It all feels so silly.
At my most indulgent, I would imagine this moment to have more dignity- on a soft bed, surrounded by loved ones, doctors telling my family and friends how I put up “the good fight.” Maybe even adding, “I’ve never seen someone fight that much to live in all my years Doctoring. It was like he was an angry but still very elegant Gazelle facing a hundred blood addicted lions and not backing down one damn inch.” Or something similar in spirit and moxie to accurately describe my dying moments. And as my last breathe leaves, and right before the every-light fades, the last thing I would see is my wife draped in a bright sky; smiling down on me and saying, “Your penis was the most majestic I ever saw. Ever.” She will say this loud enough that the whole room hears and then I die and probably become a warrior angel or something, or at the least, very popular.
I didn’t expect this crock of shit.
I’m alone. My wife is at 7-Eleven buying me smokes and taking her damn time. My last meal is an uncooked hot dog I devoured in less than four seconds. And all I see now is dust and crumbs and scraps of paper and hair and bone-dry pens chewed into mutant shapes. They are all quietly pressed into a corner. A place you can only see if you’re lying on your side, on my dirty carpet, because I didn’t feel like vacuuming last week. Not one single fucking tunnel of light.
So this is it. The blood is too much. Damn it.
Some people see the light right before it all goes dark, unfortunately for me, it’s a lie, what you see is a forgotten corner made to house dead things and all I can hear is the soft drip of blood from my skull and that the Golden State Warriors are fucking blowing it again in the 4th quarter.