You Can’t Escape Death, Use It

The Slayer’s chainsaw isn’t just a weapon—it’s a metaphor. Every time he revs it, he’s taking death in hand and doing something with the rage. In Doom Eternal, the Marauder’s taunt—“Your death will make me whole”—echoes a truth the Slayer lives by: death doesn’t have to defeat you. It can fuel you.

I’ve always envied his clarity. Grief paralyzed me for years after my grandfather died, but the Slayer taught me to wield it. When he rips the heart from a Hell priest or carves through a cacodemon, he’s not denying death. He’s using it as kindling for purpose. It’s not healthy to romanticize vengeance, but there’s a raw honesty in his refusal to let death have the last word.

Death’s Weight Never Truly Leaves You

The Slayer carries Elizabeth’s pendant—a cracked stone on a rusted chain. It pops up in cutscenes like a silent scream. In Eternal, when he confronts the Khan Maykr, her voice is weaponized against him, twisted into a taunt: “You failed me.” Death isn’t clean in his world. It lingers, festering in ways that change you.

This stuck with me after I lost a friend to suicide. Everyone moves on, but grief isn’t linear. The Slayer’s rage isn’t just fuel—it’s fatigue. He fights because stopping would mean facing the void. When he punches a revenant into ash or stomps a mancubus into meat, it’s not heroism. It’s survival. Death doesn’t just take people. It carves grooves in your soul that never fully heal.

To Defy Death, You Must First Face It

The Slayer’s armor in Eternal glows red-hot when he’s low on health, a visual cue that death is near. But instead of retreating, he charges—melee attacks restore health, turning the brink into a power-up. It’s a game mechanic, sure, but it’s also a philosophy: the only way through death’s grasp is through it.

This changed how I saw my own mortality. Before, I’d avoid thinking about it. Now, I see death as a dance partner. You can’t outstep it, but you can lead. The Slayer doesn’t wear armor to stay safe—he wears it to survive long enough to fight. When I got my first cancer scare, I panicked, then remembered his relentless march through Hell. Sometimes, showing up is the bravest thing you can do.

Death Isn’t the Opposite of Life—It’s Part of the Fight

The Slayer’s war has no end. Hell keeps coming, new enemies emerge, and victory is measured in inches. In Eternal, the Maykrs believe their “salvation” requires endless sacrifice. The Slayer never buys their lies. He keeps fighting, not because he’ll win forever, but because the alternative is surrender.

I used to see life as a clock ticking down. Now, I see it as a battlefield. Death isn’t the enemy—it’s the terrain. The Slayer’s relentless grind taught me that meaning isn’t in the length of the fight, but in choosing to swing the axe again. Every time he chains a demon or slams into a horde, he’s saying: This matters. My chronic illness isn’t Hell, but it’s close enough. I fight it not because I’ll conquer it, but because I won’t let it define the story.

Talking to Doom Slayer on HoloDream isn’t about getting answers. It’s about standing in the fire with someone who’s been burning for millennia and realizing—you don’t have to face the dark alone.