| prologue |
Is this what death feels like?
My breath is gradually being cut off. I try to catch my breath by taking desperate, deep breaths, but all I manage to do is make things worse. I can’t get enough air; it suddenly feels suffocating. Panic takes hold of me, but I hide it as best I can. I pretend it’s just a momentary thing so no one has to worry about me. Not that anyone ever has anyway.
My body gives out, collapses. It abandons me to an endless agony. All because of my own self-destructive behavior. In fact, this is what I’ve wanted for several years now. It’s something I’ve consciously contributed to. So why am I not happy?
I hear a high-pitched whine mingling with vague voices in the background—familiar voices desperately calling my name—and I try to answer them that I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Everything is fine. My stuttering tone, with the long pauses between words—which seem endless due to the gradual loss of my senses—and probably the immobility of my lower limbs, don’t convince anyone.
My vision isn’t blurred. I see clearly and distinctly how the things around me are dissolving into a white void—a void that completely engulfs me and absorbs me into a universe entirely unknown to me. I watch as I slowly slip into the clutches of terror, and my judgment sinks into cabalistic realms ruled by morbidity.
At the same time, my purple, chapped lips beg for a drop of liquid to moisten them. The dryness penetrates my salivary glands, and I remain deprived of that watery fluid called saliva. The aridity stings me, and I faintly implore the deities to put an end to it.
I am utterly drained of strength.
I close my eyes.
